CHAPTER ONE Cropfodder A Pumpkyn may remayne Wholesome the Winter through. Gut the Fruit, then cut in Pieces and String it. Twill drie lyke Apples. A Frugall Compendium of Home Arts and Farme Chores by Capability C. Craft (1680), as Amended and Annotated by the Island Council of Names (17181809) When medford thought about it later, that day in Hunters Moon was a good example of Before. Before Transition. Before the Goatman. Before life changed forever. Before, before, before. He and Prudence Carpenter were on the beach, watching the Farmers gather seaweed for winter mulch. Grover Gardener, Councilor for Physick, was there, too, hands red with sea slime. So was anyone whose kitchen garden needed mulching, which was almost everybody. That mornings sky, the departing birds, and Emery Farmers bones had announced that seaweed gathering soon would be a chore rather than a pleasure. Youd gather the seaweed anyway, of course, pleasure or no. Seaweed was Useful and that was that. The Book even named specific types: Cropfodder, the kind most people were after today; Windbegone, which Grover gave to patients who had digestive troubles; Bone-mend, which he dried for chewing when youd broken your leg. Medford and Prudy were ignoring seaweed. It was still Before, and they were being Useless. Run, run when young, the Book said. Later in the day, settle and stay. Time enough to be Useful after Transition. They were knee-deep in sea-foam, bare feet numb, clothes salt-spattered. Waves hissed in over the sand, then sighed back out again. The sun-drenched air was warm but sharp. The winter winds had come early this year, whipping up the waves. Two weeks from now the sea would be stone gray and the monthly Mainland Trade would be over until spring. Boats would hunker down on shore and people would eat salted Common Fish. Medford stood still and let the retreating water slip over and around his frozen feet. It ate away the sand at his heels until he teetered and almost fell over. Fifty feet out, a Nameless brown bird made a clumsy splash landing in the water while a Nameless gray bird swooped over its head, laughing. Medford flailed his skinny arms to keep his balance, laughing himself, his scraggly brown hair wild in the breeze. Skinny and lanky and practically Nameless, he had a lot in common with that brown bird. Seabirds had no names, regardless of color. No Use, no Name, the Book said. And names were what mattered here, thirty-five chilly miles east of Mainland. Mainland maps called the place Fools Haven. But the people who lived on it called it Island. Island was ten miles long, north to south, and seven miles wide, west to east. Its principal town, on the western shore closest to Mainland, was called Town. The town hall was called Town Hall and said so on a plaque over the door. Town Hall was on the main street, which was called Main Street. Islanders liked names that said exactly what a thingor a personwas or did, and nothing Excerpted from The Unnameables by Ellen Booraem All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
