It was late afternoon and forty river miles before they again came upon a village big enough to boast a wharf-boat and goods-shed. The Fetch tied on and most everyone trooped up to the goods-shed, if only to stretch their legs and enjoy a change of scene.
The goods-clerk, when he saw the three tall Lakewalkers shoulder into his shed, leaned under his counter and came up wearing an iron helmet fashioned from an old cook-pot with one side newly cut out, before turning on his stool to do business with these fresh customers. He adjusted the loop of handle comfortably under his chin. Remo choked, Barr nearly went cross-eyed, and Dag pinched the bridge of his nose in a weary way.
Berry bit her lip but, not wishful to waste daylight, rattled off her questions without any comment on the unusual headgear. Regrettably, the goods-clerk knew of no local river-rat wanting to hire on for a downriver hitch as sweep-man, nor had he any memory of the Clearcreek Briar Rose stopping here last fall, although he did remember a couple of the Tripoint boats from Cutter’s list in the spring. Fawn made a few little purchases for the Fetch’s larder, and Whit sold one crate of window glass.
As they finished settling up and turned to go, Barr abruptly turned back.
“Mister,” he said to the clerk, pointing at the iron hat, “where did you get the idea for that?”
The clerk smiled at him triumphantly. “Wouldn’t you like to know, eh, Lakewalker?”
“Because it doesn’t do a blighted thing. It was a joke got up on some flatties stuck up above Pearl Riffle a few weeks back, and they bought it. We laughed at them.”
Some flatties, obviously, who had made it downriver this far ahead of the Fetch, Fawn realized. She stuffed her fist in her mouth and watched in fascination.
“Yep, I just bet you’d like to trick me into taking this off, wouldn’t you, young fellow?” said the clerk in growing satisfaction. “Laugh away. We’ll see who laughs last.”
“What, I haven’t tried to buy anything off you! Or sell anything, either.”
“Yet.” The clerk nodded, then reached up to adjust the slipping pot more firmly. “And nor will you.”
Barr’s hands spread in a frustrated plea. “Look, I know it was a joke because I made it up myself!”
The clerk sat back, eyes narrowing shrewdly. “You would say that, aye.”
“No, really! This is crazy. Groundsense sees right through a bitty thing like that. An iron hat doesn’t do anything. It was just a joke! I made it up—”
Berry gave Dag a significant look; Dag reached out and gripped Barr’s shoulder. “Come along now, Barr, and stop arguing with this fellow. Boss Berry wants to cast off.”
“But it’s—but he’s—”
Remo helped propel his partner through the door and down the muddy slope. Barr skidded to a halt and tried to turn back. “It was a joke, I made it up…”
Dag sighed. “If you want to stay here and argue with that fellow, I’m sure we can offload your boat and gear. Me, I predict we’re going to be seeing pots on people’s heads up and down the Grace and the Gray for the next hundred years, so we might as well get used to it. Or for as long as folks are afraid of Lakewalkers and ignorant about our groundwork.” He hesitated, looking down the sodden, dreary valley in a considering way. “Though I suppose if it made people feel safer, it might could be a good thing…no, likely not.” He shook his head and trudged on.
“It’s not my doing,” said Barr plaintively, head still cranked over his shoulder even as he stumbled in Dag’s wake.
“Yes, it is,” said Remo irately, blended in chorus with Fawn’s “Whose else would it be?” and Dag’s reasonable drawl, “Sure it is. Might not be your intention, but it was certainly your doing. Live and learn, patroller.”
Barr’s lips thinned, but he finally shut up. Except Fawn heard him mutter, as he stepped aboard the Fetch once more, “I made it up…”
The next morning at breakfast, Barr’s campaign upon Remo was temporarily silenced when the entire crew of the Fetch united in telling him to pipe down or prepare to go swimming. It didn’t quite cure the problem, because Barr took to staring instead: imploringly, or angrily, or meaningfully. Remo gritted his teeth and attempted to ignore him. Fawn had no idea what-all the pair were doing with their grounds and groundsenses, but would not have been the least surprised had Remo burst out, just like her brothers when they’d driven their beleaguered parents into threats of a whipping if silence did not ensue, Boss! Dag! He’s lookin’ at me! Make him stop lookin’ at me! Barr watched the shoreline slipping past and glowered harder.
Fawn herself took to sewing, spinning, and unambitious cooking, hugging the hearth. Her monthly had begun last night, and she dared to hope that Dag’s new treatments were helping her to heal, because today’s pain was merely uncomfortable, not crippling. Other hopes rose in her mind as the dull tasks filled the hours. Dag had used a number of Lakewalker tricks to avoid starting a child in her half-healed womb, but it sure would be nice someday not to need those tricks. What was wanted, Fawn decided, was not time, but a place.
She pictured it in lavish detail while she jammed her needle through the tough oilcloth and occasionally her fingers—she preferred cooking to sewing, generally. The new Bluefield place would need to be near a farmer town big enough to give Dag steady medicine work, but not so big or near as to overwhelm him. There ought to be a little lake, or at least a big pond, to grow those Lakewalker water lilies with the edible roots. A kitchen garden, of course, and room for Grace and her foal and surly Copperhead. She spent considerable time working out the garden plan, and what other sorts of animals to have. If they weren’t to follow the migrating seasons of a Lakewalker camp, she could have a house with four real walls. And an iron cook stove like the one she’d seen at Silver Shoals.
She mulled over all the names she’d ever admired, and not just for children, because they did grow up and what was pretty for a baby might sound downright silly in a mother or grandmother—Fawn, for example. Whatever had Mama and Papa been thinking? She and Dag would have more than one daughter, anyhow, that was for sure…Dag would like that. Should they be close to some Lakewalker camp, too? Would any Lakewalkers want to be close to them? What if any of those children with the dignified names turned out to have strong groundsenses…?
She was just considering whether to pick out a name for Grace’s foal, too, when a distant hail from the river broke up her daydreams. Bo, who had been dozing in his bunk during his off-watch, rolled over and slitted open one eye, listened a moment, and rolled back. Fawn set aside her sewing and rose to venture out on the cold front deck to see what was happening.
A keelboat was rapidly overhauling them. On this long, straight reach the wind was coming more or less from upriver for a change, and the keel had its sail up to push it along even more briskly than the heavy current drew the Fetch. The name Tripoint Steel was painted on the prow in fancy letters, with all the Ts in the shape of drawn swords. As the gap closed between the two boats, Boss Cutter and Boss Berry bellowed the news back and forth across the moving waters.
Berry reported the names of the boats that had been seen by the helmeted goods-clerk from their stop yesterday. Cutter mentioned a man who knew a man who’d seen the Briar Rose at a town still forty miles downstream, which made Berry narrow her eyes and wave especial thanks; it would save stopping before then. Berry wished Cutter luck, and Cutter called back, as the gap again widened and the Tripoint Steel splashed bravely on, “You girls be careful now!”