by Alia Hess
The kiosk merchant spoke up. “Moon tree bark. Have you felt a moon tree? It makes very soft fiber once it’s soaked and beaten. I have coconut fiber cloth too, but it’s best for jackets and blankets. What is fabric made from on the Mainland?”
“Plastic mostly. And plant seeds.”
The merchant frowned. Seasalt tugged at Owl’s arm. “Okay, you need new sheets and curtains, right? They should match. You want something sensual for the bedroom. And something that will match your paint…”
Owl sighed as Seasalt picked through the bolts of fabric.
“Seasalt!” A willowy woman toting a large basket stepped up to the kiosk and grinned at them.
I wonder if any of these people realize how ridiculous their fake smiles look.
“How are you?” The woman gave Seasalt an awkward hug.
Seasalt’s face screwed up into a tight smile. “I’m wonderful, Pinkdawn, how are you?”
Pinkdawn didn’t answer, her gaze flicking to Owl. “Ah, and you’re the trash—Mainlander that is causing such a stir. And you look very… red today. It’s, um… How wonderful for you that you are here.” She looked at the ground, then at her basket. “I should get these fish back home.”
Seasalt shook her head as Pinkdawn slipped into the crowd. “Don’t worry about her. She’s a bitch to everyone.”
After selecting a deep navy fabric woven with gold threads, the kiosk vendor cut the material to size for curtains and bedsheets and sewed the edges with a battered, Old World sewing machine.
Owl had plenty of money with her—what the Nisians called “pegs”—tiny cylinders of wood with denominations stamped on them. Trav said people received an allotment from the Elder after returning from their naming quest, enough to keep them going until they settled back into their life. She had a feeling Quietbird had given Trav more than was normal.
Once the fabric was purchased, Seasalt dragged Owl along to other vendors. She left the market with thrown clay dishes, a carved wooden bowl, another dress, and a new shirt for Trav in emerald green. Seasalt picked it out—maybe he would hate it.
Back at the Elder’s house, Seasalt spread her own purchases onto the large wooden table in the front hall. Quietbird glanced at the pile of goods with disinterest as their young twin daughters chased each other through the halls.
“I have one more thing for you to take home.” Seasalt went to the kitchen and came back with a bundle of dried black flowers and seed pods, tied with twine. “You hang this on the wall with the flowers upside down over your bed. It’s tradition.”
“Uh, okay. Thanks.”
Owl carried her items home. It was good to have a home again. And good to have a man inside who she looked forward to seeing.
Later in the day, they took a break from painting and decorating and headed for Trav’s favorite lagoon. The walk took some time, but after showing her the crystal cave near Cadestown, Owl was certain all of Trav’s special places were worth the trip.
The lagoon’s turquoise water undulated like warped glass, gentle ripples dispersing from a small waterfall of churning white. The water tumbled down polished stones flocked with bright moss and plants. They stood on the grassy bank, Trav behind Owl, his hands over hers as she held a fishing line in the water. The pink and blue of the carved shell hook glinted through the lagoon’s surface.
“Okay, now you’ve got to jiggle the line to get the fish to notice. They’re attracted to the movement and shine of the hook.”
Trav shook Owl’s hands in his, and the hook bobbed at the lagoon floor. Several slim silhouettes darted toward the lure. He jerked the line a bit, and there was a tug at the other end. He pulled again. A harder tug. It was a good thing Trav’s hands were on the line too, or she would have let go.
“Now pull up!”
She hauled the line as the fish fought at the other end. Trav wrapped the slack around his hand and together they pulled the struggling fish from the water. It flapped at the end of the line, flipping droplets and reflecting light from its silvery scales. It wasn’t the biggest fish ever, but still felt like an accomplishment.
“You got one! Fun, right?” Trav took the line from Owl and removed the fish, hooking it through the gills on a stringer in the water. Two other catches already floated on the line. “I’ll bet this one tastes the best since you caught it.”
Owl laughed. “You did all the work.”
Trav slipped his hands around Owl’s waist. “Pretty good for your first time, though. After a while, you’ll be a pro.” He kissed her, her heart thudding rapidly. How could each time still feel like the first?
“Are you happy? Do you like it here so far?”
She smiled. “Yeah. It’s overwhelming, but I think I’m going to like it. I’ve already gotten pretty good at telling a fake smile from a real one, and some of the people have been genuinely nice.”
“Winning hearts and minds wherever you go.” He grinned. “But why wouldn’t you? …I’m happy too. I think Quietbird was right—people around here have loosened up a lot. Toward me too. I don’t know if it’s because Redcloud is gone, or they feel sorry for what happened to me, or what. But I think coming here was a good choice. We can have a happy life—me and you.”
“Me and you.” She smiled and kissed him again.
February 14, 153—Today is my birthday. It’s also Valentine’s Day. I tried to explain that to Trav, but he didn’t seem to understand the significance. He told me every day is romantic with me in his life. He cooked me a nice dinner and we ate on the beach.
May 16, 153—Mom sent me another letter. I like writing to her, but it seems like every time I get a letter back, it’s the same old stuff from her—when am I gonna visit? Do I really want to live on the islands? There are some nice Mainland men in Hammerlink, and we could make beautiful grandbabies together, blah blah blah. I’ve lived here 5 months now—when is she going to understand that I want to be here?
Owl stood before the dining table, staring at the brown, neatly-wrapped package sitting on top. She traced her finger over the return address’ delicate script: Corvin Melonvine, 1 Melonvine Dr., Hammerlink.
Her heart pounded with joy and indignation. He promised to write me. I gave him my paper—lots of sheets—and I got one letter after he left, then nothing. What happened to him? I was stuck by myself with Mom and Dad, just… waiting. For years. And now I’ve been here for months, gotten letters from Mom, but no peep from him. Now this package?
Owl peeled the brown paper away carefully, reserving the return label. She opened the box. A mint green envelope, addressed with her name, sat atop a pile of balled brown paper. She opened it.
Dearest Owl,
I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for leaving at sixteen. You didn’t want me to go, and I did anyway. If I had known what was coming, I would have gladly stayed on the farm and put up with Dad’s beratement. I’m sure you hate me for not writing like I promised I would. I don’t blame you, but please believe me when I say that I literally couldn’t. Not then. Maybe someday I can tell you what happened, but—
Several large splatters of black ink stained the mint paper.
Once I got to Hammerlink and got my life going, I sat down to write you a letter so many, many times. I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry.
But now that we’ve both got our lives on track, I want you to write as often as you feel, and I promise I’ll do the same! I would really like to see you again, but I don’t blame you for not wanting to leave your lovely island. At least, I’m guessing it’s lovely, but I don’t know because I haven’t seen it. That’s why I’ve sent you a camera! Send me some pictures, sis. And if you need more film, I can post more.
Love you.
Corvin
The letter trembled in Owl’s hands. A tear fell onto the page, dragging a black line of ink with it. She wiped it away and tucked the letter back into its envelope, picturing her brother, eyeblack smeared over his lids and a sad smile on his face, as he climbed out his bedroom window.
I forgive you.
She pulled the balled paper from the box, thinking about how precious it would have been to them both as teens for drawing and writing—and here it was, stuffed into a box to protect something deemed more important.
She grasped the cold metal camera, pulling it out. Whether the camera was an Old World device or something new made up in the East was hard to say. Grooves and metal frills ran along the sophisticated heavy cube, round glass lenses inset in the top. An oiled leather strap hung from one side.
Owl wiped her eye. “I’ll send you some nice pictures, Corvin.”
The sough of the ocean filled her ears as she peered into the thick glass top of her new camera. The sea was a green puddle through the lens, tiny dots of seagulls wheeling through a miniature sky. She pushed a button and the camera whirred, then ejected a thick glossy paper square from the bottom of the burnished brass casing.
She held it up. It was a perfect copy of the rolling waves and smooth, wet sand.
“What’s that?”
Owl turned. A teenage girl nearby pointed to the camera. A handful of people milled around on the beach or stood in the ocean with trawling nets.
“It’s a camera. It takes pictures.” Owl held up the ocean photo.
“Oh, I’ve seen one of those in Pearlolla. Did you buy it there?”
“No. It was a gift—”
“From your husband?”
Owl raised her eyebrows. “You mean Roadtraveler?”
“Yeah.”
“Trav isn’t my husband. He’s my consort.”
The girl smirked and gave Owl a knowing look. “He’s your husband. He says so. Everyone says so. You’re his wife.”
“Trav said I’m his wife?” Confusion and vexation bubbled up inside her and she forgot about taking photos.
The girl shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, you guys have been living together for six months, right? You’re husband and wife.”
“I have to go.” Owl turned from the beach. She made her way back home, different thoughts pulsing through her mind and her chest feeling like a wasp’s nest.
How dare he. No one asked me if I wanted to be his wife. I’m not afraid we won’t stay together, but it’s the point of the thing.
Trav stood in the kitchen, grinding medicinal herbs in a mortar. Tiny amber bottles sat in a row on the counter, waiting to be filled. Owl pressed her back to the counter, mouth pulled down.
“Oh, hey. Have fun taking pictures?”
“Do you tell people I’m your wife?”
He ran a hand through his short locks of blond hair and shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Were you ever going to clue me in on this? I tell people you’re my consort.”
He stopped grinding and looked at her. “Oh. Well, you can call me your husband if you want.”
Owl scrunched her face. “You’re missing the point. You never asked me if I wanted to be your wife.”
Trav frowned. “You’re living with me, aren’t you?”
“So that automatically makes me your wife?”
“Why are you mad? It doesn’t mean anything different. It’s just something people say after living together long enough. It’s not like on the Mainland. It’s not a wedding.”
“I just… don’t know if I’m comfortable with that term. After my last marriage.”
Trav let out an exasperated sigh. “This isn’t a marriage. I mean, well… I don’t know. Maybe it is. I don’t know how it compares to the Mainland. But no one is going to throw us a wedding ceremony. I asked you if you wanted to live with me when we got here, Seasalt gave you a Couple’s Bouquet, and that’s it. It doesn’t get any fancier than that.”
“Couple’s Bouquet? Is that what those dried flowers are called that are hanging above our bed?”
“Yeah. It’s what you get when you move in with someone. That’s it.”
Owl studied Trav’s face. He didn’t understand her resentment, and she didn’t understand his culture.
He leaned a hand against the counter. “Do you want things between me and you to be different? Do you… think you’ll move away some day? Separate house, or go back to the Mainland or something?”
She picked up one of the amber bottles. “No… I want to be here with you. When I think about a year from now, or two, or three, I still picture being with you. And living here in this house.”
He gave her a small smile. “Then do you want to be my wife?”
I don’t want to be a “wife.” I don’t want a “husband.” Part of her wanted to march into the bedroom and pull the dried flowers off the wall. “People are going to call me that whether I want them to or not, huh?”
“Probably.”
She shut her eyes and pulled in a breath. “Fine.”
Trav frowned. “You sound like I’m forcing this on you.”
“Aren’t you?”
He rubbed his face and sighed. “If I don’t call you my wife, people are going to think there’s something wrong with us.”
She scowled. “So fitting in is more important than how comfortable I feel? I don’t even get a say in how people refer to me? I really wish you would have given me a heads-up about this stuff. I had no idea that living with someone for six months automatically makes you married. Don’t you think you should have told me that when you asked me to live with you? That was you proposing, basically, and I didn’t even know it.”
“I’m quite sure that I did tell you back when we were on the Mainland. I wasn’t trying to trick you. I assumed you understood what living together meant.” He scratched his head and shrugged. “And sometimes I forget how different the Mainland is—how different you are compared to the Pearlollan girls I’ve coupled with.”
Owl let out a breath. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. I want to be with you either way.”
Trav’s brows pushed together. “I’m starting to wonder now.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. “Just forget I said anything.” She left the kitchen.
“Owl, wait. I’m not going to forget about it if it upsets you this much. Please come back and talk to me.”
She turned. “Why? So we can keep going around in circles?”
Trav walked into the living room and took her hands. “You don’t want me to call you my wife, then I won’t. I’ll call you my consort, or my darling, or”—he smiled—“my soulmate. I want you to be comfortable and happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. But if I start correcting people around town, it’s just going to confuse them.”
She looked away. His words did little soothe her indignation, but she didn’t want to keep arguing. “Okay.”
Trav smiled and wrapped her in a hug. “I love you so much.”
Her mouth twitched. “I love you too.”
17 ~ Sasha ~
June 16, 153—I’ve still been sore over this whole “wife” thing, but I realized that it truly doesn’t matter. This is Trav, not Adam. And maybe it’s better for me to feel this way than the opposite—hoping for some big wedding I’m never going to get. Most girls dream about a fancy, magical wedding. They would be so disappointed when they found out all they would get is some dried-up flowers.
September 31, 153—It’s been exactly one year since I left Waterton. It seems like ancient history. And it doesn’t hurt so much when I think about it.
October 29, 153—Today is Trav’s birthday. He’s got a few more crow’s feet than he did when we first met, but I think they’re from laughing instead of squinting. Either way, still pretty cute. We’re having a party at his uncle’s this evening.
January 12, 154—We got some new chicks today. They’re from Pearlolla. I guess they are supposed to be the friendliest chickens you can get, which Trav and I thought was really funny because, duh, they’re from Pearlolla.
March 17, 154—I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I want to have a baby. Maybe Mom’s nagging is finally sinking in, ha ha. I love living with Trav, but I feel like something is missing. I want somet
hing more. I want to start a family with him. I think he might be thinking the same thing too, but we haven’t discussed it. There are so many outside factors to worry about…
Sleepy rays of morning sun turned the back-lit curtains in the bedroom a rich sapphire. Trav lay next to Owl, sheets twisted around him and his hair a rumpled mess. She snuggled up against him and ran her hand along his bare chest.
“Mm, hello there,” Trav murmured as she explored his body. “Am I dreaming?”
“No.”
He turned, wrapping his arms around her and letting his hands wander in a similar fashion. Words stuck in her throat as he stroked her skin. “I want to make a baby.”
Trav stopped and opened his eyes. “You do?”
“Yes. I want to start a family with you.”
A huge grin overtook his face. “That’s what I want too. But I wasn’t sure you were ready for that.”
“I’m ready, but I’m worried what people will think. I don’t want people to treat our child badly because it will be mixed race. I keep thinking about what your father said—”
“My father doesn’t have any say in our happiness. And I don’t think our child would be shunned like I was.”
“But how do we really know? I don’t want to be selfish and make a decision that we shouldn’t be making.”
Trav’s hands started to roam again. “It’s not selfish. Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother. You’d make a great one. And part of the reason I had such a rough childhood was because my father didn’t like me. He didn’t think I was his. I want to be a father. I would love our baby with everything I’ve got.”
Owl smiled. “Okay. As long as you think our baby will be safe.”
“I do.”
“Then love me with everything you’ve got.”
He kissed her neck. “I’m already working on it, darling.”
Owl walked down the cobblestone path behind the village as she did every morning after returning from the market. She swung her empty egg basket beside her, following the little river that flowed through the forest of bulbous moon trees. The white bark hung in tattered curls from the fatty trunks. Morning light glistened on the green, waxy leaves, throwing bright spots and shadows on the path before her. The little river bubbled and gurgled, and the tiniest of fish darted back and forth in the water.
