The Barr Hut is the largest building in Clabby, the only two-storey building in the settlement. It is made with a sturdy timber frame, using felled trees that had been left there for the original nine settlers. It is the only building with wooden doors, though they no longer close properly. Daniel of the Abercarns, one of the original nine, and a capable woodworker, is responsible for its design. It is a large hall intended to accommodate the entire population. It has always been too large, the numbers of adherents never reaching the ambitions of the original settlers. There are thirty-one of us scattered around on the soft floor – three times that many could sit here comfortably. There would be thirty-seven of us usually, but Baran and the Torrain clan are absent. They do not think that we should be looking after the outsider.

  At the far end, there is a carving of the Gaffer, the finest ornament in the village. He stands tranquil, his right arm extended in welcome, an easy smile on his face. The welcoming arm is a bit too long, and one eye is higher than the other, but everyone agrees that it captures the unassuming greatness of our founder.

  The hall is open right up to the pointed roof, now swollen with moisture, the yellow wood darkening with mould as your gaze ascends. To the left of the statue, a rise of uneven steps leads to the next level, the lower section biting into the soft earth of the floor. Little varied circles are etched into the dull yellow of the handrail. A balcony looks down into the main hall, still true and straight despite the unsteadiness surrounding it. The Mister maintains her quarters on the second level. How the floor can withstand the weight of all of her affairs I don’t know.

  He came back. As promised.

  He stands at the front, alongside the carving. He is telling us that the place we know as Chiram is now known as Severas and has been for an age. Perhaps it was called Severas even in the Gaffer’s time, he says.

  Honrick. I can’t stop looking at him. He looks much better for his journey. A new determined leap in his step and a new sharpness at his jawline. I follow the sharp lines of his naked face with my eyes, trying to figure out if he is handsome. Who could I compare him to? Is an otter handsome? A fish? How tall and loose-limbed he is, compared to us squat, heavy-arsed Mudders. Some people fear his oddness. I am starting to like the idea of connecting with strangers, but I don’t say this out loud.

  Later, as the meeting disperses, I hear someone call my name. It is Honrick.

  ‘Can you please join us for a moment, Erna?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. A fist clenches in my gut as I join them at the front.

  ‘Ah, Erna,’ says the Mister. ‘I haven’t spoken to you in a while.’

  ‘Yes, Catac, this is true. Not since the days in the uplift.’

  ‘We’re all busy these days,’ she says. ‘We all have our tasks.’

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  I look at Honrick and he looks away. ‘What do you need me for?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ says Honrick, his arms agitating at his sides. ‘Well, we were wondering if you could help us. We-.’ He turns to the Mister. ‘Maybe you can tell her?’

  ‘We’ve been invited to a meeting in Chiram. A discussion between Mudders and Clabbeans,’ says Catac.

  ‘What kind of discussion?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ says Honrick, ‘about anything really. About building the relationships between our peoples, mainly. About how we can help each other.’

  ‘We want you to go, Erna,’ says the Mister.

  ‘Me?’ I say. ‘Why?’ My heart begins to thud.

  Honrick speaks now. ‘You have an interest in new ways of doing things.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the Mister, ‘there are not many people like that in Clabby.’

  I want to deny it. I want to say that I am not different. That I am the same as everyone else.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t leave the village. I have my tasks. I have things to make. People depend on me.’

  ‘That can wait,’ says the Mister. ‘This is more important.’

  ‘Surely you should go, Catac - you are the Mister,’ I say, my breath growing ragged.

  ‘No,’ she says, firm. ‘I need to keep any eye on things in the village.’

  ‘But the Magward?’ I ask.

  ‘If everyone in the village falls sick, there will be no Magward.’ she says.

  ‘Chiram is going to help us?’ I ask. I think of my mother.

  ‘We can speak to doctors in Chiram,’ Honrick speaks now, his voice wavering. ‘They may be able to help with the seeing sickness. We have all sorts of medicines in the city. I think they will help.’

  ‘But you don’t know?’ I ask.

  ‘Not for sure,’ he says.

  ‘We must try something,’ says the Mister, her frustration rising. If this fixes the sickness, then we will be stronger than ever. If we do nothing, then what? Will the village disappear? What honour is that to our forefolk? To the Gaffer?’

  ‘Then you should go,’ I say.

  ‘Erna, you know I can’t go. Once my back is turned, who knows what would happen?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You know what the Torrains say about Honrick. What would they say if I disappeared to Chiram?’

  ‘But what will they say about me?’ I say.

  ‘I understand we are asking a lot of you, Erna, but you are the one who is best placed to help us. I will ensure that no-one casts aspersions,’ she says.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say, with no great certainty. She will not be able to stop all pots stirring.

  ‘They will say you are doing it for the future of Clabby,’ she says, looking at me. ‘I will make sure of it. That you are the one making the sacrifice. If you succeed, you will be on a similar plane to Usal Gracey, or Usal Whistlebine. Your connection to your forefolk will be secured.’

  Obligations to other people are all I have. I will have to partner with Cullen, I will have to recount the knowledge, and I will be obliged to carry a child. I will be stuck on the same revolving rota of tasks as my mother and grandmother. Ahead of me, the only possible path to follow has been set out by someone else.

  They send me away to think about it.

  I take a walk to the river and sit at its edge. It is hard to believe that the idea of leaving has never occurred to me before. I hear a voice inside me quietly say that I might no longer have to choose a partner. That I might no longer have to recount the knowledge about Mister Artain.

  With my ceremonial scub, I respectfully scrape the mud from my sole of my foot then deposit it carefully into the mala, the scrapings-sack. I take up a handful of the river water and splash it into the sack, then give it a shake. I take a few slow breaths, then dip my face into the sack for a long count, allowing the sharp odour to penetrate my mouth and nose.

  It is almost dark when I remove my head from the sack. My feet are in the water, cleaner than they have been in many months. They are pink and numb with cold and the air swirls pleasantly between my toes. Does this feel different? Have I lost something?