Scarecrow

His name was Doran Vale, and he had the kind of face that didn’t do anything unexpected.

This is not an insult. I have known enough men whose faces did unexpected things — men who smiled at the wrong moment or went flat when warmth was called for — that I have come to regard a steady face as a gift. Doran Vale’s face did exactly what you would expect at every moment, which is to say it did exactly what it meant. He was surprised when something surprised him. He found things funny when they were funny. He stood at the forge door on Hyrran in the late morning and said he was sorry to interrupt and his face said he was actually sorry, which is rarer than you’d think.

Ash said, “Then don’t,” and went back to what she was doing.

He waited in the doorway for a moment and then said he’d come from the Standing post at the ridge with a cracked blade that needed looking at before the week’s end, and that the duty roster had sent him here, and he was very aware he’d come at a bad time.

Ash looked up from the anvil. “They all come at a bad time,” she said. “Put it on the bench and wait outside.”

He put it on the bench and waited outside. When she came out twenty minutes later with the blade he’d told her which fault she’d find — the left edge, shallow crack running upward from the guard — and she’d found it exactly there, and she stood with the blade in both hands for a moment in a way she doesn’t usually do, because someone who knew the shape of their own fault before she told them is someone who had been paying attention.

“You saw this,” she said.

“Three days ago. Caught it on a stone wrong. I’ve been worried about it since.”

She looked at him over the blade. He was tall, in Standing colours — dark grey, the shoulder-band that means middle rank — with a good stillness to him, the kind you get from people who have been in the field long enough to know that most noise is wasted.

“You know your kit,” Ash said.

“Odra says the same thing to everyone she sends up. I know what she means now.”

Ash looked up sharply. “Odra sent you.”

“The duty roster sent me. Odra may have mentioned this was the forge to come to.” He had a dry corner to his voice that she heard and filed away. “She said — I’m quoting this exactly — ‘don’t be an idiot about it.’”

Ash stood with the blade a moment longer. Then she said, “I’ll have it done by the afternoon. Come back at three.”

He came back at three. The blade was done and she’d found a second fault he hadn’t known about, hairline, in the flat, and addressed that too, and when she handed it back he looked at the blade, then looked at her.

“How much do I owe you?”

“It goes on the Standing’s account. Odra’s arrangement.”

“All right,” he said. Then: “Thank you.”

He meant it. Ash noticed that he meant it. She handed the blade over and said to come back if the grip loosened, which sometimes happened after a repair like that, and he said he would, and went.

That was the first time.

He came back a week later with a different problem — not the blade, something to do with a hinge mechanism on the standard kit that the smiths on-post hadn’t been able to sort, and Odra had told him to try up the hill. He waited in the doorway again. This time Ash said “Come in and hold this,” and he came in and held what she handed him, an iron bar above the heat, with the two-handed grip she showed him and not any other way, and kept it steady while she worked.

He didn’t talk. This was what she noticed. Men who come to a forge and are told to hold something either fill the silence with questions or they don’t, and Doran Vale didn’t. He held the bar and watched what she was doing with the same steady attention he’d given the blade, the kind of watching that means learning rather than impatience.

After a while he said, “The angle of the heat — is that deliberate?”

“Everything I do is deliberate,” Ash said.

He accepted that. “What does the angle buy you?”

She told him. She didn’t usually explain unless someone asked properly, and he had asked properly — not why are you doing that but what does it buy you, which is a craftsman’s question. So she told him, and then she told him the next thing without being asked, because it followed on, and they went on like that through the repair: him asking properly, her answering, the two of them working without ceremony.

When it was done he looked at the hinge mechanism and said, “That’s the best piece of work I’ve seen on this kit. Can I bring the second one?”

“Is the second one broken?”

“No.”

“Then bring it when it is,” Ash said, and he nodded without argument and went.

That was the second time.

The third time he came to Hyrran it was on a free day — his, not hers. There was nothing to fix that she knew of. He walked up the hill path from the ridge in the early afternoon and knocked at the outer post and said there were three cords of timber at the edge of the property that someone had left for splitting, and that he had the afternoon.

Ash looked at him in the doorway for a moment.

“Do you want something in return,” she said.

“No.”

“Then split the timber,” she said, and went back inside.

She could hear him from the forge — the rhythm of it, steady, the same tempo for two hours without a break, without asking where the maul was or where the split wood should go. He figured out the second thing for himself and arranged the cords in the lean-to along the back wall, which was where she would have wanted them. She hadn’t told him where she would have wanted them.

At some point in the middle of the afternoon she brought out water and left it on the post-stump without saying anything. He took a break and drank and looked at the valley below the ridge, which is a good view — Ister laid out in the late-summer green, the water catching the light at the near bend — and said, “This is a good post.”

“Odra chose it,” Ash said.

“And you.”

She looked at him. He was looking at the valley still, the cup in both hands, easy in the afternoon.

“And me,” she agreed.

He finished the timber before the light changed and stacked the last of it and came to find her at the forge door. His shirt was salt-grey with sweat and his face had the particular satisfied tiredness of a person who has done a simple thing thoroughly. He said, “That’s the lot of it,” and she looked past him at the lean-to and saw the neat parallel stacks and said nothing, which was, for Ash, a form of approval.

He went back down the hill. She stood in the forge door and watched him go.

I want to be clear about what Ash told me and what I am inferring, because I owe her that at least. She told me about the forge visits. She told me about the third one, which was not about kit — which was, in fact, Doran Vale coming to the ridge on his day off and asking if there was anything that needed doing, and Ash telling him there were three cords of timber that wanted splitting, and him rolling up his sleeves and splitting them without another word, and Ash watching him from the door with something she described as mild surprise and I, personally, described as the beginning of interest, though not to her.

She said: “He’s useful.”

I said: “That’s what Mother used to say about Father.”

She said: “Don’t.”

I didn’t. But I noted it.

The forge work went on through the end of that month and into the next. He came to the Standing post on the ridge on his duty weeks and to Hyrran on the others, and somewhere in the middle of this Odra stopped pretending she hadn’t noticed and started asking him pointed questions about where he was from and what he’d done before the Standing, which is Odra for I am evaluating you and you should answer well.

He was from the low fields of Mael, he said. The Standing had recruited him six years ago off a fishing boat, which Odra found improbable until he explained that the boat had been caught up in a Refined engagement at the Mael Reach and that he’d done something useful with a kit-blade and a rope and three other men and a great deal of cold water, and that Okafor had been watching from a ridge with binoculars and had offered him a place on the spot.

“He took it,” Odra said, when she told me this.

“Obviously,” I said.

“I told him: good.” She looked at me over her anvil with her old, specific, measuring expression. “He’s not an idiot, General. He knows what it means — she barely ages, he will, all of that. I asked him directly.”

I hadn’t known she’d done this. “You asked him.”

“She won’t. So I did.” Odra set down her hammer. “He said he knew. He said he’d known since the second visit. He said —” She looked at the fire for a moment. “He said: ‘I’m not looking at the ends of things. I’m looking at what’s in front of me. And what’s in front of me is worth looking at.’”

There was a silence.

“All right,” I said.

“I thought so too,” said Odra.

The question of whether Ash had told anyone else about Doran Vale was answered for us at a family supper on the last evening of that month, when Ash was not present — she was on Hyrran, running a commission — and Sera was.

Sera knows things. This is not a power, it is not anything she learned; it is simply that Sera has lived a very long time and has loved a great number of people and has become, over the course of this, extraordinarily difficult to surprise. She arrived at supper with Liam, sat down at the left end of the long table, served herself the braised root with the particular efficiency of someone who is about to get to the point, and said:

“Has anyone spoken to Ash lately.”

It was not a question the way she said it.

Hana looked up from across the table. Luna was pouring the water and stopped mid-pour. Mother, at the far end, did not stop serving, but the angle of her head changed in the way that means she is listening to everything.

“She came by on her last day off,” Dory said. “We talked.”

“About.”

“Things at the forge. Odra. The commission.” Dory paused. “And about someone called Doran.”

The table was quiet for a moment. Then Sera put down her spoon and said: “Good,” with the particular weight she puts on words when she is relieved about something she has been waiting for.

Hana said, “Who is Doran,” in a tone that meant she already half-knew but wanted it said aloud.

Dory told them what she knew, which was: tall, Standing, Mael, six years on the ridge, something with a blade and a rope in cold water. She left out the parts about Odra’s conversation, which weren’t hers to say. She told them what Ash had said — that he was useful, that he listened, that he held things steady — and the table received this information in the particular family way of absorbing something important while appearing to eat normally.

Maura said, “Useful.”

Dory said, “That’s what she said.”

Sera and Maura looked at each other across the table. The look contained approximately forty years of combined matrimonial experience and the entire history of young people on this island who had described someone as useful and meant something else entirely.

“She’ll figure it out,” said Luna, who had resumed pouring.

“She’s already figured it out,” said Sera. “She just hasn’t said so yet. Which is fine. It’s how she does things.”

Mother had not spoken. She was at the end of the table looking at her plate with the mild, unhurried attention she brings to meals that are going to involve news. When everyone had finished saying what they’d said, she looked up.

“He knows,” she said. Not a question.

Dory said, “Odra asked him.”

Mother nodded, once, and went back to her plate. That was all she needed. She has been on this island long enough to know that the complicated conversations don’t need commentary from her. The not-complicated ones are another matter, but this was not one of those.

The blind date scheme did not start with the scheme. It started with Efua.

Efua, who had been at the supper, had eaten twice what anyone else ate, had refilled her own water glass four times without asking, had laughed extremely loudly at something Sigmund said at the far end of the table, and had not, even once, mentioned that she had an opinion about any of this. This was not because she lacked opinions. This was because Efua saving an opinion is like a river saving a stone — eventually the pressure of the water makes itself felt regardless.

Three days after the supper, Hana came to me in the morning room and said that Efua had been unusually quiet.

I said, “Define unusually.”

“She only startled two birds off the gate yesterday,” Hana said. “Usually it’s four or five.”

This was, within the specific logic of Efua, a significant reduction in output. I told Hana I would see to it, and that afternoon I went to find Efua, who was with Abena at the east edge of the orchard, the two of them sitting with their backs against the old stone wall, Abena reading and Efua throwing a stick for one of the dogs who was not interested in having the stick thrown for it.

“Efua,” I said.

She looked up. She has Hana’s eyes and Kwame Osei’s height and her great-grandmother’s directness, which is a combination that means nothing gets past her and nothing gets past you.

“I don’t want to be set up,” she said, before I’d sat down.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You were going to.”

Abena, without looking up from her book, said, “He absolutely was.”

I sat down against the wall. The dog abandoned the stick entirely and sat on my foot. “Ash met someone,” I said. “Naturally—”

“Naturally everyone wants to match the sister,” said Efua, without heat. It was not bitter, just matter-of-fact. She threw the stick again and the dog looked at it with deep personal indifference. “I’m not—” She stopped. “It’s not that I don’t want. I just don’t want it to be a thing. A project. Everyone looking.”

“I know,” I said.

“You’re here because Mama sent you.”

“I’m here because Mama told me and I wanted to know what you thought.” I looked at the stick, which the dog had still not retrieved. “Nobody wants to make it a thing. But Doran has a friend — a good friend, the way Doran is good, steady and paying attention — who is on the ridge for the summer. His name is Benno Leiss, he’s from Halm, he has a very loud laugh according to Doran, and he is apparently very good at throwing sticks.”

Efua went very still.

Then she said, “How loud.”

Abena finally put down her book.

I said, “Loud enough that the Standing keep him off the quiet posts.”

A small thing happened in Efua’s expression. It was brief and she covered it immediately with a severe look, but I had been watching and I’d seen it.

“Not a thing,” she said. “Not everyone watching.”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“And if it’s terrible, it’s just two people who had a walk and nothing happened.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

She was quiet for a moment. The dog got up off my foot, walked two steps, and then lay back down on Abena’s instead.

“Benno,” Efua said. As if testing the weight of a word.

“He goes by Benno.”

Another silence. Then Efua picked up the stick from where the dog had abandoned it, and threw it very hard over the orchard wall, which was not what sticks were for but was, I thought, a reasonable way of making a decision.

“Fine,” she said. “Once. If it’s terrible, we don’t speak of it.”

Abena, who had not spoken in several minutes, said: “If it’s not terrible?”

Efua looked at her. “Then I’ll decide.”

The arrangement, when it was made, was not elaborate. This was deliberate. Doran had mentioned the idea to Doran’s friend; Doran’s friend — Benno Leiss, twenty-eight, Halm, the second of four children, good at fixing things and very bad at pretending he wasn’t thinking something — had said yes in the flat, emphatic way of someone who has been thinking about asking a question for a while and is relieved someone else asked it first.

What this suggested about Benno Leiss’s awareness of Efua and what it suggested he might have said to Doran in the ridge barracks at some point before the arrangement was made is something I did not ask about and have my own thoughts on.

They met on a Tuesday, at the far end of the Ister dock, where the fishing boats go out and the light is good in the early afternoon and there is always enough going on that two people talking are not remarkable.

Doran and Ash were not there. This had been a condition.

Efua told me afterwards in the way she tells things — in pieces, the important facts arriving without ceremony, the emotions present but compressed — that Benno Leiss had arrived before her, which she approved of, and had been standing at the dock rail looking at the boats with his hands in his pockets and a posture she described as like he was waiting for something good. Not nervous. Just ready.

She had walked up and said, “You must be Benno.”

He had turned around and smiled and said, “And you must be the one who startles birds.”

Efua, who had not expected this, had laughed. The kind of laugh that comes up without asking permission. She said she’d stopped it immediately but that Benno had already seen it and that his face had done something very pleased that she found, in retrospect, entirely acceptable.

They walked the dock for two hours. He had a loud laugh. He used it generously and didn’t apologise for it. He had opinions about fish and ferry routes and the particular quality of Ister light compared to Halm light, and also about Okafor, whom he appeared to regard with the same mix of respect and terror that everyone in the Standing regards Okafor with, which Efua told me she found reassuring.

When they reached the end of the dock he said, “I’d like to come back on Thursday, if that’s all right with you.”

Efua said, “It might be.”

He said, “I’ll be here either way.”

She came home and went directly to find Abena and told her everything in the garden with the door shut, and Abena said good seventeen times and asked four questions and they were there for two hours.

I know this because I was not there, and because Abena told Hana, and because Hana has a face that cannot hold good news for long without the news showing.

Ash came down from Hyrran at the end of the week. She came to supper and sat across from me and I noticed she was quieter than usual, which for Ash means very quiet indeed, the kind of quiet that happens when someone is carrying something and has decided not to put it down yet.

After supper she stayed when the others went, which is her way of saying she wants to talk.

“Odra told me what she said to him,” Ash said. She was looking at the table, her hands flat on the wood, the old habit of feeling for the grain. “The thing about — about knowing.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I should have been angry. It’s not her business.” She looked up. “I wasn’t angry.”

I said nothing.

“He knew,” she said. “He already knew. And he — came back. Came back with kit and questions and timber to split.” She stopped. “That’s not — it’s not—”

“It’s not nothing,” I said.

She looked at me. Her eyes, when she is working something out, go very still — not empty, not distant, just present in a particular focused way, the same way she looks at a blade she is trying to understand.

“The roof,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

She meant the conversation we’d had a long time ago, about not letting anyone close enough to have to think about it. About how you watch someone and they don’t watch back, not in the same direction.

“I remember,” I said.

“I haven’t—” She stopped again. Ash does not struggle for words as a rule; when she stops, it means the word she needs is a true one and she is making sure before she says it. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. The thing I said. About not letting anyone close.” She looked at her hands. “It’s still true. I still think about it. But it’s—”

“A smaller thing?” I said.

She looked at me. Something in her face shifted, very slightly, and settled. “A smaller thing,” she said.

We sat with that for a while. Outside the window the orchard was dark and the first stars were coming through. Somewhere down the hill, faint and intermittent, one of the queens was making a sound that was not quite a hum.

“He wants to meet everyone,” Ash said eventually. “I told him that was complicated.”

“Complicated,” I said, “is one word for it.”

“He said he’d heard we were a lot of people and he hoped that was true.”

I looked at her. She was still looking at the table, but the corner of her mouth had done something.

“He can come to supper,” I said. “When you’re ready. It doesn’t need to be a thing.”

“Efua’s going to be insufferable,” Ash said.

“Efua is going to be delighted and that is going to look identical. Yes.”

Ash almost smiled. It was the particular almost-smile she’s had since she was small, the one that arrives at the top of the cheekbone and doesn’t quite reach the mouth, but is entirely sincere for all that.

“Hyrran first,” she said. “I want him to meet Odra first.”

“Odra has already met him.”

“I mean when he comes as—” She stopped. Tried again. “When it means something.”

“All right,” I said.

She got up and took her cup and went, and I sat for a while in the quiet kitchen with the orchard outside and the sound of a distant queen testing the air, and thought about the roof and all the years between the conversation on the roof and this one, and how it is not the ends of things but the front of them that matters.

The league news was good that week. Hill slipped to second; Brannock Fell took the top spot by one point after a narrow win in the river crossing event that Sigmund had nearly taken but came third on a technicality involving the width of the finish line. He was not philosophical about the finish line. He was extremely thorough about the finish line, in fact, and filed a formal query that Rory told me took three pages and cited precedent back eight seasons.

The ruling came back in a week: the finish line had been where the officials said it was. Sigmund accepted this with the particular silence of a man who is going to be thinking about that finish line for some time.

Pim moved up two bracket levels. At the last count he had won six consecutive rounds and was making the kind of progress that starts drawing attention from the selection committee for the inter-island circuit, which Liam told me in the way of a man trying not to appear as proud as he is. He appears very proud. He cannot help it.

Kyrie scored thirty-three points in the dual scoring event and then immediately asked what the top score in the bracket was, and when told it was thirty-five said fine in a way that means she has identified a gap. Luka, who had been sitting beside her, patted her knee once and went back to watching without comment. These two, I am telling you, are going to be a force when they’re older. They are already not entirely possible to argue with.

The Lumi — she is not a child anymore, in the way that children stop being children between one season and the next, before you have properly accounted for them — has found her event. She had been trying things, the way young competitors do: running, climbing, the water events. None of them quite settled. Then someone put her in the crosswind navigation course — the one that takes place on the high plateau behind Brannock, where the wind comes in unpredictably from three directions and most competitors navigate by landmark — and she navigated by something else. Not by landmarks. By something else entirely. She came first by four minutes and then did not understand why everyone was so impressed because she said the wind had been talking and she had just listened.

We are not sure what this means. Halloway has opinions about what this means. The opinions are, apparently, interesting.

Aoife set nothing on fire this week, which I am told was deliberate. She said she was practising restraint. Maura said restraint was a very valuable quality and then asked if she’d been wearing the fireproof mittens and Aoife’s face did a thing that told us the answer.

Pell Jorad’s column this week was about soldiers.

He had been, he said, at the ferry terminus when a Standing unit came through — routine rotation, nothing extraordinary — and had stood off to one side with his notebook and watched. He wrote about the way they moved, which was not the way he’d expected: not formal, not stiff, but matter-of-fact, the way people move through a space they know well or a job they have made ordinary. He wrote about one of them — he didn’t name her, but described her as tall and laughing at something a colleague had said, and then stepping off the ferry with the same calm she’d had a moment before, the transition between the two things seamless — and said he’d been thinking about the idea of people who carry both.

Both things. The laugh and the stepping-off. The ordinary and the professional. The two things that look different from the outside but were, he was coming to understand, the same thing in a person who has had long enough to settle into what they are.

Hanne had printed the column under the heading THE USUAL VOICES, THE UNUSUAL WORLD, which is what she calls the section now, and Pell had mentioned at the bottom that the ferry terminus had good light in the late afternoon and that the cook at the small place on the second corner made the best bean soup he’d had since the third city.

Half the island had been to try the bean soup by the end of the week. Hanne told me this with the air of a woman who has learned something about how her readership makes decisions.

Rue’s count this week was three hundred and two. She said it in the morning to Bess, who was mending the buckle on the left boot and not looking up, the way they do it now — Rue says the number and Bess receives it without ceremony, which is the shape the ritual has taken, and which suits them both.

Three hundred and two mornings that something was still there.

The Scarecrow queen came to the edge of the east field on the third day of the week, which is unusual — she usually stays within the Next Door boundary unless she is following one of the children, and Rue was not in the east field. Genny found her standing at the stone wall looking toward the orchard, not quite across the border of it, with the specific patience she brings to things she has decided to watch.

Genny said she stood there for a long time without doing anything. Then she turned around and went back.

Garnet thought she might be calibrating something. Garnet often thinks the queen is calibrating something, and she is often right. Genny thought she was just looking.

They are both probably right. The queen has time and no particular requirement to hurry, and the orchard in late summer has a quality to it — the light coming through the high branches, the particular weight of fruit — that is worth looking at for no reason at all.

Rue went to Next Door on the following morning and sat on the step as usual. She said three hundred and three. The queen was not at the door. Rue sat for a while anyway, and after a while the humming started from somewhere inside the house, low and persistent, the two-note pattern that has been there as long as Rue has been going.

Rue said, to no one in particular, “I know.”

She came home with her boots still on and her hair loose and went straight to Bess in the kitchen. Bess looked up from the counter.

“She said it back,” Rue said.

Bess put down what she was holding. “Did she.”

“Not in words. But she said it.”

Bess, who has lived on this island for a long time and has loved a great number of things and has learned to take the unexpected seriously, said: “Then she means it.”

Rue thought about this for a moment. Then she went to get her snack with the particular satisfied look of a child who has checked something important and found it still true.

The war thread this week was thin and watchful.

Corvan’s latest report said nothing definitive, which is to say it said everything: no bells found, no movement at the Sann border in the past fortnight, the Refined quiet in the way that is not peace but preparation. He wrote: They are thinking. I would rather they were moving. I know what they are thinking about. I do not yet know what they have decided.

Okafor’s slate still said Now. She came off the ridge on the last day of the month for the weekly meeting and I told her about Doran Vale and she listened and said, “Good soldier. Steady. I sent him to Ash on purpose.”

I said, “I know.”

She said, “Did she say anything.”

“She said he was useful.”

Okafor looked at me. Something flickered in her expression that in anyone else I would call amusement.

“All right,” she said. “Good.” Then: “The ridge report tomorrow, General. The Sann movement last week was small. It was not nothing.”

It was not nothing. We talked for two hours about the small movement at Sann that was not nothing, and I went home in the evening thinking about the two-sided quality of a week like this one, the way it holds, simultaneously, the news about Ash’s face in a quiet kitchen and the news about a small movement at a border post on a world most people on this island could not name, both of them true, both of them demanding to be held without letting go of the other.

This is the work, I think. The whole of it. Hold everything that is real and do not put any of it down and find, somehow, within the ordinary span of a day — supper and the orchard and the stars — a way to carry it without it breaking you.

The stars said Not yet this morning. 1,109. N.

The stars: not yet. / Ash: a useful man. / Efua: Thursday.

Days 13545–13601. The Useful Man.

The month Ash met Doran Vale at the forge on Hyrran, and Odra asked him the hard question directly because Ash wouldn’t, and he answered it well. Efua met his friend Benno Leiss at the Ister dock — loud laugh, early arrival, good at waiting — and came home and told Abena everything with the door shut. Neither conversation was made into a thing. Both of them will be.