She passed a woodcutter’s cottage and an expansive field on her way into town. The gruff farmer didn’t look up from his plow, pulled through the mud by a flea-bitten pair of bony geldings. A portion of the corn, guarded by stuffed coveralls with a potato sack head, had already sprouted in happy, green rows. A rooster strutted alongside his brood of hens, and three goats, bells tinkling, raced by, giving Sam a wide berth.
“There you are!” Bryn shouted, abandoning her tattered ball and sprinting toward Lark. “Gramma’s waiting on those ducks.” The ten-year-old Black girl stopped to rub her hands over Sam and accept his affectionate licks.
“She knows hunting takes longer than gathering,” Lark replied. “Where are the other ingredients she asked for?”
“I got them,” Bryn answered, stretching back to her full height. She waved a hand at the group of children playing in the packed dirt road. “I’ve gotta run. See y’all later.” They waved back and returned their focus to the ball.
“Are Tommy and Milena home?” Lark asked. Bryn fell in line beside her, reaching a small hand up to take hers.
“Tommy’s still out on the river, fishing with Leif, and Milena’s helping her mother with a patchwork quilt they’re makin’ for Gramma’s birthday. They said, ‘Just because Inez can’t see is no reason she shouldn’t have the pertiest blanket in the whole dang town.’” Tight corkscrews flared from her head like an onyx halo, dancing as she moved, while smoky quartz eyes beamed up at Lark.
“She’ll love it.” She grinned at the skinny girl bounding beside her. Gramma wasn’t only the oldest person in town, but one of the most revered. Her seventy-sixth birthday, a week away, was cause for celebration. Gramma Inez Carvalho Sutter, Lark’s dad’s mother, had insisted the village go to no fuss or bother, that before the war folks regularly lived past a hundred—seventy-six was nothing. But to the people of Saltmarsh Reach, it was momentous. The very young and old were always hit hardest—by outbreaks, by storms, and by hunger. Yet when the hardships that had winnowed out others of Inez’s generation battered the coastal communities, she weathered them like a mighty oak, roots secure and branches strong. Given her blindness, Gramma had become even more admired, a source of hope and inspiration, a fountain of wisdom. Gramma Inez served as town historian, the area’s foremost storyteller. Lark wondered which tale she’d share at dinner tonight.
Around a corner, the familiar sight of home came into view. On a short rise, just a stone’s throw from Split Root River—a lazy, muddy, sprawling body of water that drained into the Atlantic with hundreds of sister streams—rested two rusty shipping containers arranged in an “L” shape. They’d been joined at the corners to create two adjoining living and storage spaces. Between them, secured with metal hooks and tight rigging, fluttered an expansive tarp, shading the main outdoor living area during summer. Rustic benches and chairs lined the steel walls, the double doors flung wide. Gramma stood in the kitchen, tucked safely into the corner, sorting and chopping the herbs and greens Bryn had gathered.The galley consisted of a wooden prep table, a water pump with buckets, an insulated cooler with a top-opening lid, a charcoal grill, a proper firepit—iron kettle hanging above—and an oven fashioned from reclaimed bricks and clay. The pump brought water from cisterns on the roof down, rather than groundwater up, through salvaged PVC pipes. While untainted by nuclear radiation, the water table here was so high that the sea seeped in, making it too salty to be palatable, although, during periods of drought, farmers would use it to water crops and orchards.
The entire outdoor terrace rested on sturdy metal sheets raised sixteen centimeters off the ground to prevent flooding from tropical rains. Similar structures lined the river, interspersed with wooden huts, mud-brick abodes, and reconstituted motor homes, creating a tapestry of old and new, drab and colorful.
“There’s my girls,” Gramma sang out. “It’s about time. How many did you get?”
Bryn ran, hopped onto the terrace, and raced to hug the elderly woman, her gray hair twisted into a loose bun. “How do you always know who it is?”
An orphan child, they’d found Bryn in a small craft that washed into the inlet after a storm eight years ago. She was too small and shaken to say what had happened or even where she was from. Gramma Inez immediately volunteered to take the little girl into their family. It was right after Lark and Leif’s father had joined the queen’s army and left for Marchland, far to the west. Sensing Gramma sought a distraction from worrying about her last living son’s safety, Lark and her little brother had gladly welcomed the toddler to the family. She said her name was Bryn, so that’s what they called her.
Gramma winked, brushing a finger to the side of her nose. “I know the rhythm of your walks, how you smell, the subtle whispers from the trees, calling, ‘Bryn is coming. Lark is near.’”
Bryn laughed. Sam trotted to his water bowl, lapping a sloppy mouthful, before settling onto his dusty, threadbare dog bed.
“Two mallards,” Lark answered, swinging them onto the sturdy prep table.
“No, no,” Gramma scowled. “Take those messy ducks out back and clean ‘em up for me, will ya? We’re not runnin’ a buzzard buffet. Then wash off that beargrease. How are we supposed to enjoy a delicious meal with you stinkin’ to high heavens?”
“No sass out of you, old woman,” Lark teased, brushing a kiss to Inez’s wrinkled cheek. “Who taught me to use it to keep the bugs off to begin with? Now I get what for just doing what you told me?”
“Go on, smarty-pants.” Gramma waved her hands in a shooing motion. “Clean those birds and scrub your hide. You’ll scare off the neighbors smellin’ like that. Garlic. Eat more garlic! Keeps the bugs off and wards away bad suitors. Worked for me,” she added with a cheeky wink.
“Yes, Gramma,” Lark called as she hauled the ducks around to a cleaning table under a tree twenty meters behind their house.
A few hours later, Lark’s friends, Tommy and Milena, joined her family on the covered terrace for dinner. Tommy brought grits and oysters, while Milena supplied a fruity plum wine.
“Mrs. Sutter, how did you prepare this duck?” Milena asked, a curious expression on her creamy face. The young woman’s golden-brown tresses flowed around her shoulders in carefree fashion, catching Lark’s eye. It shone like a sunbeam on the river and must feel divine to the touch. Despite Lark’s secret crush, Milena’s romantic feelings were all reserved for Tommy. “It doesn’t taste greasy at all.”
“Patience, my dear,” Gramma replied. “You must patiently render the fat away on low heat before roasting. My secret seasonings also help. Your winemakin’s come a long way,” she added pleasantly. “This batch don’t taste like boot polish.”
“I employed patience,” Milena echoed with a shy grin. “Let it sit in the root cellar for a year before opening, and—believe me—that wasn’t easy. I so wanted to try it sooner, to see how it turned out. Thanks.”
“The grits are good,” Leif commented as he shoveled them in. Lark’s teenage brother was at an age where he could never get enough to eat.
“They’d better be,” Tommy laughed, “or my dad would be out of business.” Mr. Hayes owned the watermill where fall field corn was ground into grits and meal.
The late afternoon sun glistened on the gurgling water as a pleasant breeze puffed in, ruffling Lark’s hair, home cut about chin length. Her attention shifted as the sound of a voice floated in, carried by the wind. “Post!” a man called. “Get your letters and copies of the Nelanta Beacon and Verdancian Voice!”
“I’ll go!” Leif leaped up and raced down to the dock like a panther after a hare.
“Do you think there’ll be a letter from your dad?” Bryn asked as she imitated Gramma’s daintier eating style.
“Maybe.” After that first year of heart-flips and disappointment, Lark stopped expecting letters. That way, when one came, she could allow herself a jolt of joy, rather than a sinking feeling of despair each week that one didn’t arrive. “But I always like reading the papers.”
“Which do you like best?” Tommy asked. “The Voice or the Beacon?”
