by Hannah Tinti
“Our mother had a brother. Some people called him terrible. Others were so afraid of him they didn’t call him anything at all. But he loved his sister. Loved her so much that he wouldn’t let anyone else love her. And it was because of him that our parents kept their meetings secret, until our father was pressed again into the service and sent west. They wrote letters. Wonderful letters that sustained them both as much as food and water, but the mail was slow in coming and often misdirected, and so when our father heard that she was going to have his child it was half a year too late.
“In the end he deserted. He left his station and his horse and traveled the miles back, through forests and over rivers, lakes, and mountains. All the while she tried to hide that a child was on the way. Then her time came and her brother discovered her secret, and he cut off her hands, and her feet, and her nose; every part of her that our father had loved. She was taken away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of her.”
Benjamin reached out for the lantern and drew it close.
“Give me your arm.”
Ren gave it.
Benjamin held the wrist to the light and ran a finger along the scar, outlining where the skin had been folded over and stitched. Where he touched felt numb in some places and sensitive in others, tiny bumps on the surface tickling. Ren tried to take his arm away, but Benjamin held it tightly.
“I don’t want to know anymore.”
“All right.” Benjamin let go. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No.”
The man reached over, took hold of the lantern, and blew it out. Night enveloped the barn. “Well,” he said at last to the darkness between them, “that’s when you know it’s the truth.”
SIX
Ren woke to the sound of chains rattling in the early morning. The barn was still dark, but the boy could make out the shape of the farmer’s wagon. Scurrying back and forth, attaching the horse to the braces, was Benjamin Nab.
“What are you doing?”
“Quiet!” The man crawled underneath the cart. “Get over here and help me.”
Ren stood and moved closer. The straw was damp and stuck to his clothes, a thick cloying smell that filled his nostrils and made it clear that he was not dreaming: Benjamin was taking the horse. Ren felt the same quickening of blood that happened whenever he stole at Saint Anthony’s. The cow in the back of the barn let out a snort and shifted her weight. She was ready to be milked.
Benjamin finished attaching the buckles and threaded the reins through to the driver’s seat. The brown mare was shaking her head back and forth, muscles twitching across her back. Ren took hold of the bridle and tried to stroke the animal’s nose.
“They’ll be up soon. Hurry!” Benjamin rushed over to the hay where they’d been sleeping, gathered the blankets in his arms and threw the pile at the boy. Ren deposited them into the back of the wagon and stood beside the wheels, wondering if there was any possible way that he could stay behind. If he could somehow convince the farmer and his wife that he’d had no part in this. If they would adopt him, too. But then Benjamin climbed into the driver’s seat and told him to open the barn doors, and as he trembled in the cold and the wagon passed through, he knew there wasn’t a chance. He jumped up onto the seat next to Benjamin, who cracked the whip over the head of the brown mare, and the wagon thundered down the hill.
Ren clung to the wooden seat and turned to look at the house as they sped away. There was a light in one of the windows. He held his breath, waiting for the farmer to come rushing after them, waiting to hear the shotgun blast. The front door opened just as they reached the road. The wheels of the cart lifted as they took the turn. Ren held on to the side of the wagon, certain that someone was following, but when he glanced behind again at the house all he saw was the farmer’s wife, silhouetted in the frame, a pail in each of her hands.
It was another hour before the sun began to rise. Ren kept one of the blankets around his shoulders and watched the sky slowly turning pale. The air was crisp, the color of the leaves a dull bronze. They came out of the valley and the land around them began to flatten, the oaks and maples and elms towering overhead.
Benjamin was in much better spirits and began to point out things along the road, as if they were on some sort of holiday instead of running off with stolen goods. He told a story about the marks on birch trees, and another about a stone wall that went all the way to Maine.
As he listened, Ren tried to imagine the proper penance for their crime. The longest he’d ever received was ten Our Fathers and fifteen Hail Marys. Running away with another man’s horse and carriage was an entirely different category, and probably deserved twice, if not three times, as many.
“What are you doing?” Benjamin asked.
“Praying.”
“So we won’t be followed?”
“No,” Ren said. “For stealing.”
“This isn’t stealing,” said Benjamin. “It’s borrowing, with good intent.”
Ren pulled the blanket closer. He’d told himself similar things when he’d stolen at Saint Anthony’s, but in his heart he knew God would find a way to punish him. Ren often thought of the old man as a benignly neglectful gardener, carefully snipping His roses but leaving other areas to go wild, until something caught His notice, a tendril poking its way beyond the fence, and then His full wrath would come thundering down and the entire bed would be ripped out. Ren knew this sin was too big to hide. It would take some work to garner God’s patience.
Benjamin Nab spit off the side of the wagon. He slowed the horse. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot, and praying never made any difference for anything. Now, I understand you’ve been raised with a different set of rules, but if you want to stay alive out here you’re going to be forced to break them. Know what you need, and if it crosses your path, take it.”
The boy watched the back of the mare bobbing up and down. She was a powerful animal and could easily outmaster them if she wanted, but she kept the bit in her mouth and continued moving down the road.
“How’d you end up at Saint Anthony’s in the first place?” Benjamin asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“You must remember something.”
“I was put through the door. Just like everyone else.”
“You’re not like everyone else.” Benjamin said it with approval, and Ren felt a blush spread across his cheek. Just to hear the words was thrilling.
“I have a good eye,” said Benjamin. “Most of the time I can look at a person and see their whole life. Small things give them away. That farmer, for instance. I could tell by the way he tied his shoes that he’d never traveled more than twenty miles from his home, and it was unlikely that he’d follow us for long. And that Father John of yours. I knew he had something hidden in that sleeve. And I knew he’d used it on you. The only thing I didn’t know was if you deserved it.”
The birds were awake. It was not possible to see them yet, but as the wagon passed the trees there was a cacophony of chirps and songs going back and forth, repeating on one side of the road and then the other, so loud it was as if all the winged creatures in the world had surrounded them.
“I’m not your brother,” said Benjamin.
“I know,” said Ren, although he had not given up hope until that very moment.
Benjamin pulled his coat back and revealed a pistol stuffed into the belt of his trousers. “Showing this doesn’t mean I’m going to hurt you,” he said. “I just want you to know you’re dealing with a man who knows his business.”
Ren tried to keep his face passive, but the moment Benjamin said he wouldn’t harm him, the boy was somehow convinced that he would. He looked into the woods. He wondered if he should jump off the wagon.
“That hand of yours is going to open wallets faster than any gun.” Benjamin pulled his jacket closed. He brought the horse to a stop. “Now I’ve told you where I’m coming from. And even though you’re signed over to me and legally bound to do as
I say, and I’m armed and could shoot you if it pleased me, on my word I’ll let you out here and you can find your way back.” He smiled. “Or you can stay with me and take your chances.”
Around the wagon the birds continued their calls. They were softer now as the sun was rising, but to Ren they still seemed frantic.
Benjamin leaned in close. “What’s the thing you want most in the world?”
Ren had never been asked this before. As he considered the question, he realized that he was more certain about what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be shot by the gun he’d just seen. He didn’t want to be left alone on the road. He looked up at the early-morning sky and thought of the farmer’s wife.
“A family,” he said at last.
“Don’t be simpleminded,” said Benjamin. “I mean anything. Anything in the world.”
The boy tried to think of something else, something beyond the limits. “An orange,” he said. “I want an orange.”
“I can get you that.” Benjamin held out his hand. “What do you say, little man?”
His fingers were long and thin. But there were no calluses, nor any sign that he had ever worked hard labor. His wrists were delicate, his nails remarkably clean. Ren noticed a freckle, nestled in his palm like a coin—a mark of good fortune—and it was this, more than anything, that made him reach forward and take it.
SEVEN
They arrived at Granston in the late afternoon, hungry and thirsty, the horse covered in sweat. It was a harbor town; the shops and houses hugged the circle of the shore, and a small jetty served as the mouth to the ocean, with a lighthouse at the very tip. The roads all led to the water, and before long the wagon was in the chaos of the docks. Fishermen unloaded nets of salted fish and stacks of crates full of crabs and lobsters, still alive, their pincers snapping against the bars. There were casks of oil being lifted from the whaling ships, the men tattooed and hard-muscled. From the merchant vessels came barrels of spices and bolts of fabric and boxes of dishes.
Vendors were selling their goods right on the street, barking and haggling as money was exchanged and the buyers sorted through the wares. A fisherman took hold of a wriggling octopus and ripped off a leg before adding it to a scale set up on the dock. A sailor lifted a monkey over his head. A group of women dressed as if they were going to a party, in satin gowns and lace shawls, broke open a crate of glasses and began inspecting them, right there on the ground. A soldier opened an umbrella and held it against the sun. The painted green paper changed the color of the light. Above the crowd the masts of the tall ships shot straight to the clear blue sky. A group of dirty children were climbing from one mast to the other, and shouting, and balancing on the ropes and swinging off them into the harbor. Hovering over it all was the stench of fish.
Ren had smelled the fish from miles away, before they even reached the town itself. The horse and cart had rounded a corner and they were suddenly surrounded by the rotten scent, as if they had stepped into a fog. The odor pushed away the image of the farmer’s wife, which had been haunting Ren since they’d left the farmhouse, and by the time they reached the wharf he could no longer distinguish the smell from anything else.
The sun reflected off the water, and Ren lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He had never seen the ocean before, and now it laid itself out before him, the waves rippling together in patterns of light, spreading out toward the horizon, a giant roiling creature of openness and space. It was as if Ren’s forehead had unlocked, and the breeze coming off the waves was channeling through him, pushing all the cluttered thoughts in his mind aside, clearing room for something new and exciting to move in.
He peered over the edge of the dock. Clumps of brown seaweed swayed back and forth in the tide, like fields in a storm. Mussels and periwinkles covered the rotting wood, along with bands of sharp white barnacles. Seagulls rested on the tips of pilings or dove overhead, screeching and fearless.
Benjamin led the horse away from the water, and they crossed three streets, cobblestones giving way to dirt and sand alleys. Wooden row houses lined up on either side, the homes of sailors in port for a few weeks only, or fishermen waiting for the next trip to the Grand Banks. The road squeezed close as it wove between the buildings, until there was barely space enough for the cart to fit through.
Ahead two women were talking to a soldier. They were dressed in colorful layers, with low-cut bodices and painted cheeks. One of the women was lifting her skirt, and the other had her hands around the soldier’s waist. Benjamin had to slow the wagon to fit by the group. He kept his face hidden as they passed, but Ren was curious. He had never seen women like this before. He turned around so that he could keep watching, and the soldier grinned at him, then winked.
They stopped the cart two streets down, in front of an abandoned building. The windows were boarded up and the brick blackened, as if it had been through a fire. Benjamin handed Ren the reins and opened a broken wooden gate into a small yard. He tied the horse and led Ren to the back, where they stood before a rusted door that didn’t quite fit on its hinges. He knocked. They waited. He knocked again. There was a sound of shuffling inside.
“Who’s there?” A low voice came through the cracks.
“It’s only me,” Benjamin said. “Let us in.”
Ren heard a fumbling of metal locks. A heavyset man with a full red beard opened the door as carefully as a prison cell, then stood in the entrance, blinking at them. His shirt looked like it had been slept in, and there was a stain down one side of his pants.
“You’re looking good,” said Benjamin.
“Liar,” said the man. “Who’s this? Another victim?”
“My son,” Benjamin said.
“Ha!” said the man.
“Are you letting us in or not, Tom?”
The man muttered something to himself, then stood aside and let them pass.
There was a small flight of stairs down into a cellar room. The floor was hard-packed dirt, the walls whitewash over stone. There was a shoddy sunken bed and a table with two chairs. On the table was a candle and several pipes knocked out onto a plate. Next to the bed was a row of bottles.
“Entertaining?” Benjamin asked.
“Not lately,” said Tom. He eyed Ren warily.
Benjamin picked up a pipe and cleaned out the bowl with his finger. It came out black with soot and he used it to write on the table—A, B, C. He turned to Ren. “This man used to be a teacher.”
Ren was afraid, suddenly, that Benjamin would leave him here. “I already know how to spell.”
“See how smart he is?” Benjamin took one of the bottles and poured out a drink. “I thought we could use some help.”
“With what?” said Tom. “We need to move on. We can’t be dragging a child along.”
“This isn’t a child.” Benjamin took hold of Ren’s sleeve and pushed it up, revealing his scar. “This is a gold mine.”
Tom squinted, then shook his head. “For God’s sake, Benji,” he said.
“This boy’s been mine for twenty-four hours, and I’ve been given a good meal, a smoke, a place to sleep, and come into possession of a horse and wagon.”
“You’re going to use him, then, for what—bait?”
“He’s going to open doors. Enough for us to get in.” Benjamin reached over and took the whiskey away, just as Tom was about to pour a glass.
“You don’t know anything about children,” Tom said. “They’re nothing but trouble. Little monsters.”
“He’ll be our little monster,” said Benjamin.
Tom slumped in his seat. He offered no more arguments. Benjamin waited another minute, then returned the whiskey to the table. The schoolteacher snatched it and poured a drink for himself.
“It’s decided, then.” Benjamin gave a nod, and Ren could see that his staying had never truly been in question. Tom sulked and sipped at his drink, and Benjamin cleaned his glasses before folding them carefully and slipping them into his pocket. “Now I have to unhitch the horse
before somebody else steals it,” he said, and he turned and walked back up the stairs.
As soon as they were alone, Tom emptied out Ren’s pockets. There wasn’t much to be found. The three stitched letters of Ren’s name were tossed on the table, along with the rock that Ichy had given him. Then The Lives of the Saints came out from his sleeve. Tom took the volume over to the candle and studied it. By the light Ren could see that the man was younger than he’d thought. His lips were chapped, his beard stuck out in tangles, and his eyes were a deep sea-green, like the water they’d passed along the harbor. Tom checked the spine, ran his fingers along the leather, then opened the cover and began to read. He frowned as he turned the pages. Ren wished that Benjamin would return.
“Do you actually believe this?” Tom said at last.
“No,” Ren said, although he did.
Tom turned the book over and ran his palm across it. “Could be worth something.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
“That’s not for you to decide.” Tom reached underneath his beard and began to pick at the skin there.
Ren looked around the room at the painted stone walls, the empty bottles, and the caved-in bed. “Do you really live here?”
“For the past month I have.” Tom put the book on the table and now thrust his other hand underneath his beard and continued scratching, his fingers lost in the mass of red hair. “We go from place to place. Wherever the job takes us.”
“What job?”
“Hard to say,” said Tom. “It’s always changing. As Ophelia said, We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” He pulled something from his beard and rolled it between his fingertips before flicking it onto the floor. “Mostly we sell things.”
