The Nothing Within Page 7

  Whichever wolves were left alive, the shepherds chased them into the woods. I couldn’t have imagined feet hitting the ground so fast, nor carrying their bodies so far with each leap.

  Then I was alone, listening to the distant thumps in the woods, smelling blood in the grove, feeling my heart kick, trying to settle my breathing as Ma had taught me, hoping I wouldn’t faint before the shepherds got back to me.

  Which they did. Hardly no time at all.

  And however grateful I was to be saved from a wolf’s belly, the whole thing embarrassed me sore. Between that and the distrust I’d started feeling for Shepherd Gabriel, from then on shepherds seemed a lot less fascinating to me, and a lot more…uncomfortable, I suppose. That’s about when I began avoiding them whenever they visited. Not for no clear reason, really, and often I felt small and scornful for doing it. But still. They bothered me, and I’ve always listened to my bothers.

  How our shepherds came to be there? Seems a pack of wolves had been eating sheep at a nearby farmstead, but they’d gone too far and eaten one of the Planter’s children. The village Elders—including Ma—had met that afternoon and sent Runners Hedd and Tepp off to find our shepherds, who by good fortune they’d found no farther than Weft.

  Shepherds Rachel and Lydia had gotten to Surecreek right about midnight. They were just about to stop for the night when they saw some scrawny, smooth-headed slip of nothing crawl over the wall and trot off into the woods.

  Then, half curious and half amused, they’d followed me into the night. I’d always had awful good ears, so I couldn’t figure how they followed without my hearing the smallest sound.

  While I washed up in the little creek as best I could, shivering in the icy water, they spoke between themselves in that way shepherds did, speaking words that meant something to them yet nothing to us. The Shepherds’ Speech. Funny sounding it was, like somebody from Altland with their twisty accent, yet much odder than that, like they were tripping and sliding over words that meant nothing at all.

  After I cleaned up, they walked me back to Surecreek. They were kind enough to let me sneak over the wall rather than marching me through the front gate. One of them, Rachel I think, even gave me a mighty boost up to help. Shepherds were so big. Bigger than Alters. Even shepherd women were as tall as our biggest men, and shepherd men were a head taller still, except Shepherd Gabriel.

  I was careful not to wake Ma when I snuck into our house. The next morning I covered my inconvenient head gash with a hood, and somehow I forgot to mention my wanderings to Ma.

  If only our shepherds had been kind enough to forget, too.

  I do not recall receiving another scolding so fierce before nor after. Ma’s voice wasn’t harsh, since her voice never was, but it burned like fire to hear it. There was even talk about the Nothing within me, something Ma almost never said, thinking it hurtful. Which it was.

  Besides pointing out my foolishness—which I admit was prodigious—she spent a good while laying out a list of things in the wild at night that were as bad or worse than a pack of wolves. Some of which, like Outcasts and chimeras, might leave a little girl wishing she’d only been eaten alive. Ma explained to me in generous detail just exactly what that would be like.

  It was forbidden to strike anybody way back then, just as it is now. But I wished it weren’t, so that Ma could have struck me—because she did so much worse to me instead.

  She decided Leeleh might like to try her hand at helping with rootcraft for oh, say, two weeks. And since Leeleh would be helping Ma, Leeleh’s folks would be shorthanded in their honeydipping. Why, come to think of it…if Leeleh was doing my work, Ma didn’t need my help, so I’d be able to help Leeleh’s family with the honeydipping.

  Now wouldn’t I?

  Yes, Ma. Yes, I would.

  After those two weeks, I had even more respect for honeydippers in general, and for Leeleh in particular.

  Yet even so, Ma’s lesson didn’t take. I was boar-headed, as I’ve admitted. So where any reasonable person would have apologized and got back on the proper path, Ma’s lesson didn’t make me long for the outside of Surecreek no less.

  I longed for it even more.

  7

  Woodsmith Abram

  With Ma keeping a closer watch, my nighttime wanderings were greatly inconvenienced, so I became even more bored and restless than before.

  The sameness of it gnawed at me. Wake. Break my fast. Fetch and carry and clean for Ma. To Common for supper. More fetching and carrying and cleaning. Listen to other children play the same old games. Eat dinner. Clean. Go to bed. I started resenting my work for Ma, and resenting the other children, and resenting even my time at Learning no matter how kind Learner Ned was nor how interesting he tried to be.

  Every day was the same. Every place was the same. Everybody was the same.

  Except Woodsmith Abram.

  Woodsmith Abram was an Alter, so you might wonder what he was doing up north of Big Betwixt, living among us Weaverfolk instead of down south in Altland with his own kind. We see Alters for trade, of course, but I couldn’t imagine why one had moved up here to live with us. I wondered about that so bad it hurt. I asked folks more often than was welcome, but I only ever got one answer: He’d left his life in Altland to join us, and goodness we were fortunate to have him.

  Whatever metal we have today comes from so very long ago, one way or another. It’s been melted and re-melted and passed down for so many generations it makes me weary to think. And while it’s easier to come by today, what with the excavations and rust salvage, when I was a girl there wasn’t near so much of it.

  Some craftspeople had metal for their trades, but that was about all we had it for. My ma had three things of metal: her razor, a metal ball she used in rootcraft, and the weaver’s circle hanging on a leather string about her neck. Ma let me handle the ball and circle now and again, and she used the razor on my head more often than I liked. So I touched metal more often than many folks.

  We had hardly any metalsmiths back then. Just four up in Market and two down in Altland. That being the case, woodsmiths were even more important than they are now. And since they’re so important now, you just can imagine back then. They gave us plows for farming, shovels for digging, clubs for fending, pegs for building, carvings for the joy of it, and so much more. Meaning no disrespect to bonesmiths nor masons nor cobblers nor tailors nor so many others, who are so important, too. But back then? A woodsmith was the difference between a village that worked well and one that spun its arms teetering on the edge of ruin.

  And just as now, there were no better woodsmiths than those of the Alters. So we in Surecreek counted ourselves lucky to have an Alter woodsmith among us, even if he was a little quieter than most, didn’t join us at Common supper, and spoke with that strange, bent, rolling Alter accent, sometimes putting words in places they oughtn’t go. Folks in Surecreek were not a prideful lot, so when they said our woodsmith was one of the two or three finest in the World That Is, they said it almost apologetically, but they said it because it was true.

  Woodsmith Abram must’ve been the loneliest person in Surecreek, and for no better reason than him worshiping the Son-God pegged to a tree, instead of following Grandmother Root like normal folks. Far as loneliness went, I was only second. I had Ma and Leeleh.

  Folks were respectful to Abram. They would’ve been to anybody, of course, but we were ’specially grateful to have him in our village and wanted to show it. What’s more, Woodsmith Abram was an enormous fellow. I could tell from how far in the air his voice was, and because folks asked his help with heavy jobs. You’ve maybe heard that Alters grow big. Well, Abram was bigger than most Alters. Big as a shepherd. Folks also say Alters are paler than us regular folks—like a loaf that’s been taken out of the fire too soon. To hear folks tell it, Abram was paler than most Alters, too. Some said he looked quite a fright, like he was maybe some Shepherd visiting from the Village of the Dead. That oughtn’t change how respectful folks acted, tho
ugh I think it did.

  But there was an unspoken understanding in Surecreek. You should keep a polite distance from Woodsmith Abram. No more conversation than was required. No inviting him for dinner. No spending time in his shop chatting about good weather or bad crops or Honeynock or Outcasts. Decent folk should be polite with him, but no closer than with a visitor who was just passing through.

  So it only made sense that I found myself spending time in his shop. He didn’t shoo me away, and in return I didn’t treat him like a steaming pile of sheep turds.

  I loved the smoky smell in there, the playful breeze flowing through it, and the heat of that charcoal he always kept burning. Even that summer, which was a peculiar hot one, my sweat from those coals was a wondrous gift of cooling damp.

  The few folks in Surecreek who put up with me gained disapproval from everybody else, but Abram didn’t seem to mind about that. He’d already won their disapproval by being born an Alter, and whether they liked him or not, they needed him just the same.

  That summer, any time I wasn’t at Learning or doing whatnot for Ma, I’d make my way to Woodsmith Abram’s shop and plop myself down in a dusty corner.

  “Young Root,” he’d say, rolling the “r” like Alters do, not sounding like he even looked up from his work.

  “Woodsmith Abram,” I’d reply, rolling my “r” back to tease him. Then I’d just sit there quiet, feeling the waves of heat and the breeze, smelling the smoke, listening. That’s all he’d ever say, though he sometimes muttered under his breath while he worked, just a word or two now and again. He’d just busy hisself with shaping and waxing and varnishing and firing whatever thing he was working on. Then when my free time was done, I’d leave without a word.

  It went like that for a month or two I suppose, as we fell into an easy side-by-side without bothering each other overmuch, me sitting and listening and sweating, him working and muttering and sweating. So when he finally did say something to me one cool morning, I didn’t answer. I figured he was talking to hisself.

  He was moving something heavy and said, “Rasp.”

  I didn’t even know that was a word, so I figured he was just mumbling. A moment later it made me dizzy when I realized he’d been talking at me. He said, “So. Your hearing is broke, like your seeing?”

  “Uh. Me?” I asked.

  “You.”

  “Oh. Well then, no, Woodsmith Abram. My hearing’s fine. Fact, it’s real sharp.”

  “Good. Behind and above you. Rasp.”

  Puzzled, I stood and turned toward the wall I’d been sitting against. I felt around and found a flat tool hanging on a peg, long as my forearm and three fingers wide, rough and hard and surprisingly cool. I touched it and turned toward him. “This rasp?” I asked, rolling the “r”.

  “Yah. That rasp.”

  When I lifted it off its peg and felt the weight of it, I realized I held something precious. “Is this metal, Woodsmith Abram?”

  “Yah. A metal thing I need. Bring it.”

  I left my staff against the wall, comfortable enough with the shape of his workshop to know there was nothing between me and him except dusty earthen floor. Even so, I shuffled along slow to be safe, feeling the growing heat from his charcoal pit as I approached.

  “Careful. Very hot,” he said.

  “You don’t need eyes to know what’s hot,” I replied a little snippy, correcting him as no child ever should an elder. He didn’t seem to mind. Just snorted. Might even have been a chuckle.

  Then he took the rasp and said, “Thank you.”

  “What’s it for,” I asked. “A rasp?”

  “Scraping. Shaping,” he replied. “For wood that’s been hardened.”

  “Why not use stone tools?”

  “Faster,” he said over the zzzzik-a-zzzik-a-zzzzik of the rasp. “Planter Kett damaged his plow blade. Needs it fast.”

  Metal was hard, I knew. Much harder than wood. So all right, then. That made sense.

  Satisfied, I went back to my corner to listen.

  In the weeks that followed, we spoke brief at first, though each conversation felt like a Festival Day of its own. He never said more than he needed to, and usually not quite enough. But I made up for it by filling the emptiness with questions. And like nobody I’d met, Woodsmith Abram had a deep well of patience for my questions. He even seemed to enjoy answering them, however brief he did it. Maybe that was because of his loneliness, but I don’t think so. I think it’s just how he was.

  Before long I was helping how I could whenever Ma didn’t need me. It was so much better than listening to other children play the same old games.

  No doubt I learned some things slower than somebody who could see, but Woodsmith Abram also said I learned some things quicker because my eyes couldn’t fool me. I could tell good wood from bad by the heft and the grain. I could tell when wood was cool enough or hard enough to sand, or varnish, or wax. He said that where most folks were afraid of his fire pit, I just showed coals the careful respect they deserved, judging from their heat and not from their appearance.

  He only ever kept two things from me, closing like a trap whenever I touched on them.

  One was the secrets to his waxes and varnishes for hardening. Which was fair. Even for a regular woodsmith, those secrets were reserved for an apprentice. And for an Alter, whose wood crafting secrets ran so much deeper, they were a special mystery.

  Anybody can work wood into a needful shape, after a fashion, given the time and the inclination. And most folks could figure how to fire-harden something sooner or later if they had to. But those last steps, wrapping the wood in hardness like stone, those were the difference between a worthy woodsmith and a carpenter. No disrespect to carpenters, neither. They’re awful important, too. Yet different.

  So I didn’t grudge him those secrets.

  The other thing he kept from me was the one I wanted most to know. Why had he left Altland to come up north? More than once I asked him. He gave the same answer every time: “They didn’t wish me there.” He wouldn’t say nothing more. And while I didn’t grudge him that, exactly, it did prickle at me something awful.

  You know what? Colors were a wonder to me. I didn’t know what they were then, and I don’t still. But I always wondered.

  Leaves were green, I knew, and to me that was a smell. But I didn’t really know green.

  The sun was white, I knew, and to me that was warmth. But I didn’t really know white.

  Wood was tan, I knew, and to me that was the firm feeling of something steady and true. But I didn’t really know tan.

  So one day in the quiet while I held a rod that he was cutting into pegs, I asked Woodsmith Abram a question I’d had for years. One that embarrassed even me, because it was of no use at all, even though I’d wondered on it long and hard.

  “Woodsmith Abram?” I asked, not rolling my “r”.

  “Young Root,” he replied, rolling his.

  “What color are my eyes?”

  “Brown,” he replied simply.

  I stood quiet for a moment deciding what to make of this. I had no idea what brown was, really, but I knew from listening to folks that it was the color of mud and shit, which didn’t encourage me.

  “Is…is brown a good color for eyes?”

  “The best color,” he said with that grunt of his that might have been a chuckle.

  “Why is it best?” I asked.

  “It’s the color of mine.”

  That made me smile.

  “Your hair,” he continued in a generous flood of words. “Also the best color. Same color as mine.”

  I frowned and ran my palm over my scalp’s short stubble, just two days out from smooth. “What color is my hair?”

  “Same as mine.”

  “But…what color is yours?”

  In answer he took my hand and placed it on his head. When he grunted his chuckle I felt it vibrate through his round, smooth, perfectly bald head. I squealed in surprise and pulled my hand back…then I und
erstood.

  So we both laughed, and we got back to work.

  Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal

  1

  February 12, 2163

  Many birds, but no idea how many.

  Lord, please protect us.

  Nearly two weeks since I wrote last. Will try to keep at it. Seems more important now.

  A little warmer, though haze dims the sun.

  Word is that everything modern stopped working, everywhere at the same time.

  There’s been looting, burning, and killing in Sugarcreek, Berlin, Millersburg, and New Philly. I’d visit the neighbors for news, but Eli won’t hear of it. Said the children and I should stay put. He’s been visiting for us. Tells me what he hears. Parts of it, anyhow.

  Even though Elijah Lapp’s Amish, he had a naughtwork grown in him for work, so he could talk with the saws and drills and lathes. Had to, or he’d lose his job. Two weeks ago, same day as the wall of smoke, his naughts shut down. No warning. Left him feeling poorly a few hours. He says others from work were the same. Like the whole world went quiet at once.

  Willis and Doreen Hershberger are English. Both have naughtworks. Not the fancy kind that keeps you living forever, just the regular worker kind. Both of their naughtworks went quiet at once, and it left them feeling ill, same as with Elijah.

  No rails or callcars or buses are running, so Millers loaded their family and whatnot into that big wagon Aaron uses for English tour groups, and they drove west to get away from the looting and killing. Not knowing what was west, but hoping it was better. Emma has family out by Goshen. They got as far as Mansfield, hard trip, four days out with some of it overland. A big jam-up just west of Mansfield. Aaron left the wagon and walked three kilometers to the front to see, and it was just like the rumors from before. Route 30 ended in empty space. He said it was like a canyon, perfectly smooth, so vast that he couldn’t see the other side or the bottom for all the dust. It was like an impossibly large swarm of nanofactories were still down there digging it, kicking up a sandstorm. The whole Miller family has breathing problems since they got back, wheezing and coughing. Silicosis from the dust, they think. Aaron coughs up blood.