“Oh, the talk in the taverns is that they are officially pulling away from those warmongers. There’s a whole refrain taken up by Ecclestonians now when they drink. ‘The mining folk like brass are bold. They cannot be bought with silver or gold.’ They’re electing a new government even. All those men on their council that took Perpatane’s coin are being tried for treason. Least that’s what my man says. He loves it here too. Where are you off to?”
I snapped out of my delighted shock at seeing her and at seeing the change in her. “I need to get to the public hitching post. The one closest. Kate, I’m relieved to see you.” I bussed her cheek, ignoring her wide eyes, and ran.
I saw Reed walking towards me when I rounded the street corner and saw the large town square where horses and wagons were tethered.
I called out his name, my tears reappearing.
He smiled when he looked up. He gave a wave. “Dermid’s in a brewery. Made friends while we were gone. I couldn’t wait to see you though.”
I barely heard him as I quickened my steps. When I reached him,after a breath’s passing with us staring at each other, I pulledThe Life of Unaout of my apron pocket. “Was this you?”
He hesitated and then dipped his chin. Then he tucked a finger into the pocket at his side. “I’ve had it since I was a boy. I used to carry it with me next to the record I had to keep for the wardens. How did you know?—”
I kissed him. I kissed him soundly, thoroughly, passionately, tasting the salt of my tears sliding into our mouths. I threw my hands around his neck, one still holding my book, pulled him closer to me, and relished in the feel of his own hands circling my waist.
“Yes,” I wept against his mouth. “Yes. You don’t have to present your case. You don’t have to make an argument. You don’t have to ask.”
His body shuddered. He buried his face in my neck. “Truly?”
I repeated my words, cupping the back of his head. Then I asked, “Can we stay here a while, see to everyone’s being well before we make for Vyggia?”
He pulled away to look at me. “You would go to Vyggia with me?”
I nodded. “I cannot live in a city. I cannot look at buildings every day. Not for the rest of my life. I need something wild.”
Reed bent his head, touching his brow to mine. “You will love the sea, Robbie.”
VIII
JELLYFISH
100
NEIGHBOR
She is a jellyfish. Every morning, her white hair billowing out from her head, her pale shift swirling around her body, she drifts, arms thrown out, face barely above the surface. But it is above just enough that if I squint, I can see the smile there.
“Jellyfish!” my son bleats from my hip, little hand flapping in the direction of the woman in the sea, the woman we can see if I stand just so at one window in our house at a certain hour in the morning. And if I carry him outside and walk closer to the footpath that breaks up the cliff’s edge and leads to the stone shore, we can see the jellyfish woman’s husband standing and watching her. He stands just to one side as he only has one eye. I suppose this allows him the best view of her when she swims. And she swims every morning.
“Jellyfish,” my son repeats, and his voice is delighted.
“Yes, she is a happy jellyfish,” I agree with him.
We watch her every morning, sometimes for a long time, sometimes just for a breath or two, enough to see that swirl of paleness in the dark gray-green of the sea. It is rare that I watch long enough—that I have the time in the morning—to witness her finally, after he has called out to her, fight to walk against the foaming crash ofwaves at her back and return to him. Her shift clings to her, and when she pulls the dripping silvery swath of hair off of her shoulders, I can see the tattoos on her upper arms, somewhat withered and faded with time. She is still smiling on her stumble to shore. She has had her taste of Sister Sea for the day.
For though she is a woman of the low country, she worships the Tintarian gods. Here in Vyggia, we are superstitious and we pray to our own sea gods, but it is more about luck and fortune and crossed fingers. For this woman, the jellyfish, she says she has spoken to her gods.
Though she seems of a sound mind, I always attribute that to her age.
Her man, the one she refers to as husband, though I suspect they have never married, always shakes his head and pulls her to him, despite her wetness from head to toe. Sometimes he kisses her forehead, sometimes her mouth.
As time passes, I find myself watching for this kiss more and more. Even when my children call out for me, even when my husband is trying to speak to me, I spend longer in my vigil these mornings. Perhaps it is because the man, who goes by Reed, recently has told my husband that men die sooner than women and has asked would we watch out for his wife after he dies? Robbie, the jellyfish woman, has recently told me that her man is nearly seven winters younger than her and she thinks she may die first. She too has asked our family to look out for him.
Though they are both white haired and she has celebrated a seventieth day of birth, a lucky number not all reach, they still seem so spry. To keep coin in their pockets, Reed joins my husband twice a week in the salt shallows. My husband says he can still labor alongside men half his age for most of the day. And Robbie often assists our midwife in births. And she tells me she can walk inside certain trees that grow inland here, harvesting a moss that only grows inside the bark, and that is where she gets the paste she delivers freely to the women here. She does not seem taxed by any of that work.
I tell myself they are still far from their end, but in my heart, I know those winters will pass quickly. And that is why I watch.
Today, her swim feels cut short. Not to be caught by either Reed or Robbie, I turn and walk away from the footpath and pretend to be soothing my son by walking around our house with him still on my hip. He watches my pretense with curiosity. Why would I comfort him when he is not upset?
