Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

  Three days later, Meredith rode the Third House's omnibus from Narrows School to the mainland.

  The school was old-fashioned enough to retain a horse-drawn 'bus, which the local gunners appreciated, since the quiet clop of horses' hooves did not disturb the waterfowl. The greater noise came from within the 'bus: thirty boys and young men, of both the second and third ranks, shouting at the top of their lungs as they exchanged cheerful insults over which of them would be likely to waste their holiday time the most.

  Meredith – sitting at the end of one of the facing benches, next to the back door – ignored the other students. Pembroke had accepted the offer of a ride from Rudd, whose father had sent a chauffeured car down to the school to pick up his young heir. Meredith was therefore under no obligation to speak with anyone in the 'bus. It was easier to think of it that way than to acknowledge to himself that no one in the Third House was interested in speaking to him.

  The one possible exception to this rule, Davenham, was currently sitting at the front of the bus, laughing as he successfully resisted a fellow second-ranker's insistence that he slip an eel down the collar of the 'bus's servant-driver. Other students had brought out their lunch-boxes as well, rather than save the food for the long trips north and east to their homes. Meredith, the only student here who belonged to the House of Mollusc, had not bothered to accept one of the lunch-boxes packed by the school servants. Instead, he looked through the back window-pane at the passing scenery.

  Hoopersville was the sole village in the middle island of the three-island chain of Hoopers Island – the middle island being where Narrows School was located. The village was no more than a cluster of watermen's houses around a harbor. The harbor was thronged with workboats, none of them owing direct allegiance to the High Master of the Third Landstead, for Rudd's father refused to own any of the tonger boats, preferring to devote his energy to running the landstead's various packing houses. The third-ranked captains and servant crews of the tonger boats were therefore left as independent as any low-ranked men could expect to be in the upper landsteads; there were even cases where servant tongers had been granted permission to pool their savings to buy two-men skiffs to tong from. It was said that the servants in the Third Landstead held greater freedom than any other servants in the upper landstead. The man who proudly boasted this was the landstead's High Master.

  Meredith tried not to think how matters would change when the landstead's ailing High Master died and young Rudd rose to power. Instead, he let his eye linger on the landscape at the up-Bay end of the middle island. Houses built on foundation blocks in anticipation of flood-waters threw shadows across their lawns, like old men standing on crutches. Other houses were widows, their porches veiled by dark netting to keep out summer mosquitos. A trot-line lay in loops over the porch bannister of one house, awaiting next summer's crabbing season. In several yards, pig carcasses hung from tree branches; the annual hog slaughter had occurred that day, after the first frost of the season. Nearly every house had a few pigs and chickens and a vegetable garden, but not many farms were left; most of the island's men had been attracted by the lure of the water, and by the good prices paid for the winter oysters.

  The 'bus reached Narrows Ferry Bridge, where a ferry had once transported the Narrows School students from the middle island to the island that was up-Bay of it. The sound of laughter diminished in the 'bus as the students looked out the windows and saw what was coming.

  The autumn winds which had been nudging the 'bus since it left the school were pushing waves up toward the one-lane wooden bridge that spanned the waters between the middle and upper islands. Meredith saw Davenham bite his lip and lean forward to say something to the driver. The driver's response must have been reassuring, for Davenham leaned back in his seat and smiled at Oates, who was sitting beside him.

  Meredith – who had more experience with the Bay's power than any of the other students present – remained tense as the 'bus approached the bridge. What worried him was not the water crashing against the bridge; what worried him was that, the moment the horses set hoof on the bridge, the 'bus would reach beyond the screen of the middle island's marsh grass and trees.

  Sure enough, the first slam of the northwest wind upon the 'bus nearly tipped the vehicle over. Several of the apprentice-aged boys screeched before the journeyman-aged students – and the boys' liege-masters, where available – settled them down with stern looks and words. Then the students were silent as the horses struggled their way across the bridge. The driver whistled between his teeth in such a fearless fashion that Meredith guessed he was a former waterman, and that he considered this small show of the Bay's strength to be pathetic in comparison to storms he had endured in the past.

  Finally the omnibus reached the end of the bridge. The students in the 'bus gave a collective sigh, other than a few first-formers who were staring open-mouthed at the coming causeway.

  The causeway – a narrow neck of land that jutted down from the upper island – was scarcely wider than the bridge they had just traversed, and the land was closer to the water. Waves were rushing over the causeway. The horses, clearly struggling now to retain their strength against the drag of the wind and the water, heaved their way along the road. No railing existed to prevent the 'bus from being swept into the Bay. Jeffries, who couldn't swim, moaned and pressed his face against the shoulder of his liege-master. His liege-master ignored him; he had opened the back window and was throwing bread crumbs out at the passing gulls.

  They reached Smoke Point, where the causeway broadened momentarily before narrowing again. Looking through the back window, Meredith caught a glimpse of a swiftly passing boat whose mast was higher than the dome on the school chapel. Frowning, he scrambled past two other students to look out the Bayside window of the 'bus.

  He was in time to catch sight of the skipjack's name on the bow's trail-board before the boat passed by. Then the other students pushed him back with rude remarks about how he stank like a servant. Meredith returned to his seat, his concern evaporating like winter mist. Freedom For All was no pirate boat from the Second Landstead, arriving in bold daylight to dredge in the Third Landstead's water. Rather, it was the boat of the pirate king himself: Comrade Benjamin Carruthers, whose brother-in-law was High Master of the Second Landstead and whose son was heir to that High Master. M Carruthers's father had evidently decided to travel to the High Masters' quarterly meeting in the manner most likely to irritate the Third Landstead's High Master, sailing through the Third Landstead's waters on a dredgers' skipjack.

  The 'bus had nearly reached the end of the causeway now. Standing on the edge of the road ahead, ragged in their servants' clothes, were two small boys and a small girl, all fishing from the Bay. The 'bus's driver, not bothering to pause, rang the omnibus's bell.

  The two boys quickly stepped off the road. The girl, hampered by her skirt from rapid movement, tripped and fell into the Bay. Meredith, half rising from his seat, heard her scream as she fell; he also heard cries of anguish from the two boys.

  There was laughter from some of the students nearby who had seen the girl fall into the water. Meredith, still half-risen, balled his hands into fists as he tried to decide what to do. He was unofficially ranked as a master; he had the power to order the servant-driver to stop and help with the rescue of the girl from the autumn-cold Bay. But there were other masters here, some higher in rank than him, and none of them seemed to consider the episode as anything other than an occasion for humor.

  Feeling fear and shame buffet him like the wind, Meredith looked out the back window. The water next to that point of the causeway must have been shallow, for the boys were helping the girl climb back on land. She was drenched and dripping; one of the boys stripped off his overcoat to place it over the girl, and the other boy swiftly followed suit.

  It would be far easier for the children to travel back to their home by a warm 'bus than by foot. Flushed with self-reproach, Meredith sank back into his seat, his
heart throbbing.

  The road began to curve after that, following the line of the land. They passed a girls' school, run under the supervision of the High Mastresses; it was located near the mouth of the upper island's Back Creek.

  Someone opened the creekside window, and the smells of the creek's wharves drifted in: oysters and mud and musty clothes. Nearby, a brogan unloaded its barrels of oysters while one of its crewmen swept the deck. Another crewmen tended his oyster tongs, which looked like rakes scissored together, except that they were three times as tall as a man, designed to scoop up oysters from deep in the water. A third crewmen sang a ballad from the early days of the Commoners' Guild, while his boat-master considerately turned a deaf ear to the forbidden song.

  Meredith gathered his belongings together as the 'bus passed beyond Back Creek. After crossing a drawbridge further ahead, the 'bus would reach the mainland, where most of the students would disembark to take awaiting, buggy-topped motorcars to their destinations. Beyond that point, the 'bus would make its way to Golden Hill, where the manor of the House of Mollusc was located. The 'bus would wait at Golden Hill until the holidays were over, in case Master Rudd or his liegeman wished to return by 'bus. If Meredith travelled that far, there was a good chance he would see his liege-master.

  But Pembroke had not invited Meredith to spend the holidays with him.

  Grabbing his rucksack filled with schoolbooks, Meredith made his way to the front and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "I'd like to be let off here, please," he announced.

  The driver raised his eyebrows – probably more at the politeness of Meredith's wording than at the request – but obediently brought the omnibus to a standstill, causing a bit of cursing from the driver of a hay wagon, who was trying to pull onto the drawbridge. The cursing abruptly stopped as Meredith stepped off the 'bus, his school blazer showing clearly his masterhood.

  Meredith quickly shrugged on his overcoat, which was completely black and safely anonymous. With his clothes covered and his unmarked wrists hidden by mittens, he looked no different from the young watermen servants standing near the bridge, shouting rude remarks at passing boats.

  The day was clear but cold; Meredith drew up his collar and looked around, seeking a familiar face. None was to be found. Only a few houses clustered nearby; most of the inhabitants of the upper island lived further down the road, in the village of Fishing Creek. The only bustle here was on the road, and on the narrow channel between the upper island and the mainland.

  The wooden drawbridge was up, and it stayed up. As Meredith watched, a wide-beamed flattie sailed slowly east through the crooked channel, its lookout carefully noting the placement of the stakes and lights that kept mariners away from the shoals. Other boats followed in its wake: a skiff, a black-nancy, a doryboat . . .

  Meredith watched the procession with puzzlement. The name-boards revealed that the boats came from nearby islands: Tilghman, Taylor, Elliott, Deal, Bloodsworth . . . Then he remembered: tomorrow was the Slaves' Autumn Festival, an ancient festival that had not changed its name upon the emancipation of the servants. Festival time meant that the minstrel showboat was due to arrive at Back Creek.

  The first year after Meredith began his studies at Narrow School, he had gone with his father to attend a performance of the minstrels. Meredith had been appalled by minstrels' depiction of shambling, foolish servants who attended wise masters and mastresses.

  Meredith's father had roared with laughter at the performance. Afterwards, tentatively, Meredith had asked his father what humor he found in such caricatures.

  His father had smiled. "Tomorrow's performance," he had said, "will be different."

  It had taken Meredith some time to puzzle out the meaning of this statement. Then he had realized that, while the first night of the minstrels' performance was reserved for masters and mastresses, the second night was reserved for servants. Servants from Hoopers and nearby islands would flock to the performance.

  Did the minstrels – who were all servants themselves – serve up caricatures of the masters and mastresses during their performance for the servants? Meredith had never dared ask. He was keenly aware that, since he had been given the provisional rank of a master, he was barred from the private world of the servants – barred from sharing their secrets, from speaking with easy familiarity to them.

  Now, looking round at the waterman servants who were standing nearby, Meredith decided that he must go elsewhere for the answer to his current question. Tugging down his House cap against the wind, he set forth on the road to the village of Fishing Creek.

  o—o—o

  The walk was a pleasant one, to start with. After he had passed a few houses, he reached a stretch of road that was bound on both sides by loblolly pines, their alligator-scale bark bare of all branches and needles until the trees touched the sky. Meredith noticed that fewer trees stood near the road than on his last visit; the money that could come from chopping and selling the trees was a perpetual temptation to the islanders.

  And now he had reached the point on the road where the trees gave way to picket fences and lawns, reclaimed from the marshland that had formerly existed there. Muddy ditches along the side of the road showed that the marshes weren't so easily eradicated. Neither were their inhabitants.

  Meredith's steps slowed. The last time he had walked this path – at the beginning of the autumn term, when he had travelled from the upper-island drawbridge to his school on the middle island – every footstep he had taken had caused the ditches to become one shaking mass of life. Hundreds of tiny fiddler crabs, shielding their faces modestly with their great claws, had scuttled sidewise to escape into their holes in the mud, frightened away by the appearance of the young man. Some of the crabs would bury themselves in the muddy bed of the ditch, with only their eye stalks poking out to watch Meredith as he passed.

  "Servant crabs," the islanders called them, because the fiddler crabs always retreated upon the entrance of their betters.

  Now the tide was up in the salt marsh; the mud was completely covered in water, and no crabs could be seen. Most likely the frost would keep them in their holes till springtime. Meredith was tempted to linger to see whether any of the servant crabs appeared if he were very quiet, but the peace along the road was broken by a servant-boy, whistling as he sauntered down the road, and chewing on the white sweetness inside a black needlerush. He gave Meredith a curious look and began to open his mouth; then he caught sight of Meredith's House cap and closed his mouth quickly. He lowered his eyes.

  Meredith waited until the boy was past; then he stuffed the cap into his overcoat pocket and continued on.

  Old women – the mothers and grandmothers of watermen – sat rocking on the porches of gingerbread-style houses that Meredith passed, coring apples or placing pears in preserving jars as they prepared for the hard winter. Most of the wharves behind the houses were denuded of boats; oyster season had begun during Autumn Illness week, and only the most lenient of boat-masters would let their men off on a working day this early in the season, even if Autumn Transformation week included the eve of a festival.

  Meredith passed the upper island's chapel. The choir inside was practicing its hymns for the next day. Several women and children lingered on the porch, listening to the music. Hoopers Island was a pious place; every member of the island knew that the watermen's lives might be cut off at any moment by a bad storm or an unmarked shoal. Death and rebirth were not just distant prospects for these families; death was a constant companion, and each birth was greeted with joy at the return of one who had died. Only the prevailing faith of the servants on the island – they were Traditionalists to a man, unlike their High Master – prevented the islanders from speculating about which baby resembled which recently died man.

  The road split. Feeling uncomfortable at the curious gazes of the women on the porches, Meredith turned off the main road onto the shortcut. Within seconds, he was surrounded by marshland.

  Black needlerush gave
way to cordgrass, towering high. The sound of the choir-singing faded behind him. The loudest sound now was the crack of rifles and the energetic barking of Bay retrievers from over near Gunners Cove, where some of the gunners were taking aim at the first ducks of the season to make their way down from the north. In a few weeks, the island would be raucous with the noise of migrating ducks and of rifles bringing down as many waterfowl as possible, but now the gunfire came only intermittently. In between the shots, Meredith could hear the soft sounds of the marsh: a bubbling in the nearby water from some hidden creature, the tap of a woodpecker in the nearby pines, the snap of wings from a snowy egret that startled skyward at Meredith's approach, the limping flutter of a dying dragonfly, and the whine of mosquitoes. The island mosquitoes were so ferociously determined to find victims – even in the early oyster season – that they were joked to be reborn dredgers.

  Meredith's footsteps crunched along the pulverized oyster shells that made up the road. Unending rows of logs kept the shells from sinking down into the soft mud of the marsh. Though his feet escaped the mud, the recent rain had turned the shell-paving soggy; his boots were soon covered with the white flecks of oyster-paving.

  This didn't bother him. Unlike the other students, he had not worn his best clothes for his journey; he had possessed enough foresight to switch into his footer boots, which were designed for such wear and tear as a walk across the island could provide. Footer boots were based on the design of watermen's boots, but Meredith had always possessed enough sense not to mention this to any of his schoolfellows. Now, as the marshland disappeared in favor of lawns, he absentmindedly brushed away a migrating monarch butterfly that had mistaken his bright red scarf for a flower. His thoughts were not on his clothes but on Back Creek.

  The creek was crowded with sounds: the steady strike of the blacksmith's hammer as he made tongs for the watermen, the shouts of the local sail-maker to his young assistant, and the rasp of a saw as a boat was built at the creek's marine railway. The harbor was thronged with boats unloading their catch, though Meredith thought it was not his imagination that fewer boats seemed to be there each tri-year, and smaller ones. The great tonging boats of yesteryear had given way, in many cases, to small skiffs that could be sailed by one or two men. Some of the servants publicly welcomed this opportunity to sail on their own, without a boat-master to watch over them; others watched the trend glumly, either because they recognized that the smaller boats represented the smaller number of oysters available, or because they feared that the Dozen Landsteads would take the same course as its southern neighbors, divorcing servants from their masters.

  But there were still so many boats in the creek as to dazzle the eye. Some of them were runners, busy unloading the final crabs of the season to one of the packing houses. And so Hoopers Island hummed with activity, as it always did, except on the two high sacred days of the year: the Slaves' Autumn Festival and the Masters' Spring Festival. Tomorrow, all boating would cease throughout the Dozen Landsteads; now, on the eve of the festival, the watermen on the runners were practically flinging the crabs onto the wharves in their eagerness to get them unloaded in time.

  But here too Meredith could see no familiar face.

  That left only one place for him to look. He turned his head and saw, as he had expected he would see, the Elsie Pembroke, tied up at the wharf behind Master Simmons's store.

  o—o—o

  Meredith lingered on the road for a moment, leaning back against the picket fence across the street from the store, and staring at the boat like a journeyman in love. Captain Pembroke being the sort of boat-master who saw no reason to make changes where none were necessary, he still mastered a log canoe, a type of boat that had evolved from the dugout canoes built by the native Ammippians, before the Ammippians were driven south by the first Landsteader settlers.

  Meredith's father had waxed eloquent about the advantages of a log canoe over other workboats: he had explained how smooth the interior was, allowing the watermen to easily scoop up the oysters. Captain Pembroke's boat was a three-log canoe: just three logs shaped and fitted together to make a thirty-foot boat. The Elsie Pembroke – named after Captain Pembroke's wife – was painted with the tri-colors of the Dozen Landsteads' seal: red for death, yellow for transformation, and green for rebirth. Transformation was colored blue on the seal, but watermen had developed the notion that, if you did not actually paint your boat blue, you would be safe from undergoing the cycle of death/transformation/rebirth in the foreseeable future.

  Now the boat's three triangular sales were furled, but the rising wind was causing the boat to bob on the water. A young man leaned over, inspecting the bottom of the boat, and for a heart-stopping moment, Meredith thought it was Master Pembroke, come to visit his father's boat. But then the young man straightened up, and Meredith realized that it was eighteen-year-old Hallie, the youngest member of the crew that sailed the Elsie Pembroke, other than the apprentice-aged culling boys.

  Captain Pembroke himself – a grizzled, middle-aged boat-master whose gruff exterior belied his deep generosity – was nowhere in sight. Meredith walked across the street and then hesitated, leaning his cheek against the sign that marked the entrance to the yard:

  Master Simmons

  Dry Goods, Notions, Hats, Masters', Servants', and Children's Shoes

  Hardware, Chinaware, Woodenware, Groceries, Salt Meats and General Merchandise

  If we haven't it, we will get it for you

  And then, in smaller letters:

  Undertaking for all ranks

  A peal of laughter broke into Meredith's revery. In the front yard of the store stood Master Simmons, his brother, and several young relatives. The older masters were surrounded by crates that were being packed by the boys, but evidently not fast enough for Master Simmons's liking, for in mock anger, he and his brother had raised one of the boys and was holding him in a threatening manner over a half-constructed coffin. The boy – an apprentice who was a year or two younger than Meredith – squealed with delight.

  Taking advantage of the moment to avoid detection, Meredith cautiously made his way around the side of the store, past the well, to the wharf at the back. His Golden Hill home being so far from his workplace, Captain Pembroke rented a bedroom from Master Simmons on workdays and docked his boat at the shopkeeper's wharf. Now his boat and Master Simmons's were the only vessels at the store's wharf, though other workboats sailed past on the waters beyond.

  Hallie had disappeared inside the store, leaving the Elsie Pembroke tugging at its lines against the churning waves, its brightly painted body outlined against the passing boats and the dark strip of land over the water: Barren Island.

  The wind had risen yet more in the last few minutes; cold spray bit against Meredith's neck. Yet he stayed where he was, staring at the boat, whose deck was flecked white with a few remaining oyster shells. He envisioned himself stepping onto the boat, taking his post, following orders to unfurl one of the sails . . .

  He shook his head, turning away from the boat. He knew nothing about sailing. Young Master Pembroke had chosen his own path in life. He was not training for the Oyster Navy, like his second-eldest brother; nor would he master his own boat, as his eldest brother did. Unlike his older brothers, Pembroke had no desire to follow the water in these years when the Bay's catches were slowly declining. Meredith's destiny, whatever it might be, did not lie in the same direction as his father's.

  But that had been true all along, even before he vowed his allegiance to Pembroke.

  Now Meredith made his way to the waterside porch of the store, which was more often frequented than the roadside porch, for it was from the water that most of Master Simmons's customers arrived. Meredith found a notice tacked upon the door of the wood-planked store: "Closed for the festival eve and day. No sales till after the holidays." And then, in smaller letters, "Come on in and get yourselves warm." The letters were green, for the sake of any watermen who did not read, green being the symbol for "
go." Meredith pushed the door open a small space and slid inside.

  None of the men there noticed him. They were all sitting on the knife-scarred bench that surrounded the stove in the middle of the room. The bench was in the shape of a ring of rebirth, except for a gap to allow folks to enter into the middle area. Directly opposite the gap, the only man who could have seen Meredith easily, Sol, was in the midst of spitting into the flames of the open stove. The other servants were busy passing round a mug – most likely filled with coffee rather than alcohol, for they were all Traditionalists. Meredith quickly closed the door and slid into the shadows.

  All the lamps were doused; the only light in the room came from the stove. Meredith slipped quietly over to the post office near the door. There was no sign of the post-mastress – Master Simmons's formidable wife, who always managed to bully Meredith into spending his precious pocket-money on stamps – and the barred window to the office was shuttered. Meredith unbuttoned his overcoat so that he could pull from his vest pocket the key he kept there. Then he opened the lock on the cubbyhole that was labelled "M. James Hooper." The cubbyhole was empty.

  Behind him, Theo asked, "What're you doing with yourself during our spell of rest, Sol?"

  "Restoring my tired bones," Sol replied, leaning back and resting his hands on his flat belly.

  Meredith stepped softly round the edges of the room, sensing his path, not by sight, but by the smells of what he passed: shoe polish and neat's foot oil, rotting potatoes and sharp onions, tonics and cloth starch, cheese and sardines, linseed oil and tar, kerosene and mast grease, wintergreen candy— At that point, he nearly stumbled over Master Simmons's young apprentice. Meredith supposed the apprentice was meant to be keeping watch over the goods, but the boy had taken the opportunity to curl up asleep on the floor, with a piece of candy in his hand, and his head resting on a half-full bag of corn meal.

  Billy shook his head in response to Sol's remark. "Seems like, every year, we work twice as hard and get half the pay."

  "That ain't the master's fault." Hallie, ever quick to defend Captain Pembroke, spoke fiercely.

  Billy smiled sadly at him. "Honey boy, I ain't speaking no words 'gainst our boat-master. Just telling the truth. Things ain't like they was back in the eighties."

  Theo laughed. "You claiming to be a rebirth of your great-granddaddy, Billy? That's nigh on thirty tri-years ago."

  "No, it ain't." Hallie counted on his fingers. "That's eighty tri-years ago. Eight tri-decades ago. Two hundred and forty sun-circuits—"

  Billy snorted. "Hallie, you can keep your counting to tallying bushels. I know this year is 1962 Fallow. Don't make no difference. Might as well be the 1910s, far as boating's concerned. When you think the High Masters' council's going to let us have power boats, Theo?"

  Theo shook his head. "Council's too busy giving its young masters toys like footer balls. Machinery needed by the watermen ain't important to them. Forget 'bout power boats – I want those mechanical tongs that someone patented just before the 1912 Embargo Act was passed. No more sore backs and aching arms from tonging by hand."

  A new crewman, whom Meredith didn't recognize, shook his head. "And we'd have our certificates of employment taken 'way right quick, 'cause the boat-master would need fewer of us. You trying to get us fired?"

  "Power boats is more important," insisted Billy to Theo. "Think of all the right calm days when we could be tonging oysters."

  "The master of the House of His Master's Kindness wants power boats too," pointed out Sol. "And power dredging to go with it." In the silence that followed, he raised his voice, saying, "Lad, you're as quiet and dark as a dredger boat come night. Didn't hear nor see you till now."

  Meredith stepped forward from where he had been fingering a muskrat trap that hung for sale from the ceiling. "I didn't mean to disturb your conversation, sir."

  "You ain't disturbing nothing that don't deserve disturbing. You looking to find your daddy?"

  "Yes, sir. My father said that he would meet me at the foot of the drawbridge, but he isn't there, and his skiff isn't docked at Back Creek. I thought you might have seen him recently."

  "'Deed I did – seen him at his workplace just this morning, and he gave me this note for you. He figured you'd be coming by here." Sol reached down and pulled a piece of paper out of his rubber boot – probably the driest place he had for storing paper. He offered the note to Meredith, without rising.

  Meredith cautiously came forward. As he reached out his hand to take the note, his overcoat spread open to reveal his blazer. The new crewman, who had just taken hold of the mug, choked on the coffee. The crewman hastily rose to his feet.

  None of the other servants followed suit. With the exception of Sol, the servants were looking at the fish-hooks, the stuffed eagle on the wall, the turpentine, the tins of chewing tobacco, the corsets . . . anything but the young master standing in their midst.

  Meredith tried to ignore his churning stomach, instead concentrating his attention on unfolding and reading the message. It was written in his father's uneven hand and erratic spelling: "Substute keeper sik. Yu come. Yur father, Master James Hooper."

  His father had almost written "Yur daddy," but had scribbled out the servant-style word in time. Meredith looked up. Everybody was still staring at the store's merchandise, other than the new crewman – who was gazing with horror at his fellow servants – and Sol, who was watching Meredith.

  "Thank you, sir," said Meredith to Sol. "Will you be going back to see my father any time soon?"

  Sol shook his head. "Not till Spring Death. You needing a ride out? Believe Master Simmons is sending out goods to your daddy today."

  "Thank you for that information, sir. I'll ask him whether I can ride along in his boat, then." He hesitated, seeking an excuse to linger longer, but most of the crewmen were beginning to shuffle their feet, and the new crewman looked as though he was about to expire from terror. "Goodbye," Meredith said, looking around at the crew, trying to make the farewell general.

  Sol was the only one who bothered to reply to him. "You keep warm and safe, lad, and you give your daddy my respects, hear?"

  "Yes, sir, I'll be glad to," replied Meredith eagerly, relieved to carry out a duty. "May I do anything else for you?"

  In the next moment, he would gladly have thrown himself in front of the rifles of the Second Landstead's dredgers. Billy and Theo exchanged looks, while Hallie simply rolled his eyes.

  Sol, far more patient than the others, said, "Thanks, lad, but there ain't no need. You'd best be getting on your way."

  Meredith, taking the hint, backed away from the warm circle of fellowship. He opened the store's door, which was nearly wrenched from his hand; a moderate gale wind had blown up while he was inside. He swiftly closed the door, then leaned on it to make sure it had shut properly. As he did so, he heard the new crewman say, "Sol, have you gone mad as a 'Mippian in battle, speaking like that to a master? He's making fun at you, certain, calling you 'sir.'"

  Sol said something in a voice too low for Meredith to hear.

  "Him?" The new crewman sounded incredulous. "He don't look nothing like his daddy."

  "Don't speak like him, neither," said Billy. "But he's the one, all right – Jim's son."

  "You mean, Master Hooper's son." Theo's voice was bitter.

  Billy made a sound like spitting. "Mean what I say. Jim was born a servant. He's still a servant, whatever he may think."

  "It's him getting that new religion that messed up his head," suggested Hallie, who had barely been born at the time that the episode happened. "Him and all them Reformed Traditionalists—"

  "Ain't a matter of Traditionalists 'gainst Reformed Traditionalists," Billy insisted. "Even if a man can go in one lifetime from being servant to being master, Jim ain't that man."

  There was a murmur of agreement, and Theo asked, "Why d'you suppose he asked to be raised in rank? He was doing right smart in our crew."

  "Why d'you think?" shot back Billy. "W
ay I figure it, he wanted a crew of his own."

  "If that was his reason, he's well punished," interjected Hallie. "Ain't a crew in this fleet that'll sail under him."

  "Neither would any boat-master take him as journeyman, back in the days when he was that young. Well, he's burned his own corpse-ashes." Theo sounded satisfied.

  "The lad's who I feel sorry for," said Billy. "Being brought up figuring he's a master, when it's plain to see that he's just like his daddy."

  "That's enough talk," said Sol gruffly. "You boys shouldn't be speaking 'gainst your betters."

  "Our betters?" said Billy incredulously.

  "Servant Sol, you keep your tongue to yourself," said Theo. "You ain't my master."

  "But Jim is his best pal." Hallie sounded hesitant. "We shouldn't be talking like that 'gainst Sol's pal."

  "He ain't my pal." There was no mistaking the bitterness in Sol's voice. "He's ranked as a master now; masters can't have servants as pals. But he was my pal once, and he followed the water along with us, over many a year, so there ain't no call for talk 'gainst him. He's catched his fair share of oysters and crabs and fish; it's his right to do what his faith and his conscience tells him."

  There was an acknowledging murmur that sounded like it was more of dissent than of agreement. Sol, reading his fellow crewmen's mood, said, "Ain't worth talking 'bout what we can't change. You hear that wind out there? Sounds like the nor'west blow has arrived. Oh my blessed, I sure am glad the master let us take the day off."

  That remark brought loud calls of agreement, and Theo began talking about what the annual autumn storm had been like in his great-granddaddy's day.

  Meredith, turning away from the door, almost tripped over the watermen's tongs, leaning against the wall by the door. One of the tongs still had an oyster shell stuck within its tines. Absent-mindedly, Meredith took off his mittens, pried the shell off the tine, and nearly threw it in the great pile of shells near the porch. Master Simmons bought shells from the oyster packing houses and then resold them to companies that used the shells for road paving or fertilizer or chicken grit.

  Then, on a whim, Meredith curled his hand round the shell. Letting his rucksack lie sheltered against the leeward side of an empty barrel, he shoved the shell and his mittens into his overcoat pockets and stepped off the porch.

  The wind was hard as a culler's hammer now. The water had nearly emptied; most of the boat-masters, seeing the signs of the coming storm, had retreated to harbors and coves. Meredith, who had endured worse winds than this over the years, walked slowly toward the store's wharf, his thoughts on matters other than the weather.

  It had never occurred to him to call Sol anything other than "sir." Whatever Sol's perspective might be on Servant Jim's transformation into Master James Hooper, Meredith knew that Sol was the closest thing his father had left to a friend. And so, since Meredith called his father "sir," he had also called his father's friend "sir." His father had never forbidden him from doing so, and Sol had not seemed disturbed by Meredith's manner of address.

  But Meredith had not seen Sol in over three seasons, he recalled now. Perhaps the rules for proper address had changed, now that Meredith was beyond his apprentice years. Perhaps it would be safer to address Sol as "Servant Solomon." That would still be respectful, wouldn't it? Or would it overemphasize Sol's rank in relation to the young master who spoke to him?

  Meredith sighed. The person he should be addressing such questions to, he was fully aware, was his liege-master. But Pembroke would treat any such question as a sign of weakness in him. Meredith supposed he would have to ask his own father instead – yet he was growing overly old for seeking answers from his father. Most of his fellow students treated their confirmation ceremony as a time when they broke away from the care of their parents. As journeymen, they still could not own property or run a House or business in their own right. But they were old enough to work under their liege-master, to study at university, and – with their liege-master's permission – to marry. They were even old enough to father children.

  Meredith reached the shore. Master Simmons had cleared out all the Bay grass from the shoreline, so the shoreline was bare except for mud and the usual assortment of shells. Meredith fingered the shell in his pocket as he stared out at the churning waves, his eyes blinking against the harsh wind. He had wished, many a time, that he had never been fathered, or at least had been fathered after the revocation of the Act of Celadon and Brun. If that had happened, then his life's path would be clear. As it was . . .

  The oyster shell was cutting into his tightened fingers now. He stared out at the water, where the crew of a lone shallop was struggling to reach shore. In a sudden and uncharacteristic fury, he took the oyster from his pocket and prepared to hurl it into the waves.

  "That's right. Give it back to the babes."

  He whirled around, shaken, the oyster still clenched in his hand. Sitting on the end of the wharf, nearly hidden by the bobbing stern of the log canoe, was an old man. He was seated on an upended crate, with a rugged cane in his hand, and he wore a watermen's cap. His white eyebrows bristled fiercely as he said, "Them fools in thar is talkin' 'bout them drudgers."

  His accent was so servant-thick that it took Meredith a moment to realize what he was saying. Then he responded with automatic politeness, "No, sir. The watermen inside the store are talking about the weather."

  The old waterman shook his head. "No, sir. No, sirree. Them tongers is talkin' 'bout the drudgers. Them tongers is blamin' the drudgers 'cause the arsters is all gone from the Bay. Yes, sir, that's what they's talkin' 'bout. You see if I'm wrong, young slave."

  For a moment, Meredith stood very still and silent. Then he said, "The oysters aren't all gone from the Bay, sir."

  "Yes, they is," the old waterman said firmly. "All gone, none left. No arster boats neither. They's all gone 'way, 'cause them tongers didn't give the arsters back to the babes."

  Meredith looked down at the shell in his hand. It held no trace of whatever oyster had once inhabited it. "The babes?" he said.

  "Out thar." The old waterman waved his hand expansively, indicating the stretch of water in front of them and the Bay beyond. "Waitin' for their old shells. Can't be reborn till they's given the bodies of the dead, y'see. Got to be given the dead so they can be transformed and live."

  "Like burying corpses, you mean?" Meredith asked cautiously. He dimly remembered hearing the chaplain give a sermon on this at his confirmation: about how, in ancient times, before the Reformed Traditionalists popularized the practice of burning corpses into ashes, the corpses of men were always buried and transformed by the earth into elements that would be used to create food for the living, just as men's souls could only be reborn if they died first.

  The old waterman nodded vigorously. "You understand. You understand, High Master."

  "I'm not—"

  "You understand," the old waterman repeated firmly. "You see. You see that the babes need their old bodies. They need the bodies back, if they's to grow up."

  Meredith stared again at the shell. Then he drew back his hand and threw the shell into the waves – not with fury this time, but with the careful calculation of a boy skipping shells upon the water.

  The shell skipped once, twice, thrice over the rough waves before it fell in. The old waterman cackled. "That's it. That's one more babe reborn. You tell them tongers – yeah, boy, and the drudgers too. You tell them all, young servant. You tell them," he said as Meredith turned breathlessly toward him. "You tell them when they place ya under the ground."

  o—o—o

  Meredith paused on the porch of the store, wondering what in the name of all that was sacred he was doing. Did he really mean to lecture a group of experienced watermen on the need to throw their empty shells back into the Bay? Just because he'd been given that mission by a crazy old man who called him slave and High Master and servant, and who thought Meredith could give lectures after his corpse had been buried in the earth?

&
nbsp; He looked back toward the wharf, but the old waterman was nowhere to be seen now. Biting his lip, Meredith made his way over to the shuttered window and peered through one of the gaps in the wood. If Sol was alone now, perhaps Meredith could ask him what the old waterman had meant. Most likely the old waterman had been making reference to some simple maritime matter that Sol could explain.

  But all of the Elsie Pembroke's older servants were still there, sitting in the warmth of the fire and fellowship, though the complaints about the weather had given way to more important complaints.

  Sol, his feet propped up on a short barrel of lard, was saying, ". . . not like it was when I was a young boy. Why, there must have been a thousand sail on the Bay back then. Time was when you could cross the whole of Back Creek just by walking across the decks of the runners crowding in to unload their oysters. Now there's fewer and fewer boats each year, tonging the rocks—"

  "Ain't no rocks left to tong," inserted Billy sourly, turning to spit into the stove fire. "Them fucking dredgers from the Second 'Stead have stripped the rocks clean. You know them rocks off Smoke Point? I've been tonging them all my life, and my daddy tonged them, and my granddaddy and great-granddaddy. We'd keep the big oysters and throw back in the little ones, so's they could grow up to the next sun-circuit. And we'd leave behind plenty of big ones too – you can't pull everything up with a pair of tongs. Well, the master sent me out there in his yawl last week to sound out how the rocks are doing this season, and you know what I found? Them dredgers slipped in this season and licked the rocks clean. Didn't leave a single oyster there. Won't be any oysters there next autumn, that's for sure."

  There was a dark growl of anger, and the crewman whom Meredith had never met before shook his head slowly. "Dredgers just don't think. Sure, they'll get a fat profit from their dredging this sun-circuit, and the next, and the next. But what then? They'll dredge the Third 'Stead clean soon, and then what'll they do?"

  "They'll go up-Bay, with their thieving ways, and begin stripping other 'steads," Sol replied flatly. "Why do you think they're on our side of the Bay anyway, Zeb? They licked clean all the rocks in their own 'stead. They just don't care whether they destroy all the oysters in this Bay. Guess they figure they'll be dead by then."

  "It's our lives they're killing." Zeb thumped a molasses barrel with his fist. "And I ain't just talking 'bout dead bodies. My old boat-master, he said it weren't worth his while to go out boating in the cold months no more. He'll still go crabbing in the summer, but come autumn, he lets us all go, tells us to find other boat-masters to serve. He can afford to take time off from waterman work, being a third-ranker and all – his liege-master will give him other work to do. But if you boys hadn't persuaded your boat-master to take me on, my little kids would've been crying for their supper by now."

  "Maybe we should all up and quit," reflected Billy, staring down at his hands, which were twisted and gnarled. "Ain't the best life for a servant. Working from dawn to dusk, sleeping on the boats for days on end, wind and water cutting our hands to bits as we lift tongs so heavy that they draw a man closer to his rebirth with every heft . . ."

  "Don't know 'bout you boys, but I'd die if you took me off the water," Sol said quietly. "I was born to be a waterman, just as surely as I was born to be a servant. And it was a good life – hard but good – before the wars began with them dredgers."

  Theo, stretching his arms wide, stood up to scoop soup from an iron pot on the stovetop. From the smell, Meredith guessed it was oyster stew, well seasoned. "Not all the dredgers," said Theo. "Got to admit that. Some of them dredgers, they keep to their side of the Bay just fine. It's Carruthers and his pirates that are stirring up the fuss."

  "Comrade Carruthers." Billy spoke the words bitterly, like they were poison. "He's no comrade of mine, that's for sure. I'd just as soon shoot the man as spit in his face."

  "No chance of neither." Theo shook his head as he settled back down onto the bench. "I swear, those arms they got must be smuggled in from foreign parts. They've got twice the range as we do with our rifles."

  "Maybe we should go to war," suggested Hallie. "The whole 'stead, I mean, not just the watermen."

  Billy snorted. "With Master Forde named as our minister of war? He'd sleep through the war. He's so old, he takes naps in the afternoon."

  "We'll be getting new blood soon, like as not, if what I'm hearing from the House of Mollusc servants is true," suggested Theo. "You think young Master Rudd might name a new minister of war when he comes to power? Or even declare war himself?"

  There were noncommittal shrugs around the room. Sol said, "War won't fix nothing. The Second 'Stead's High Master needs to bring Carruthers to heel, that's all. No point in us fighting the Second 'Stead if Carruthers just goes and does whatever he wants anyways."

  "Them fucking rifles," Theo said gloomily. "I'd shoot Carruthers myself, if I could. But he never comes out on the boats himself – just sends other men to do his dirty work."

  "Hey," said Zeb, leaning forward. "He's nearer than that."

  Sol frowned. "What d'you mean?"

  Zeb looked round, and Meredith automatically froze in place. Then Zeb leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Hit him where it hurts. His boy's at school, right here on the island. If we get rid of his heir, Carruthers'll be too busy mourning to send out his boats."

  "Don't see how that follows," said Billy, but there was an uncertain note to his voice that caused Meredith, without thinking, to step over and slam the door open.

  All the men jumped, as though they'd been caught by the Oyster Navy with a full haul of one-inch oysters. Meredith was careful to look only at Sol, whose thunderous expression suggested that he'd been ready to carve up Zeb with a shucking knife for his suggestion.

  "I'm sorry to bother you again, sir," said Meredith, "but I was wondering – did my father say anything about my new rifle?"

  "Your rifle?" Sol glanced at Zeb, who had turned pale.

  "Yes, sir, he said that I could have a new rifle this term. All of the third-rankers at my school are required to have rifles now, whether or not we're serving as backs. We're supposed to be ready to defend the school in case of attack." He took a step back. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I'll ask my father about my rifle when I see him."

  He turned and nearly walked into a waterman who had just entered and was shaking his wet cap. Seeing Meredith's blazer, he bowed his head and remained respectfully silent until the door was closed.

  Meredith, standing behind the closed door, heard Zeb ask plaintively, "You figure he was listening?"

  "'Course he was listening, you fool," said Theo. "You really think you could get away with murdering a master? The first-ranked heir to a 'stead? Sweet blood, you're lucky Jim's son only threatened you. Our master would've flogged you bloody if he'd heard what you was planning."

  "Masters always stick together," Sol said in a kindly voice. "Best not to forget that, Zeb. Don't matter whether the masters is fighting each other for oysters. If a servant kills a master from a rival 'stead, he'll pay for it in blood, and his own master will take the blood from him, with relish. Hey, Wilbur." He turned his attention to the newcomer.

  "Hey, Sol." Meredith, now standing by the window, saw the newcomer squeeze his cap in an uneasy manner. "Boys, I don't rightly know how to say this. Seems like a rotten thing to do, to drag you away from this nice fire, but . . . Well, you know we lost Amos in that fight with the dredgers last week, and now Purnell and Hansel and our culling boys are all down with influenza from the drenching we got when we was trying to catch up with them dredgers – and wouldn't you know, but Calvin chose this day to break his ankle. Tripped over a decoy on his porch, the young fool. That leaves just the boat-master and me."

  "Should be enough," said Theo. "You tong, and your master sails. You cull when you can. Your boat-master not going to leave you time for that?"

  "Oh, he'll leave me time, and he ain't too proud to help with the culling neither. And his e
xtra boat is one of those little sharpies, so one-man sailing is a breeze. Thing is, though, the High Master has sent down word to our boat-master by way of the fleet master that he wants to take along three days' worth of oyster bushels to the High Masters' council. And he needs the oysters by tomorrow, so . . ."

  There was a groan of sympathy from the men. Sol, still sitting back with his feet on the barrel, said in an unperturbed manner, "Why, honey, the boys and me was just saying here that we're bored out of our skulls with nothing to do. You take a man away from the water, and he wastes away. Ain't that right, boys?"

  The other servants had already begun to rise to their feet. "We're happy to help, Wilbur," said Billy. "We know you'd do the same for us."

  "You're good men, all of you," said the newcomer, gratitude clear in his voice. "My boat-master, he says he'll pay you twice the going rate for this favor. He already cleared it with your master, but Captain Pembroke said he wouldn't make a dog try to gather that many bushels in one day. Said it was up to you whether to try."

  "Seems to me," said Theo, reaching for his oilskin overcoat, "that we'd all be better off if we just woke up one day and found the masters all missing. Not that I have anything 'gainst your boat-master or mine, but life surely would go smoother."

  Sol, now risen to his feet and fully clothed in his overcoat and hat, slapped Theo on his back. "Boy, you may just get your wish."

  "What do you mean, Sol?" called out Hallie.

  "I mean, at the rate these masters are making fools of themselves, I expect them all to be born into their next lives as servants." Sol grinned, and the watermen left the store amidst shouts of laughter, not noticing Meredith, who was standing quietly in the shadows once more.