The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  The hills that wall the bay move slowly past us. No, we are moving past them. The water is so calm I feel no motion. An older man stands in a shed on the deck, steering. The entire crew is composed of the three boys who came to our door this morning. The small, odd boy named Fraser sits on a barrel with long sticks and yarn in his hands. Apparently, he was using them but now he only stares at me as he did this morning. Again I wonder what’s wrong with him. Suddenly I realize I am in the company of strange boys. Will they be unkind to me? I want to return to the safety of the stuffy hold below but Carson approaches before I can.

  “Settled in now, is she?” he asks without threat or mockery.

  I swallow unkind words about Marrella. I cannot disillusion him. “She’s fine,” I say.

  He smiles. “We had some time cleaning up the hold. You should have seen her before we started. Made everything neat and tidy, we did.”

  I’m glad he didn’t see Marrella’s gratitude for his hard work. “It’s lovely,” I say, “very comfortable.”

  He beams at me. “Mark and his father are proud to be taking you.” He nods toward the captain of the boat and the other boy. When he hears his name, Mark comes and stands beside us. “Warm for this time of year,” he says without apparent reason. I grasp for a topic.

  “Have you seen the Tablelands?” I ask.

  Carson nods. “Went there myself for my initiation rites when I became a hunter. It’s a place of great power.”

  This sounds so odd to me. “What did you do?”

  “Pretty much the same as she’ll be doing, I expect. I listened to the earth, waited for a vision, and, of course, I asked forgiveness, too.”

  “Forgiveness? For what?”

  “A hunter kills,” Carson says. “He takes from the earth. It’s important to thank the earth, to atone for the damage we do by being on it.”

  “Oh. I thought . . .” I stop, not knowing how to continue.

  “. . . that we’re a crowd of barbarians with blood on our hands,” Carson says. “We know what city people think. Civilized people don’t eat meat. Well, civilized people know squat. There’s balance between us and the earth. We don’t just drain off resources like the cities do. We take what nature gives but we thank her as well. When a hunter does his job, the balance is not upset. That moose I’ve been after all fall, you think he’ll live forever if I don’t get him?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “No. I know you never. My arrow’s sure. I kill clean. I take pride in that. Dying of disease or hunger is no treat for any living creature. City folks, their imaginations don’t stretch that far. So my life is some sort of crime against nature.” He gives a short laugh. “My life is devoted to nature. Think about that.” Carson is angry now. I’m afraid of him.

  “Leave her be, Carson. She’s no enemy to you.” The voice behind us is as soft as a girl’s. Fraser’s dark eyes are fearful but he stands his ground. Carson laughs. “You’re right, youngster.” He turns to me. “I never meant to speak so strongly.” This rough apology embarrasses both of us, and he goes to Mark on the other side of the boat.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” Fraser asks. I’m beginning to realize this abrupt way of speaking has more to do with shyness of strangers than lack of manners.

  “Blake Raintree.”

  He stares. “What kind of name is that? And where do you belong to?”

  I should feel hurt or embarrassed but his bluntness makes me laugh. “I can’t answer either of those questions.” So I find myself sitting on deck telling this strange boy the fragmented story of my life, only leaving out Lem as Erica asked me to. While I talk, Fraser plies the wool purposefully with the sticks, making a length of beautiful wool cloth.

  “That’s a good story,” he says when I finish, as if I’d made up my entire life just to amuse him. “And you never knew your real name until yesterday?” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be joking me, would you?”

  “Of course not.” The idea annoys me.

  Fraser notices my reaction. “I had to ask, you see. Everyone’s always after tricking me ’cause I’m just the goat boy.”

  Carson hears this as he passes by. He reaches do’ fluffs Fraser’s silky black hair. “That’s right. Fraser’s our goat boy. All the sheep we keep aren’t half as much trouble as those dozen goats. Are they, Fraser, my son?”

  Fraser shakes his head. “Goats is trouble. Always want their own way. And these goats don’t suit the climate. Can only stand the cold if they’re dry. But when is the winter dry? It’s my job to keep them safe and healthy. Got them all penned in today,” he says with satisfaction.

  “Why do you keep them if the climate’s wrong?”

  “These goats is special. Angora. They give a fiber called mohair. The weavers value that. Value the goats. I wish someone valued me as much.” Fraser sighs and gives the yarn a tug.

  “How do you do that, Fraser?” I ask, pointing to the wool.

  “Knitting? Don’t tell me you never seen knitting before.”

  “Only at the Weavers’ Guild meeting the other night.”

  “Well, now, you’re the one who’s a barbarian, I’d say.” Fraser laughs without malice. He calls across the deck. “Imagine, Carson, a girl her age who can’t knit. All of us knits. Every one. See Carson’s sweater? Made it hisself, he did. Didn’t you, my son?”

  The sweater is lovely. Thick navy blue wool about the color of Carson’s eyes, the pattern complex. “This is the first design I made myself.” Carson lowers his voice, though no one could possibly overhear. “We knit to honor the weavers, you see, to show our respect for them and the democracy they keep alive.”

  “That we do,” Fraser says. He spreads his knitting out to show me what he’s done. “What do you think of that, then?” He has made a pattern that looks like interwoven ropes. “It’s hard to believe anyone could do that just with two sticks,” I say.

  “Needles, not sticks,” Fraser says, but he glows with pride. “Lately, we’ve started using knitting machines, but you can’t take those to work with you. So mostly, the men use needles.”

  Time slips by like the land around us, without me noticing. The boys laugh and talk more easily as they begin to accept me. I wonder how Marrella is faring down in the hold but not too often. After a while, Fraser puts his knitting away and takes out a strange object, two small octagons joined by pleated leather. He pumps it between his hands, and sweet, sad music carries over the water. It lulls me until I must close my eyes, leaning against the side of the boat. I don’t realize I’m asleep until the music stops. When I open my eyes, Fraser is staring again.

  “That was beautiful. What is that thing?” I say to divert his attention.

  He looks pleased. “It’s a concertina.”

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” I ask.

  “Oh, Fraser can play any old thing,” Carson says.

  “Comes by his talent honestly, don’t you?” But Carson stops abruptly as if he suddenly knows he’s said the wrong thing. Fraser reddens with an anger I have not seen in all the teasing he’s taken. Carson looks apologetic, but says nothing. Then Fraser turns away, playing a fast tune that ends all possibility of conversation.

  Soon after, the boat is moored at Woody Point and Carson takes me aside. “I’m leaving now,” he says. “I’ll be back here tomorrow to help unload the crates and take the boat home after she’s dropped ye lot at Green Gardens.” He pauses awkwardly, then reaches into a pocket. “Could you give her this? When you’re alone, I mean.” He presses a small envelope into my hand. I mumble something as I take it, I hardly know what. The eagerness in his voice, his eyes, brings an almost overpowering wave of jealousy. Will any boy ever feel that way for me?

  “What are ye two doing with your heads together?” Fraser demands.

  “Nothing, Fraser. Just taking my leave and now I’ll do the same with you.” Carson swings over the side of the boat with his usual grace. No one would suspect he’s on a secret mission.
Wherever the communication center is, it’s less than a day’s travel from here.

  After so much fresh air and freedom, I hate to return to the inevitable tension of the stuffy hold. But, to my surprise, everything is calm. Erica is spreading a cold meal on some boxes. Marrella is reading the book I left for her. She must have read steadily because she’s almost finished. Maybe the book will work its magic on her. Maybe she will be the one who knows. Carson’s note is like a live coal in my pocket. I haven’t decided what to do with it.

  The Tablelands

  We are on the beach at Green Gardens a few hours before nightfall. While William takes Marrella to the campsite, Erica and I deal with the baggage that is scattered on a strip of gravel backed by rocky cliffs. Landing here was tricky. In rougher seas, it might have been impossible. For Mark’s father, Captain Daniel Jones, the danger lay not in the sea but somewhere deep inside him. Although we kept Marrella out of his line of vision as much as possible, he had to break the taboo to land us here. The strain of this showed in his pale face as he rowed us ashore. Mark and Fraser avoided us, then went below to protect themselves from the sight of the bio-indicator, even though she was encased in that heavy protective suit. Only now do I realize how dangerous this was. “Erica, what if the rowboat had capsized? Fraser and Mark wouldn’t have known.”

  Erica looks up from a pack. “That’s right. But that wouldn’t occur to them. They expect the earth to care for us.”

  This annoys me. “We might have drowned. Where do they get all these stupid ideas?”

  Erica smiles. “They only seem stupid out of context, Blake. You have to imagine the Dark Times. People were left in a degraded world without science or technology, without government or social structure. They had no control, so they developed customs and beliefs to help them cope.”

  “But the beliefs are silly and they don’t need them now.”

  “People don’t stop believing just because they can. It’s part of their way of thinking.”

  “They have such funny ideas about danger. Look at Carson. He walked off with that secret code like he was going to a party but . . .” I stop myself just in time.

  Erica looks puzzled. “But what?”

  “But he chases after that big bull moose without any thought for his safety.” I improvise. I almost told her about his reaction to meeting Marrella by the water that day.

  “Well, Carson is consecrated as a hunter. The role is considered sacred because people were forced to hunt for food in the Dark Times. They felt it was wrong to kill animals, but they had to eat, so they created rituals to reconcile the conflict.”

  “I know. He told me about coming to the Tablelands.”

  Looking up, I see William climbing down the steps from the campground where he has left Marrella. I talk quickly, hoping to find out more before he comes. “Will Marrella do the same thing Carson did?”

  “Not exactly,” Erica begins but she looks up, too. “Oh, good. Here’s William. Now we can get to work.” My question is forgotten. “How’s Marrella?” she asks.

  He frowns. “Physically, better than I’d hoped. No sign of her asthma. I was worried about allergies to mold this time of year.”

  “But?” Erica says.

  “Her mood is troubling. She did so well on the other tests, she shouldn’t be this anxious.”

  For a moment, I wonder if I shouldn’t just tell the truth.

  It doesn’t feel right to deceive them. But something stops me. Marrella finished the book before we came ashore. If I’m right, there’s a possibility she will be able to pass this last test on her own and accept the role of bio-indicator with some honesty. I’m also afraid for myself. If the truth were known, the role might fall to me. The idea of being trapped by beliefs I cannot share fills me with dread. And something important is happening in the world I understand. The Commission’s stranglehold may be broken. I want to be part of that struggle. My invisibility makes me useful in ways that a bio-indicator never could be. So I say nothing as we load up like pack animals and prepare to make the first of many trips up to the camp. But the secret I carry is heavier than any pack I’ll lift today. Maybe when these tests are over this deception will finally stop.

  The camp is surprisingly pretty—sheltered and grassy, backed by heavy woods overlooking the ocean. The Master shows me how to activate the tent we will take to the Tablelands. It is a complex interfacing of semipermeable membranes that slowly assembles itself when opened. Marrella watches us fretfully, saying very little. I think about the note Carson gave me. We haven’t been alone since I got it, but I’m not sure she deserves it anyway. The sky grows grayer, the air colder. By nightfall, thick flakes of snow begin to fall, melting when they touch the ground, our tents, or us.

  “Into the tents with you,” Erica says. “You’ll be warm enough as long as you stay dry.” She cooks supper without regard for her own comfort.

  “This is miserable,” Marrella says, but I can never remember food tasting so good. It warms me like happiness. That night I fall asleep in the deep, rich darkness of the flapping tent. The snow turns to cold rain, but I am dry and, except for the tip of my nose, warm. Brilliant dreams dance before me all night long. In the morning, they recede beyond the edges of my memory. But I know they were there.

  We eat breakfast in the remaining tent after ours has been packed for the final journey, then prepare to leave in wet confusion. The driving rain slants almost sideways. While I rinse the dishes in some heated water, Erica grumbles. “I don’t like carrying the tent wet when it’s not dormant,” she says. “What if it catches a virus?”

  William comes up behind her and kisses the top of her head. “It won’t be packed for long. And the Tablelands will give it a good airing.”

  Marrella has eaten little and said less. When we are finally ready to leave, she sits on a boulder and bursts into tears. “I’m cold and wet,” she wails. “I didn’t close my eyes last night, wondering if we’d be blown into the sea. Why couldn’t this have waited until spring? I want to go home.” She buries her face in her hands and sobs.

  The worried looks William and Erica give me show they regard me as an equal here. I appreciate that but I have no words of comfort for Marrella this morning. So Erica steps forward. “Child,” she says, lifting Marrella’s face gently, “so much is happening in the world right now. By spring, this journey might be impossible. We have done this for you.” Marrella looks confused but Erica’s kindness seems to soothe her in a way that facts could not. She rises and shoulders her small pack. Her eyes are blotchy and her nose is bright red. She looks so pathetic, even I manage to feel sorry for her.

  The inland path slopes upward, sometimes gently, sometimes steeply, through a thick forest of spruce that shelters us from the worst of the weather. At one point I see what looks like asphalt or tar running along the side of the path. “Was this place paved?” I ask Erica.

  She laughs. “This area is volcanic.”

  William eagerly cuts in. “Four hundred and ninety million years ago, volcanoes bubbled up on the floor of the Iapetus Ocean, a sea between two continents, Laurentia and Gondwana. These are the remnants of the vents. The continents and the sea are gone now.”

  This reaches Marrella. “Gone? How could they be gone?”

  “The sea closed in. The continents came together, then broke apart again to make new continents. This island is a history of that event. The west coast, where we are now, was once part of a shelf in the tropical sea off Laurentia. The central part of the island was once the seabed, and the eastern zone was part of Gondwana. There are rocks in St. Pearl that were connected to what is now northern Africa. Land seems solid to us but the continents glide on giant plates. Gradually, over millions of years, they shift to create earthquakes, mountains, volcanoes, new landmasses.”

  The joy in William’s voice tugs at something left over in me from last night’s dreams. The next time we pass one, I bend and touch the tarry surface of the asphalt outcrop. William says, “Imagine, t
he dance of continents happens all around us but at a pace too slow to comprehend, our lives passing in less than an eye-blink of geological time. Even our time on this earth as a species is mere moments.” And I try but his ideas are too vast to hold. They slip from my grasp and are gone.

  As the land rises, the landscape thins. The path flattens and the ground grows stony. The rain lets up and a thick fog rises off the land. Now the path is nothing more than a bare line of stony earth snaking across a plain that is studded with orange rocks and sparse vegetation, enshrouded. Suddenly, we face the massive rise of a long loaf of stone that runs off into the fog on both sides. Nothing grows on it. “The Tablelands.” William sweeps his arm toward the hill above us.

  “Why is it so empty?” I ask.

  “Good question,” William replies, “but we’ve done enough geology for one day.”

  His sudden refusal to teach upsets me. I want to learn.

  Erica notices my disappointment and says, “The Tablelands must remain a mystery for now, Blake. This journey is to discover their secrets.” Abruptly, I remember that I am not the one brought here for this purpose. As we walk on, I wonder again what’s behind these tests. Is it science or magic? It isn’t supposed to be my concern, but it is. Everything has happened, not to Marrella, but to me. And it seemed more like magic than anything I have ever known or heard of. Maybe not the channeled wisdom of discarnate beings, but magic all the same. I wish I knew. We cross a road that runs along the base of the Tablelands, stretching out of sight in either direction. “A road?” I say. I thought we were in the middle of a wilderness.

  “There was settlement a few kilometres from here until the sea level rose. Trout River.” William explains. Then he points straight ahead. “A fjord meets the sea there. Once it was land-locked. It comes right in on the other side of the Tablelands, but there’s no place to land a boat there. Now we must push on. Erica and I will travel back to camp and you,” he says, turning to Marrella, “have work to do. Cheer up, child. You’ve done better than I thought possible. It will all be over soon.” The gloom Marrella casts over the day is thicker than the fog.