The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  “Allow your instincts to guide you as you did with the first test,” William says. “I’m sure you will be fine.” He leaves us.

  Erica busies herself with the dishes. “The shore is a good place to look for wildlife,” she says. Her tone is casual but she’s giving Marrella good advice. “Wear waterproof boots.”

  We find boots on the porch. Stepping outside, I am disappointed to see the world does not glow golden as it did on the morning of the first test. As I think this, a sparrow flies by. It is outlined in a light that is not white, not blue, but somehow both. Marrella ignores it. “Write it down,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Write it down in your book.”

  “What did you say?” Her voice is stone cold.

  I quickly drop her arm. “The bird. Do you want to record it in your book?”

  “Yes, I do,” she says as if it were her idea. “How do we get to the water from here?” she asks when she’s finished.

  I point down the path. “The road that leads to Kildevil follows the bay. It’s a steep incline to the water but there are paths.”

  “Then I suppose that’s where we should go,” she says.

  I force myself not to look at the workcamp as we pass. I must pretend I have no idea the warders might be watching us. Marrella hardly glances at the place. The road to Kildevil is no more than a gravel path. Land vehicles are rare in this part of the prefecture. We walk about halfway to the landfill before I find a path. “Here,” I say, pointing to a barely visible parting of the trees. The treetops quickly close above us. The incline is so steep that the path slants diagonally at a gentle slope then turns sharply and goes down in the opposite direction. The bay is perhaps twenty metres across, reaching out of sight in either direction. It is flat as glass but carries the sharp scent of the sea. Across the water, the massive bulk of Kildevil Mountain towers. I feel unexpectedly protected here. A narrow strip of gravel follows the bay. As we step onto it, something moves.

  “Look,” Marrella whispers. On the strand ahead of us a bull moose grazes. A man would barely reach his shoulder, and his rack of antlers must be wider than I am tall. He catches our scent, raises his head, and sees us. His eyes roll to panicked white and he is gone. Only a crashing in the bush tells us we were not dreaming. “That, I must record,” Marrella says. She sits on a fallen tree and writes.

  I crouch near her. “See his tracks.” I point to the depressions in the gravel, filling with water. “How deep they are. He was huge.”

  Marrella smiles. “Surely that will be the most significant thing we see today.”

  Over the water, high m the sky, a lone bird glides.

  “Look,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  “A fish hawk.”

  The bird folds its wings and plummets, disappearing under the smooth water without a ripple. An instant later it breaks the surface, a large fish fighting in its talons.

  Marrella gasps. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  I nod. “I never saw fish hawks in St. Pearl but we see them often here. Bald eagles catch fish with their feet, too, but only fish hawks dive beneath the water.”

  Marrella opens her notebook again. “I may not have to move from this spot,” she says. She is pleased.

  I see flashes of blue-white light in the water, small creatures that would not be noticed otherwise. I must draw them to her attention. “Perhaps we should look in the water,” I suggest.

  “Perhaps,” she says, leaving the notebook on the log.

  Marrella is suddenly cheerful. She’s so unlike herself, I wonder if the person I’ve come to know is just a product of unhappiness.

  The tide is low. A few kelp-covered rocks stick out above the surface. When Marrella wades in, the water barely reaches her ankles. I follow, thankful for the waterproof footwear. Even in the shallows, it’s cold this time of year. At first it’s hard to see below the mirror surface but soon we do. Marrella gives a little shriek. “What was that?” she asks.

  I follow the outline of a swimming creature. “A flat fish. Look at these rocks. They’re covered in small shellfish.” She retrieves her notebook and I point out different animals. Some look like snails, some like little hats clinging to the rocks. “These white ones are barnacles, the purple ones are mussels.” I describe those I cannot name while she scribbles in her notebook. We’re so absorbed in this work, I almost fall over when I look up to find someone watching us.

  He is tall but hardly older than Marrella. He carries a crossbow and is dressed in the skins of animals. A mocking smile shapes his face. The expression is not pleasant but that doesn’t hide how handsome he is with his fine, regular features and serious blue eyes. His straight brown hair is held in place by a headband. He speaks with the broad accent of Kildevil. “Ye two will be in for trouble when you’re caught slacking off like this,” he says. His voice is as confident and mocking as his smile. “Why are you out here when there’s work to be done?”

  He has mistaken us for girls from Kildevil. Marrella raises one eyebrow then draws herself up regally. “Perhaps this is our work,” she says.

  The mocking smile wavers. Marrella has the smooth, rounded tone of a city dweller. The twang of local speech is entirely absent from her voice. “Then pardon me,” he falters. “I took you to be two of our girls.” He touches his own bare head. “Your scarf is like those of our weavers.”

  I would forgive this mistake but Marrella is determined to enjoy herself. She leaves the rocks and wades to shore. I follow. She stands directly in front of the young man who now looks uneasy. When Marrella speaks again her voice is angry. “And are you so stupid that you cannot tell an apprentice weaver from your bio-indicator?”

  He lowers his eyes and groans. “Stupid,” he says without looking up, “would be exactly what I am, honored one. I should not even look on you before your investiture. Stupid I am this day and cursed as well.” The mockery has vanished. He is abject.

  Marrella literally swells with pride. “Your mistake was an honest one,” she says. “I left my robes aside today.” The young man does not raise his eyes but he relaxes slightly.

  “And what is your name?” Marrella asks, not quite hiding the eagerness in her voice.

  “Carson,” the young man says, “Carson Walsh.” He offers this information reluctantly.

  “‘Well, Carson Walsh, what brings you to this place when others are working?” Marrella asks. She’s mocking him now.

  He lifts the crossbow slightly, keeping his eyes on the ground. “I am a hunter, honored one. I’m tracking a moose.” A killer of animals, I think. No wonder he is dressed in skins. The townspeople eat meat.

  “We saw your moose,” Marrella says. “It went into the bush by that clump of trees a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you, honored one,” he says, turning to follow the tracks, still miserable with shame.

  “One more thing, Carson Walsh.” Marrella halts him with her commanding tone.

  “Yes, honored one?” He looks like someone awaiting a blow.

  “It will not be necessary to speak of this meeting to anyone,” she says. “I will have forgotten it myself by this afternoon.”

  He raises his eyes, forgetting himself in his gratitude. The smile that lights his face is an honest one now. Without the mocking swagger, he is too handsome to be believed. “Thank you, honored one,” he says. “I am touched by your kindness. If my mistake were known, I would lose my right to hunt for the season and many would go hungry this winter.”

  “I understand,” Marrella says, although I’m sure she did not know any of this until now. A small bird flies out of the bush, lands on a log, looks at us, and is gone.

  “What kind of bird was that?” Marrella asks.

  “A black-capped chickadee, honored one,” Carson says, his eyes on the ground again. “Now I must go.”

  Marrella writes in her notebook while he disappears after the moose. “Black-capped chickadee,” she says. She smiles at me. Her cheeks are a healthy pink. Her eyes
sparkle. “He is beautiful,” she whispers. To my surprise, we giggle like friends.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “My power over these people will be great,” she says with satisfaction. She gestures to the notebook. “Is this enough?” she asks.

  I can’t believe she’s asking my advice. I shake my head. “Not yet. Let’s look over there.” I point to where the moose was. She follows my suggestion without question. Where the moose stood, a spit of fine gravel points into the water. The land is gently sloped and grassy before rising even more steeply to the road. Marrella sees none of this. She is looking up the hill, where Carson Walsh disappeared. He has taken her attention with him. Somehow, I must draw her interest back. In the pit of my gut I know we have not yet found what the Master wants. I notice some flat stones by the water, about the size of books. “Let’s turn those over.”

  Her nose wrinkles with distaste, but she flips one with the tip of her boot. She springs back with a small shriek. “It’s crawling with bugs.”

  “Good.” I squat opposite her. “These ones are called carpenters. The rest, we will have to describe.” By the time we are finished, the creatures have scurried away. Marrella sits on a small boulder to finish her descriptions. I look around, nagged by the feeling there is something yet to discover. But Marrella seems happier than she has since I have known her and that’s something in itself. A feather of dead goldenrod sticks up beside her. It wiggles abruptly. There is no wind. “Marrella,” I whisper. Too late, I realize I have called her by her name but when she looks up her face is unclouded by anger. “Look down, beside that goldenrod. What’s there?”

  She quietly closes her book, draws herself onto the flat top of the boulder, and looks down. “A little animal,” she whispers. “Come see.”

  I circle, approaching from the opposite side. There is barely room for both of us on top of the boulder. At first, I see nothing in the sparse autumn grass. Then my eyes are drawn to the slightest movement. I see a creature hardly bigger than the tip of my thumb. It looks like a tiny gray mouse with very small ears, pin-point eyes, and a long, pointed snout. It forages busily through the grass, unaware of the giants hovering not a metre above. We watch for several minutes. “What is it?” Marrella asks.

  “A shrew. I’ve only seen dead ones before. We used to find them outside sometimes.” When she closes her notebook, the nagging feeling is gone. “That’s enough,” I tell her, “We can go home.” I’m certain, although I don’t know why.

  Taming the Shrew

  “. . . carpenters, earthworms, small black spiders without webs, and a shrew.” Marrella finishes reading her list of creatures and smiles.

  William smiles back. “Well done. The bird you call a fish hawk is also called an osprey. Long ago, it was threatened with extinction because of the chemicals men put on their crops. Carpenters are also called sowbugs or pill bugs. They’re common but they are not insects. They are crustaceans, more closely related to crabs and lobsters than flies or beetles. They left the seas eons ago, but they still need dampness to survive. When they dry out, they die. Now, Marrella, here’s your second test. Of the animals you saw today, which seems the most interesting?”

  “The moose,” Marrella says. “I have never seen one before and it was the largest creature. Surely it must be the most interesting.”

  I know it isn’t the right answer but how can I tell her? The Master shakes his head. “Perhaps you would like to reconsider?”

  Marrella nods. “Could I have a few minutes to review my notes?”

  “Of course. I’ll go speak with Erica.” William leaves the study.

  Marrella turns to me and lifts one eyebrow like a silent question mark. I take the notebook from her hand, open it to the last page, point to the word, and hand it back to her.

  “The shrew,” she says when William reenters the room. “I think, upon reflection, that the shrew is a more interesting creature.”

  “That’s right.” There’s approval and relief in William’s smile. “The shrew is much more interesting than the moose. Shrews are not rodents like mice. They are insectivores.”

  “But they look like mice,” Marrella says. Somehow her interruption pleases him.

  “Looks can be deceiving. Shrews are among the oldest of mammals. They appeared about 38 million years ago. Some details of their anatomy make them more like birds and reptiles than mammals. For example, they have a common opening for both urinary and reproductive systems called a cloaca, whereas most mammals have quite separate openings.” Marrella blushes. I probably do, too. He stops and looks at us, amazed. “Come now, girls, this is biology. Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says, but not unkindly. Once again, he’s delighted to be teaching. “Another thing, some shrews use echolocation. Do you know what that is?”

  Marrella shakes her head.

  “Whales and dolphins use it. Bats, too. They send out a stream of high-pitched sounds that bounce back and allow them to create pictures of the world around them. It’s like seeing without sight. The type of shrew found here on the island, Sorex cinereus , also uses echolocation. But shrews are not intelligent mammals. They use echolocation only in unfamiliar surroundings.” William smiles as he finishes. “I don’t suppose you thought you could learn so many interesting things about such a small creature.”

  “No,” Marrella says. “I never even imagined there was so much life around us.” She actually sounds interested.

  “You have done well, Marrella. You’ve earned your trip to the Tablelands. Rest for a few days and enjoy yourself.

  Perhaps you would like to read about shrews?” he adds as we rise to go.

  Marrella nods and takes the book he offers. She hesitates, then asks, “You wouldn’t have any information about moose, would you?”

  “No books specifically, but you can use the reference disks. You certainly were charmed by that moose, weren’t you?” He leaves before he sees Marrella’s deep blush.

  Remembering her fury after the first test, I dread the thought of talking to Marrella alone. “I’ll go see if Erica needs help in the kitchen if you don’t mind.”

  “What?” she says. “Oh, fine. As you wish.” Her thoughts are far from here and it was not the moose that charmed her.

  I manage to keep busy until it’s time for the noon observation set. I brace myself as I enter her bedroom. At first it seems empty.

  “Blay, is that you?” I look into the kitchenette. Marrella is sitting at the table with some reference disks. “I was wondering how long it would take you to run out of things to do downstairs,” she says but she smiles. “Once again, you knew exactly what I should be doing.” She leans toward me. “But how?”

  There is no point in lying. “I don’t know. Somehow I know the answers but I can’t say how or why.”

  To my surprise she is not angry. “I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me at least. Did anything like this ever happen before you came here?”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  “I see. Tell me exactly what happens.” So honestly and without holding anything back, I tell her about the happy feeling, the glowing lights, the way I feel connected with everything. When I finish, she is still calm. “This is interesting,” she says. “It seems the Ancient Ones have chosen you as their medium.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so . . .” I begin, but she cuts me off. “No, it all makes sense. I created a welcoming atmosphere and drew the Ancient Ones to this plane of consciousness. But they have chosen to speak to me through you. I understand perfectly. The Ancient Ones often choose humble, even simple-minded people. My role as bio-indicator removes me from direct access to these spirit guides.”

  This cannot be the right explanation but I say nothing, hoping she will mistake my silence for agreement. She continues in a more serious tone. “Even though the Ancients chose to work through you, it is clear their messages are intended for me. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She relaxes. “Good. Then there is no
reason to discuss this with anyone else. Is there?”

  “Not at all.” I can understand why she wishes to keep this a secret. She is winning the thing she wants most—the right to her investiture.

  She smiles again. “You have made me very happy,” she says.

  Perhaps now she will finally like me.

  The Weavers’ Guild

  Stars glitter like green ice crystals. I shiver even though Erica bundled me into a thick cloak before we left the house. She notices. “Hard to get used to the cold when it comes,” she says. “Looks like a frost tonight.” We are on a path that branches off behind the Master’s house before the path to Ski Slope and in the opposite direction. Through a break in the trees I see the landfill. This path is steeper and more difficult to navigate in the dark than the road below, but it takes us to Kildevil without passing the Grand Hotel. We are going to the house of the First Weaver, apparently to view the cloth for Marrella’s investiture robe. Perhaps for something more. As we descend, my stomach churns. I remember the hostile faces of the people in Kildevil on my first journey to the workcamp. It’s hard to believe I will walk their streets without challenge now. As the path slopes down, the surrounding hills retreat to make the only flat plain on this side of the water for many miles. The houses of Kildevil lie on this fan of land.

  The path ends abruptly in some yards scattered with half-cut firewood. The wooden houses look as if they were built by their owners but not in the ramshackle way of the barrio in St. Pearl. They are tidy and well made. Light shines from the windows. Inside, families are eating, children are playing together or fighting. It’s nothing like the sprawling danger of the city or the controlled, confined life of the workcamp. We are in a world I have never known. “How long have these people lived here?” I ask.

  “All their lives, most of them. The families have been here for centuries. Jones, Morgan, McGrath, Linegar, Clarke, Howell, Walsh—just a few family names down through the years. It’s such an out-of-the-way place that it survived the Dark Times without much disruption. As technology became available again, the Weavers’ Guilds encouraged people to avoid all but the most necessary innovations. Since these people had always lived close to the land, they didn’t mind. Now Kildevil is famous for its weaving, and the Guild is very important here. But most people don’t welcome outsiders. I often feel they’ve only begun to accept me.”