village. He could faintly smell the smoke of distant fires. This was the challenge that the houselord had mentioned—a raid. In the smallest hours of night he heard a rustling at the door and he hurried to conceal his techno. Then he crept to door of the crawl with an oil lamp. It was the woman from the doorway. “Come in, quickly,” he beckoned, and she ducked into the crawl. He gently closed the door behind. Trembling, he studied her face in the dim light of the lamp. Her steady eyes looked straight into his. The encounter was unthinkable, and yet she was all he had thought about for days. She reached out and took his hands and brought him toward her.
V As they lay nested in the crawl, she looked around the tidy space with appreciation. It smelled of mint. Her hand strayed to the ceiling to touch the shiny white plastic. Her curiosity was recorded in delicate fingerprints—the paint had not yet dried. She whispered, “I must go.” “Yes,” replied Mole. “But where? You can’t stay in the village. You should go soon—they won’t hunt for you while there’s risk of a raid.” “I’ll head for the coast,” she said. “Tonight. I know it’s far and it’s been a long time since I was last there, but I still remember the way. My clan is there. At this time of year my family fished for crabs at the narrows by the iron cranes. I’ll go there. When I was taken in the raids, my mother and sister had been at sea. Maybe they’re still alive. If they are, they’ll find me.” She paused and looked down for a moment. “But what about you? When they see that I’m gone, will he come for you?” “He might, but I don’t think so. He could have gotten rid of me a long time ago. He has something else in mind.” “Come with me.” “I can’t. My foot—it’s impossible. There’s no way I can cover ground like you can. I can’t even make it across the river.“ “I can help you. Please come,” she pleaded. All that he wanted was to follow this woman wherever she was going, and yet he invented a reason to stay. “This village, these people—these are my people,” he said. “We’re waiting for the time to call my mother’s clan. It could be soon. Change is coming. I can’t leave.” “Of course,” she said, drawing a breath. “You’re needed here.” She placed her hands on his face and kissed him, marking his memory with a deep and lasting wound. Tears moistened their lips. Then she pushed him away and crept from the crawl, pausing at the door to take a handful of mint that she placed in her pocket.
Patrick Williston lives in Smithers in a mountainside home with a dark and spidery crawl space. When days are longer, you will find him and his family gunkholing around the Chatham Sea in an old sailboat. 64