by Gloria Piper
“Where’s the evil? Listen to the village lord. Doesn’t he know more than anyone?”
The gathering agreed. Still, it was clear they disliked what they saw.
“Five days,” Old Coral said.
“One,” Redroot said.
“As I commanded,” Townmaster broke in, bringing quiet, “we will meet here in ten days to see proof. Will you accept it?”
First one head, then another nodded, until everyone agreed . . . except Redroot.
When everyone started home, Redroot called out. “Townmaster!”
She took Old Coral’s hand, her face softening.
Townmaster paused.
“I hear Brittlebark and Scrub have a newborn. When’s the naming ceremony?”
“In four days.”
“When you meet them, tell them I have a gift waiting.”
If customs were the same here as in Seagren’s province, a naming ceremony would mean a trip for the lord to the village. Townmaster could be gone three days, leaving the experimenters unprotected.
Would Redroot cause trouble?
Chapter 7
Day five. Townmaster had left early for the village. As on previous days since the agreement, no one was around, except Old Coral, Oceania, and the children, who did no better at watering than when Oceania had asked Seagren to speak to them. Seagren sensed Oceania’s turmoil, but she could not tell the children to do the unnatural.
Seagren slipped on and off the land with the children, senses sharpened by apprehension.
Yesterday, she had worked her fingers sore, drilling twenty conch shells for necklaces. She’d taught the children to use them, and said, “Keep your little pretty safe. Wear it always. Blow it only when there’s danger.”
Oceania had sat down with her as she draped the last necklace about a child’s neck. Emotion poured from Oceania that in a landsteward would have enervated Seagren. “I’m glad you’re doing this, Seagren. Townmaster thinks nothing bad can happen; that’s the difference between a landsteward and one born a watersteward. Being altered, it’s not good. Something precious was taken. So I worry about their safety—and yours.” Her hands rubbed nervously on her thighs. “If you have to,” the next words spilled out, “take them and flee to the sea.” She moved off before Seagren could reply.
Oceania, stooping by the reservoir to lower her buckets, scanned the now empty spot where Townmaster had stood. Seagren knew not all onlookers had agreed to the test. Probably Oceania was thinking about that. Pretending to play in the water, Seagren watched.
A breeze carried Oceania’s words to Seagren’s ears as she spoke to Old Coral. “Is Redroot giving you any trouble?”
“We don’t speak of it.” Old Coral tipped a bucket, and its contents sliced a small gully.
Buckets filled, Oceania lifted and carried.
Seagren blinked her second eyelids in contemplation. Landstewards preferred drudgery. Did the altered ones? Actually Townmaster playfully waded or dangled his feet while Oceania would not immerse a toe. Maybe she feared she would enjoy the water too much. Or did she swim in secret? Seagren remembered the silvery phantom.
***
Day six. Townmaster must be in the middle of the naming by now. Oceania relaxed, as if worry was silly. After all, who disobeyed a village lord?
Seagren did not relax. Seagren kept watch.
***
Day seven. Townmaster should return, this evening.
Not far from childish laughter and splashing games, Oceania and Old Coral hunched about with their pails.
Seagren coasted away from the cavorters, along the edge of the reservoir in habitual patrol. In the distance, a boat. Trouble? She raced along the bottom and lifted just enough to discern fishing lines. Nothing to worry about. A flip, and Seagren drifted back. The watersteward plot changed little from day to day, spattered and dribbled. The other plot looked a mess. Where it was dry, it had turned rock-hard. Where it was wet, it mired feet. Slosh, squish, slip—Coral almost fell and caught himself.
Seagren scrambled onto the watersteward plot, felt the zing of the water bubble, the release, and leaped back into the reservoir. A little boy, catching Seagren’s eye, raised the conch and pretended to blow it. Then giggling, he ducked below the surface.
Seagren took another tour. The figures carrying buckets grew smaller. Far away the fishers still fished. A delicate breeze drew blue squiggles on the water. Seagren rotated and gazed back at a side path that joined the levee not far from the waterers. Four people turned off of it, within hailing distance of Oceania. Seagren paddled back for a closer look. Oppression mounted. It was Redroot with strangers. If their heaviness reached this far out, would the children feel it? Only Oceania and Coral stood between the newcomers and the children. Seagren saw silver bodies on land beyond the laboring altered ones. She saw Redroot pointing.
A conch blew. Water pulsed as children dived. Conches bleated and beeped. Even fleeing, the little ones tested their toys. Then only ripplets appeared. Anemone would lead them home.
Seagren lingered near the shore’s brush line to eavesdrop.
Oceania and Old Coral had dropped their buckets.
“Redroot’s relatives,” Old Coral said. He introduced them to Oceania.
The children were just slipping into the woods when Anemone popped up beside Seagren.
The greeting with Redroot’s relatives was strained. One of the visitors kicked the crust on Old Coral’s plot where water had not reached that day. “Looks like a mess.”
Old Coral forced a chuckle. “An experiment.”
“So we heard.”
“Give it time.”
“We will know after ten days,” Oceania said. “That’s the agreement.”
Redroot’s hands found her hips. “Not mine. It’s a waste of time. And for what? To try and convince us a scourge is a blessing.” She tilted her head back at her three kin. “You should see how many That-Other-Kind she’s harboring. Dozens. Like a handful of fleas.”
Clucking tongues. Shaking heads.
“Our village lord would never allow it,” one of the three said.
Oceania trembled, and trembling entered her voice. “Townmaster wants to heal a land left sick by the Great Ancient War. He’s trying to return it to its former blessing. The aliveness of our land demonstrates that, and we want to demonstrate it on Old Coral and Redroot’s land.”
“That-Other-Kind won’t make the land green,” a visitor said. “Not when they ruined it originally.”
“That’s what we’re here to prove,” Oceania said. “That-Other-Kind did not ruin the land. They make our land green, and they will make Old Coral’s land green.” Her tears threatened to spill.
Seagren marveled at Oceania’s courage before these giants. She had not noticed Anemone slip away.
More boots kicked the altered ones’ plot. “Hard here, mud there. What could grow in this?”
“That’s because we were watering it with buckets,” Old Coral said. “But there.” She pointed at the land nearest the forest. “There’s the watersteward plot. It doesn’t look like this. Not hard. Not muddy. In fact the soil seems more settled. Given time . . .”
Something silvery knelt there.
Seagren almost choked. Anemone straightened, water coursing from her.
“Oceania,” she cried, running to the woman.
“Anemone! No!”
“That-Other-Kind!” A male visitor grabbed the girl with one hand and pushed Oceania away with the other. Weakened, Anemone collapsed.
“Oceania,” she croaked. “On the . . .”
Old Coral caught his wife’s shoulder. “Make him release her.”
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“No.”
Oceania gasped through her fingers, “Oh, Anemone.”
“We’ll take her to our province. To our village lord. He’ll do what’s proper.”
“The plot,” Anemone squeaked.
Must find Townmaster. Seagren raced from the scene. The forest grew before her. Wrong direction. Town. Where? How far?
Legs thrashing, she sliced through the reservoir.
The village stood a day away. Which direction? Could she get there safely? If not, would Anemone be lost, locked away, to suffer and die?
Mud stirred from the bottom. Fish darted away. Seagren drove herself. Anemone! Water roared in her ears. Or was it blood?
A dibble, a slap from above.
“Hello, watersteward!”
Seagren had forgotten the boat with its three occupants. She surfaced. A boy near her age had called. He and his parents were among those who had accepted Townmaster’s test.
“Help. We’re being attacked.”
The three sat, fishing poles in their hands.
“They’re trying ruin the experiment.”
No response.
“You agreed with Townmaster.”
“So? What does Townmaster say?”
“He’s away.”
“Away? Ah, yes. Naming ceremony.”
Seagren tried to discern what was happening at the plots. Too far away.
“He’ll be back soon.”
“It’ll be too late,” Seagren said. “They interrupted the experiment. Captured a watersteward. Insulted the village lord’s wife. Strangers.”
“Strangers?”
“From another province.”
“Another province!”
Poles clattered into the boat, oars stabbed, and three landstewards sent the craft over the ripples. Swaying in unison, they pulled, gaining speed until they flew like a bird. Seagren raced after them.
They were out of the boat and sprinting by the time it ran aground, their son racing away from the action, toward the village.
Seagren padded overland after the couple. They met the three strangers with Redroot, Oceania, and Old Coral. Anemone lay, enshrouded by bodies. Overwhelmed by their anger, Seagren dove into the water and floated as close as possible.
“Strangers!” one fisher cried. “Stay your hand, immediately!”
“They’re my kin,” Redroot said.
“Out-provincers.”
“Who follow proper traditions.”
“Redroot,” Old Coral pleaded, “stop them.”
Oceania was almost weeping. “Free Anemone.”
Seagren caught a glimpse between legs of the girl on her knees, but legs moved as landstewards yelled and began shoving, two against four.
“Out-provincers, mind your own business.”
Jeers, threats, more shoves. Anemone became a whimpering object in a tug of war, in danger of being disjointed.
Old Coral lobbed a rock that bounced unheeded off the shoulders of an in-law. He tried again with the same effect.
“Stop,” Oceania said, also ignored.
The landstewards vacillated between logic, insults, shoving, and repeating themselves. Redroot’s visitors could have overcome the fisher couple, but they preferred to argue and tug a yelping Anemone back and forth.
The quarrel continued past the time of watering, threatening to consume the morning.
Seagren leaped onto the mud plot and snatched buckets.
Oceania met her. “Seagren, hide. They’ll kill you.”
Seagren lowered one pail into the water.
“What are you doing?”
“Landstewards fear water.”
Oceania frowned.
Seagren lowered the other pail.
“Yes!” Oceania grabbed her buckets and quickly filled them.
Armed, they approached the group. Seagren began quaking and could not continue. Old Coral saw.
“Take her place,” Oceania said.
Old Coral took over for Seagren.
Seagren slipped into the water, the landstewards too intent on arguing to notice what was happening.
Oceania’s mouth a firm line, she and Old Coral swung both buckets, catching the landstewards about the head and shoulders.
Howling and swatting, they shied back, forgetting Anemone.
“Anemone!” Seagren cried.
The girl shot into the water into Seagren’s embrace.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I got to show you.”
“What was that?” came the cries. “What’re you doing?”
“Behave,” Oceania shouted, “or you’ll get another drenching.”
Already Old Coral was filling his buckets, and Oceania ran to do the same.
“Wait,” someone said, “where’s That-Other-Kind?”
Anemone and Seagren were just crawling onto their plot.
“Look, Seagren.” Anemone pointed.
Seagren looked down by her foot.
“There!” a visitor cried. Squirming against grabbing fishers, Redroot and her kin danced toward Oceania and Old Coral, who stood, filled buckets menacing, between them and the children.
The bulky landstewards paused.
“Get back,” Oceania said. She glanced at the sun. Morning was nearly gone. “Leave us to finish our work.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Seagren said, from where she and Anemone knelt.
“Now!” Redroot feinted.
Old Coral and Oceania slung water, finding one grunting target, but two strangers dove past and set upon Seagren and Anemone.
They dragged the two youngsters back across the mud, only to stumble over them before the kicking attack of the fishers.
Six pairs of legs flailed. Oceania and Old Coral hurried to refill buckets.
“No, you don’t.” Redroot’s kinswoman knocked the altered ones aside and booted the buckets into the reservoir.
Seagren glimpsed this as she curled to protect herself from flying feet.
Someone screamed. Was it Anemone?
The scuffling stopped. Defeated fishers backed off to rub their bruises. Old Coral and Oceania watched, huffing, as four landstewards pulled Anemone and Seagren up.
“We’re taking them.”
Anemone drooped, eyes closed. Seagren wanted to tell her they might yet escape, but Seagren was too weak. Surrounded, shoved and hauled up from every stumble, the two moved, surrounded by captors. Morning had fled. Perhaps the last morning they would see. Oceania’s weeping met their ears. Dust rose, choking, hot, above tramping boots. Anemone coughed. Seagren coughed. At least the others were safe. They could escape to the ocean. A shame though. For the land would not be healed. The rift between the races would not be closed.
Anemone fell. A hand yanked her up, and she hung, limp as a string. The man shook her.
“Playing coy,” Redroot said. “Slap some sense into her.”
“What is this?” someone roared.
The landstewards shied back from Seagren and Anemone, as if from fire.
“Townmaster!” Oceania ran up and knelt to embrace Seagren and Anemone. She looked at her returning husband. “Redroot’s kin from another province were stealing these two.”
“To take them to a prop—another village lord.” Redroot’s toughness was suddenly unconvincing.
“Proper or not, I am lord here. And these are my charge. If you are to be guests, act like guests. Otherwise, depart quickly.”
With Townmaster stood the fisher youngster, along with the woman who had escaped Townmaster during the evening she had helped water the lord’s property.
“Greetings, Waterspout,” Oceania said. Then to Townmaster, “We didn’t get to finish before they attacked us.”
“We don’t have to finish,” Anemone said.
“Of course we do.”
&n
bsp; “Anemone’s right.” Waterspout looked apologetic. “I should have told you, Oceania. You waste your time watering with buckets. I know because I tried it at home. My husband let me. It didn’t work. Nothing came up.”
“Then how . . . ?” Oceania frowned back at the forest.
“Let’s go.” Townmaster motioned gently.
Everyone returned to the plots and examined mud gouged with footprints and cut with gullies.
Seagren and Anemone ran to their test patch. “Look.”
The company approached and the two youngsters backed off.
“Well, there’s dirt,” the fisher youth said. “Not eroded. Settled. You can say that much.”
“Look closer,” Seagren said.
Townmaster and a few others stooped. Once the eye adjusted, little points of green could be seen over the entire section. Townmaster broke into a grin, and Seagren touched Anemone’s shoulder.
“I don’t get it.” Redroot patted the green tips.
“Explain, Seagren,” Townmaster said.
Seagren thought for a moment, and the answer became obvious. “Zest.”
“What?”
“Zest. The film we take out of the water and release on the land. Somehow it changes the water so it makes things grow. Water alone won’t do it. That’s why you get only sickly growth along the levees. But Zest is an energy that awakens life. And that is why landstewards need waterstewards.” Seagren caught Townmaster’s soft expression. “We need each other, and that’s how it was before the Great Ancient War.”
The group digested this.
Redroot sat on her heels and eyed Old Coral. “Who’d have thought?”
Seagren felt the tension melting.
The visitors left, evidently satisfied it was a good thing.
When only Oceania, Seagren, Anemone, and Townmaster remained, Seagren said, “I think the altered ones could water the land, just like we do.”
Oceania darted her a look. “Impossible.”
“I went out, one night, to swim, and I saw you.”
“I was hiding. Because I had buckets, that’s all.” She raised a hand, palm out, to stop Seagren from saying more, but Seagren would not be stopped.
“You were silvery.”
Oceania hunched her shoulders, shook her head.
“Oceania, is this true?” Townmaster asked. “Because if it is, think. Think how much faster the land could be healed. Our children are so few. If the altered ones can water the land with . . . Zest . . .”
“No more experiments.” Oceania turned away, and Townmaster caught her arm. “I can’t do it,” she said. “I’m afraid of water. All altered ones are. Please, don’t ask the impossible.”
