Cape Grace

by Nathan Lowell

  Small stickers beside each knife displayed the price. The fancier knives with more blades cost more. The bottom row of knives, those with small blades and blocky grips, cost the least. The first one on the bottom row caught her attention and she leaned over to stare at it. The larger blade looked to be only a few centimeters long. Maybe the size of her pinky finger. The smaller, narrower blade only half as big. The black handle grips gleamed in the display’s lighting. She could run a lanyard through the small hole on one end. The price showed as six credits.

  She straightened up with a sigh and a grunt. “Where am I going to get six credits?” She glanced around, aware that she’d said it aloud, and bit her lips together. It might as well have been a hundred. She pressed a fingertip to the glass beside the small knife as if to mark it as her own in some way. From the corner of her eyes, she saw her father turn toward her, a small package in his hand.

  A pang of guilt shot through her and she walked toward him, not wanting to be caught looking at the knives. No matter how many times she asked, he steadfastly refused to let her carve. He would only let her use his knife for tiny periods to shave a stick for kindling. Just long enough for her to feel the wood and blade together, to give her the tiniest scratch to the growing itch in her hands.

  Six credits.

  She pressed her hands to her sides to keep her fingers from clenching in anticipation.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cape Grace: August 9, 2341

  SARAH PICKED HER WAY along the shore towards town. The receding tide left a swath of stinking mud baking in the afternoon sun with just the hint of sand along the upper edges of the rocks. A piece of green glass caught between the rocks reflected the sun. She scooched down and plucked it from its nest. The sea and sand had polished the sharp edges off but it hadn’t been in the water long enough to round off all the sides. Still, it counted toward the total. She plopped it into her pail.

  She straightened up and continued on her quest. Old Lady McIntyre paid by the kilo for the sea glass, but it took a lot of pieces to fill the bucket. She’d picked the long sandy beach clean already. While storms and tides brought the promise of more, she’d not been able to get to the town side of the cottage yet. Glancing at the meager pile of glass in the bottom of her pail, she sighed.

  A rock twisted under her, and one foot slid into a mucky swale. She pulled her leg up, nearly losing the shoe in the sucking mud. It released a cloud of stink that stuck to the back of her nose and down her throat. Clamping her mouth shut and holding her breath against the smell, she scuttled up the slope toward the sandy verge. Sand stuck to the mud as she got back onto solid ground and she looked around for a grassy spot to wipe some of the gunk off.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  She looked up the embankment and saw a couple of kids standing on the path—a boy and girl she recognized from school. She couldn’t remember their names. Brother and sister. She remembered that much. “Nothin’.”

  The kids looked at each other for a moment and then back at her. “What’s in the pail?” the boy asked.

  Sarah bit her lip and shrugged. “Nothin’. Bits of glass.”

  The girl nodded. “You’re the shaman’s kid, right?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Ain’t ya supposed to be collecting driftwood and stuff?” she asked.

  Sarah nodded again. “Yeah. Shells and driftwood.”

  “Then why you in here pickin’ up seaglass?” the boy asked.

  Sarah shrugged. She didn’t want to admit she needed it for Old Lady McIntyre. They might decide to collect it, too, and she would never get enough to buy her own knife.

  The girl scowled at her and pulled her brother by the arm. “Come on, Neil. We got better things to do.”

  Neil and Patty. She remembered their names.

  “Like what?” Neil asked.

  “Like getting some ice cream at the chandlery,” Patty said, jingling some credit chips in her pocket. “Ma said.”

  He shrugged and gave Sarah another long look. “Good luck with the glass.”

  “Thanks,” she said, looking around at the rocks and sand. Her shoe would dry and the muck would flake off. Eventually.

  After a moment, she clambered up to the path and looked toward town. There wasn’t much left of the tide flat. One of the processing plants blocked the way. Patty and Neil had wandered off toward the chandlery and she looked into her pail. She had enough to cover the bottom with a couple of centimeters of shining glass. It wasn’t enough to take to sell yet. She sighed and glanced up at the sun. Tide had already changed. She felt parched. Her mouth felt gummy. The afternoon sun seemed to draw the water out of her.

  With another sigh, she turned her steps back toward the cottage but hadn’t gone more than a few paces when the shouting started.

  Looking back toward town, she saw Patty and Neil yelling at a grinning Bobby Tatum. Bobby held something up out of their reach while they hollered something. The echoes and the distance garbled the words but it looked serious. Bobby put a hand on Neil and gave him a shove backwards. Neil fell on his butt and Bobby laughed even more. Patty stomped on Bobby’s foot and reached for whatever it was he held.

  Bobby stopped laughing and shoved Patty back. She grabbed his arm and pulled, toppling both of them onto the ground beside Neil. He got up, his face red and his fists clenched just about the time Mercer Roman came around the corner from the direction of the chandlery.

  “Hey, now,” Mercer yelled. “What’s going on here?”

  Bobby dropped his arms and unclenched his fists, turning to Mercer and shaking his head. He said something but Sarah couldn’t hear it.

  Mercer glanced in Sarah’s direction before helping Neil and Patty up from the ground.

  Sarah turned away and headed home. Her heart pounded in her chest, her face felt tight, and her breath came in pants like she’d been running—or fighting. She glanced back at them. Mercer stood with Bobby on one side, Patty and Neil on the other. Patty and Neil looked pretty mad but Bobby had a grin on his face. Mercer kept looking back and forth between them, shaking his head.

  She picked up her pace toward home. Whatever happened, she didn’t need to be mixed up in it. Eventually her heart calmed down and she was able to get a full breath again. She shook her pail so the glass rattled against the sides. The anger still felt like a cloud behind her but she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She didn’t like the feeling of not knowing what to do. Of being helpless.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cape Grace: November 10, 2343

  OTTO STARED THROUGH the frost-rimed panes at the headland that guarded the beach. Sleet and wind-driven spume obscured all but the nearest side. The sturdy stone cottage held up against the wind that rattled the windows, keeping them snuggly warm inside.

  “Not a good day to walk the beach?” Sarah asked, looking out over his shoulder.

  “You can go if you like.”

  She grinned at him. “Looks like a good day to stay in and carve.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Don’t you have something you should be studying?”

  She grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him. “I finished the basic maths courses already.”

  “Planetary sciences, then?” Otto asked.

  She laughed. “As if. I’m thinking maybe cooking next. I’d have to go to the center for labs, but seems like a girl shouldn’t depend on her father for meals.”

  “What? You don’t like my cooking?” He put on a pained expression and clutched his chest.

  She laughed again. “You’re a wonderful cook, Papa.”

  “But I’m no chef.”

  “You’re no chef.”

  “All I ask is you study something. Preferably something you can make a decent living at.”

  “You hoping to get rid of me?”

  “No, daughter. I’m hoping you’ll take care of me in my old age.”

  “So. Carving?” she asked.

  “Tea first,” Otto sai
d. “Maybe a batch of cookies.”

  “Do we have what we need to bake cookies?” she asked.

  Otto shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Then why’d you suggest it?”

  He grinned at her dismay. “Just to see what you’d say.”

  She giggled and went to fill the kettle while he looked back out at the storm.

  “If it keeps blowing like this, the picking should be good tomorrow,” he said.

  “If it’s as cold as this tomorrow, I’m staying inside,” Sarah said. “You can go freeze your butt off, but there’s no way I’m going out into that.”

  Sarah filled an infuser with loose tea and set the pot aside to wait for the boiling water. She rummaged in the cupboards but closed them without pulling anything down.

  “What are you looking for?” Otto asked.

  She grinned. “Just checking to see if we had stuff to make cookies.”

  “Do we?”

  She shook her head as the kettle came up to boil. “Scones, maybe.” She poured the water onto the tea and set it aside.

  “Scones?” Otto said. “That sounds rather good.”

  “I said ‘maybe,’ Father. This isn’t the time to be experimenting with food.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if we waste it, getting a shipment from the chandlery in this glop would be difficult.” She handed him a hot mug of tea and poured one for herself. “Now, are you ready to do some carving?”

  Otto gave a little shrug and beckoned her with a nod. “Let’s go see what’s in the shop.” He took another look out at the icy winds driving past the cottage. “And be glad we don’t have to go outside to get to it.”

  He led the way to the other end of the house and the small workshop. Not much more than an overgrown closet, the room was redolent with the aromas of carved wood and rubbing oil. A small stove for the coldest weather huddled on one side and a built-in workbench filled the wall opposite the door.

  He opened a drawer on the lower left rank. He pulled out a pocketknife and handed it to her. “Your Grampa Krugg got this for you before you were born. I’ve kept it for you. Maybe it’s time you learned how to use it.”

  She took it from him with both hands as if it were some sacred relic, something fragile she might break.

  He found he had a lump in his throat that made it difficult to speak. He tried to clear it, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’ll do for now. Who knows? I’m still using the knife I got from your great-grandfather Krugg when I was your age. Don’t see any reason to change.”

  “Before I was born?” she asked.

  Otto nodded. “He was almost as excited as my mother when we told them you were on the way.”

  “You make it sound like you ordered me from a catalog,” she said, staring at the knife and blinking her eyes rapidly. She held the knife in her open palms. The oiled wooden side grips gleamed in the overhead lights. She unfolded the solid blade, locking it open with a quiet snick. She swallowed a couple of times. “Wow.”

  He pulled out a stone and spent a few minutes showing her how to maintain the knife’s edge. “It’s good steel. Should hold an edge for a long while. If you take care of it, that’s a knife that could last your lifetime.”

  “What should I carve?”

  “Grab a stick from the wood box there and see how the steel and wood go together.” While she picked over the wood box, he pulled a piece of driftwood from one of the many formula cans that still filled the shelves in the tiny workshop. He found a streamlined abo-abo hiding in the grain. He settled into his chair to rough out the piece while Sarah made the first scraping cuts on her scrap of wood.

  Outside, the wind still whistled through the eaves. Every once in a while, the rattle of sleet blasted the tiny window. Inside, the shavings and cuts fell off their blades and onto the floor with tiny scratchings barely audible over the noise of the storm. He glanced at Sarah working the wood and knife as if she’d been born to it. A short, silent laugh fluttered his chest. He’d have gladly starved for a week to have that level of skill at fourteen stanyers.

  He’d been holding her off for months. Years even. She’d wanted to carve even before she had strength enough in her fingers to hold the knife. She’d watched him carve so many times he’d lost count. She felt right in his shop, like she belonged there.

  As he roughed out the abo-abo, he pondered why he’d held off so long. Why he’d kept the knife hidden away.

  He remembered the day his father had given it to him to pass along. He and Carla had gone to Callum’s Cove to tell them in person. After dinner, Richard had taken Otto out to the shop and pulled the knife out of a drawer in his bench, much as Otto had just done.

  “Picked that up when you and Carla got married,” he’d said. “You got your grandfather’s knife. Only right that the next Krugg shaman have mine.” He’d handed the presentation box to Otto with a grin.

  The box still lay hidden in the drawer with its inscription carved into the lid.

  To my grandson.

  Otto wondered what his father would say when he found out.

  * * *

  She picked a smallish stick from the wood box, but the scrap held as much life as any stone. Her fingers wrapped around the body of the knife and tested the grip. It felt like the bones in her hand flowed into their rightful places. She let her father guide her through the first shaving cuts again. She bit her lower lip and kept her head down so her expression wouldn’t give her away.

  The knife’s edge felt smooth and shaved even flakes off the stick as she pushed it along the grain. She could feel the blade cutting with each long, quiet scrape of metal against wood.

  They worked side by side for several long minutes, the storm outside wrapping them in a cocoon of sounds—wind whistling around the edges of the cottage, the occasional staccato stutter of sleet.

  “Good,” Otto said. “Keep the cuts shallow. You can always take more off but you can’t put it back on.”

  She grinned at his predictable comments. How many times had he said that over the stanyers? A hundred? A thousand?

  “You’re a natural,” he said.

  “I come by it honestly.” She smiled up at her father and noticed the bright gleam in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. Thank your grandfather when you see him again.”

  She turned to her work and controlled her impatience. She had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him that the blade in her hand was her second knife, that she had a blade of her own tucked into the bottom of her gather bag. Her long walks on the beach gave her ample time to practice back among the dunes, away from the view from the headlands.

  She tucked her guilty secret away, pleased that—at least, now—she could carve openly. She could share the gift in the cozy, smoke-scented room. Her inlay work still needed improvement. Perhaps now, he’d show her how to make it all come together.

  She had to admit it. The knife fit her hand better and felt much more solid than the cheap Barlow she’d traded five kilos of sea glass for. Being the daughter of the shaman meant she didn’t have the opportunities that the other kids had for earning a few credits. No fish cutting for her. No deckhand work. The handline had given her access to the sea and her regular patrols turned up interesting objects now and again, but Old Lady McIntire paid for sea glass by the kilo. It took most of her twelfth stanyer to collect enough glass to be able to buy her own knife. Even then she hadn’t been sure Mercer Roman would sell her one from the case at the chandlery, but he did and she’d been practicing ever since.

  She focused on pulling the blade across the stick, smelling the spicy aroma of fresh cut wood as the shavings rolled off the blade and onto the floor. Tomorrow she’d start carving in earnest. For the moment, she’d bide her time and get used to the heft of the new blade and the feel of it against the wood.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cape Grace: February 12, 2344

  SARAH SAT BESIDE THE stove and turned t
he bit of driftwood over and over in her fingers. Her brow furrowed and relaxed, then furrowed and relaxed.

  “Something wrong?” Otto asked without looking up from the fox that was emerging under his knife. His blade made a quiet skritch, skritch sound in the nearly silent workshop.

  “Not really.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not really.” She gave him a shy glance before refocusing on the wood.

  He chuckled, but didn’t push.

  After a few moments she said, “I don’t want to get married.”

  Otto lowered the work to his lap and looked over at her. “Where’d that come from?”

  Sarah kept her gaze on the piece of wood. “I don’t know. Just something I was thinkin’ about.”

  “You were thinkin’ about not getting married?”

  A small grin teased the corners of her mouth. “I was thinkin’ about having to leave St. Cloud.”

  “If you married a fisherman, you could stay, you mean.”

  “Wouldn’t have to be a fisherman. Just somebody who worked for the company.”

  Otto nodded once. “True.”

  Sarah looked at him then. “But I don’t wanna get married just so I can stay here.”

  “A reasonable attitude,” he said. “You’ll be fifteen in a couple of months. You’ve got time.”

  Sarah sighed and looked back down at the stick. “Where do people go when they have to leave?”

  “I suppose it’s up to them.”

  “Do you know anybody who’s left the planet?” she asked.

  “Sure. Lotsa people have moved on. Kids grow up and don’t want to work for the company. Sometimes the company fires somebody.”

  “You know where they are now?” she asked.

  “Well, your great-grandmother is on the orbital.”

  “No, I mean women who’ve been kicked off.” She turned her head to face him, and the look in her eyes slew him.

  “No,” he said, almost choking on the word. He swallowed. “I don’t know any women who’ve been kicked off at all. Just people, mostly men—boys mostly—who didn’t work for the company.”