"Ooo-ho," Tommy said, impressed. "Did you make all of those?"
"All but a few," Lucas replied, as they stepped into the workshop. He followed them, the boy pushing ahead, and I stood in the doorway and watched, pleased.
"You must spend a fair amount of time at work," Tommy observed, reaching up to one long rope of masks and pushing it gently to make it sway.
"Most of my time, usually. Less, in the past week or two," Lucas replied. Gwen reached out for one of the barely-finished masks on the table. "Watch the paint, it's still wet."
She carefully balanced the edges of the mask on her fingertips, admiring it. I don't remember what question she asked him, but it led to another and another – both her and Tommy peppering him with inquiries about his craft and his materials, while the boy played with leather scraps and glue at one of the tables, avoiding looking directly at any of the masks.
With every sentence, the tension in Lucas's shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. His voice settled down from a tight, nervous tone into his natural register, and he started moving quickly among the worktables, fear forgotten as he picked up other masks or materials to show them. The Socrates mask had been finished – it looked splendid, haloed in dried and preserved hemlock.
"That man is born Friendly," Tommy said to me in an undertone, as Gwen admired Socrates. "Some fool's ruined him, is all."
"Ruined him?" I asked.
"Some teacher. Or his father, maybe. Could be natural temperament, I suppose, but he likes to sell his wares."
"He likes to talk about his masks. That's different."
"Not to my family," Tommy replied. "Nor to him. Lucas!"
"Yes?" Lucas asked, looking up from the mask.
"Are you in need of any cold-weather clothing?" Tommy asked. "We make our own and sell it. Also carven wood toys, some leather working, some food. Rabbits and chickens for cooking."
"You want masks?" Lucas gave Gwen a confused look. "What for?"
"Well, for beauty's sake, and they'll sell well," she said, beaming at him.
"I could use a new coat," he said, a little self-consciousness creeping back in. "Would that be expensive?"
"Not for you," Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Come down to camp this evening and we'll fit you."
"Oh I – I could do that," Lucas agreed. Gwen picked up a half-finished mask – clay, on a wire armature – and laughed at the puff-cheeked face on it. Lucas took it, pointing out details to her, even smiling a little. He'd taken to Gwen much faster than anyone else he'd met, myself included.
I had a moment of concern that it was Gwen, and not the Friendly, which interested him and made him forget himself for a while. Little good comes of land-owners chasing after pretty Friendly girls. They're like the old stories about selkies: they might stay awhile if they liked the look of you, but it was never for life. To enjoy the idea of the Friendly was fine, but it was dangerous to take their easygoing affection too personally.
I shouldn't have worried. Lucas protected his heart well. He was interested in love, I think, in the way we express and attract it -- but he didn't really see that he had a share in it. As fascinated and confused by people as he was -- the way they came together , the way they cared for each other -- his was almost always the quiet, studious analysis of an outsider.
Chapter SEVEN
As the winter grew colder, an increasing number of people in Low Ferry began to appear in the distinctive, colorful coats and hats that the Friendly made, either newly-purchased or taken down out of storage from previous years. They were beautiful pieces of work, well worth the cost: double-layer gloves with buttery leather on the palms, quilted coats decorated with brass buttons and fleecy lining, straps covered in beads and bells that fitted over snow-boots to make them look more festive. The Friendly would sell for cash or barter for goods, and for a small fee would tailor the clothing too.
A few days after the Friendly arrived, Nona Harrison had her twin babies. We'd tried to get her into town for it, but they came a little early and caught us all by surprise. Kirchner was only about halfway to the farm when they were born, but fortunately Low Ferry had a midwife who lived out that way, and Bertha looked after Nona just fine. It's pretty common for winter babies to be home births, which is why there aren't too many of them if it can be avoided. Both babies were healthy and we expected the population of Low Ferry to increase by two, but...it didn't, quite.
"Did you know Bertha?" Paula asked me, when the news finally hit town. "She wasn't born here, you know, came out in the seventies my dad says. I think she was a hippie."
"More of her than know her, she's not a big reader," I answered, toying with the edge of the receipt-paper where it stuck out of the till. "Wasn't a big reader, I mean."
"It's terrible she died, but everyone's sort of thinking it..."
"At least it wasn't Nona or the babies?" I said with a grim smile.
"Yeah. I mean, I'm sorry to lose Bertha, but it's always harder when a baby dies. I'm glad Nona's boys are healthy."
"Well," I said, and then stopped and glanced away.
"What?"
"Have you heard people talking about them?" I asked.
"About the boys? Not much, why?"
"Listen, I don't believe this, you know I'm a practical guy. But I don't exactly set policy in the village. People sort of...they think there's something wrong with them. Spiritually."
Paula cocked her head. "Really? Why?"
"I don't know exactly, but Kirchner's been out to see Nona and he says she's not doing as well as she could be. Steve Harrison says he's worried about his wife. None of the women from the church will go out there. I think they think the babies killed Bertha."
"Killed her!"
"Well, she did die at the Harrison place, and it wasn't very long after the babies were born. I'm only telling you what I've heard," I said, as Lucas and the boy entered the shop. I put a finger to my lips and Paula nodded. Lucas hung his coat up on a hook near the door, gave Paula a shy nod, and vanished into the shelves. The boy examined the comic books critically.
"When are you getting new ones?" he demanded.
"The roads are out, kiddo," I answered. "Unless they're planning on airlifting comic books in, it'll probably be another week. Buy a real book, feed your mind."