Scarecrow

I’ve never written about Hearth.

Not in all these notebooks. Not once. I’ve written about the Teeming and the queens and the Hands and the houses and every world we’ve ever come down on. I’ve written about Father and the scarecrow and the forty-first floor. I’ve written about every birth and every name on the wall.

I never wrote about Hearth.

Genny asked me why, the night it came back. I didn’t have a good answer. I told her the truth instead, which was worse.

”Because it was a door,” I said. ”And it closed. And I didn’t want to write down another door that closed.”

It came back at the second hour after midnight. On the last night of the thirty days. After the porch, after I’d said it out past the ring into the quiet, after Corin had looked where I was looking for a long time and then fallen asleep on Andraste’s lap.

I was on the roof. I couldn’t sleep. Nobody in the house on the rise could sleep, really; you could feel it through the floors, everyone lying very still in the dark pretending. Andraste was beside me with her back against the chimney and her blade across her knees. Neither of us was talking.

Then Dot knocked on the roof.

Dot doesn’t knock. Dot speaks through the wood, any wood, every wood, wherever you are. She’s spoken through the porch rail and the long table and the window frames and the rungs of the ladder I was sitting beside. She doesn’t need to knock.

She knocked anyway.

Three times. A pause. Once.

I went very still.

Andraste looked at me.

”What is it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I sat on the roof of the house on the rise with my hand flat on the slates and felt Dot knock again, through the wood under them, very quietly. Three. A pause. One.

”Query,” said Dot. Through the chimney. Very carefully. The way she says things she isn’t sure she’s allowed to say. ”Operator. This unit has received a return.”

I need to go back.

I’m going to write it now. All of it. Properly. The way I should have written it at the time, in the notebook I was keeping then, on the shelf in the crooked house. Genny has that notebook now. She says there’s a gap in it. Nine days, where I wrote down the dawn count and the weather and nothing else.

This is what was in the gap.

It was a long time ago. Before the Overseer changed. Before the queens gave me more. Before Hana, before the twins, before Dory was more than a small bright thing in Risa that the queens called brood. The first year in Scarecrow, near the end of it. When the city was still mostly red glass and scaffolding and the tower, and Old Son stood on top of the tower flashing thirty-one at every dawn, for Rafe Dunmore, because Wren had asked him to and then because he’d decided it mattered.

I was arguing with a wall.

That’s how it started. I’d built a support for the new workshop, and it was right, every atom of it was right, and the silver in it kept trying to do something else. Something I hadn’t asked for. Small. A shape I’d never made.

And then Dot said query. And Toby put his hand on the red glass and said there’s another rhythm under it. And Old Son flashed three, and one, from the tower, and somewhere a very long way off, someone in a room I’d never see answered.

They were called Hearth.

Not them. Their home. Hearth. A settlement on a world we never learned the name of, under stars we never learned to find. The people were—

I don’t know how to write what they were. I knew them for nine days, through a structure in the silver smaller than a fingernail, through pictures sent one line at a time and words that came apart halfway across and had to be put back together.

There was a man called Dinraal. Who carried silver the way I do. Not in his blood. On his wrist. Bracelets, and when he asked them, armour. A father’s silver, he said. Inherited. He looked tired the way I was tired then, the way you’re tired when you’ve been the one people look to for longer than you meant to be.

There was his wife, Isolde. Who asked about our gardens before she asked about anything else, and wrote everything down in a notebook, and made Enna laugh, which Dinraal said nobody did.

There was Asha, who talked too fast for the translator. And Eve, who made us stop when we wanted to go on. And an old man called Aramaeis, Dinraal’s uncle, who’d been a soldier in an army that wrote him down as dead before he’d finished living, and who went very quiet when he understood that our silver and theirs were the same.

And there was Enna.

Who looked at Keir’s drawings of the first aircraft and told him exactly what was wrong with them. And then told me.

Because that’s what happened, in the nine days. They were the same silver. Theirs and ours. Not similar. The same. The same branches and the same seams and the same way the inner part holds itself apart instead of closing into a command. Asha said it. This is our silver. And Aramaeis said, very quietly: It was never only ours.

And we taught each other things.

I showed them the restriction in their separated silver. The thing that made a piece of Dinraal’s bracelet collapse if he stopped holding it. The recovery dependency, Aramaeis called it, which was an army’s word for a leash. I showed them how to complete one small path, on material that wasn’t inside anyone, so it could hold its own shape. They built a relay out of it. A little thing on a cradle that could keep the link open without anyone’s hand on it.

And Enna showed us the release.

I’ve thought about Enna’s release more than almost anything else from those nine days.

It was a coupling. A simple thing. On their ships, the people who held the silver could let go of it if something went wrong, and the thing they’d been holding wouldn’t fall. It was built to fail safely. To let a person stop holding without dropping everyone.

Keir changed the aircraft that night. All of it. So that it didn’t need me to fly. So that if I was asleep, or hurt, or somewhere else, it would still be an aircraft and not a stone.

That aircraft never flew. But the release went into the next thing Keir built, and the next. The Open Hand. The Scarecrow. Every interceptor in Risa’s wing. Every one of them has Enna’s release in it somewhere.

I never told anyone where it came from.

I should have.

On the ninth night it stopped.

Not closed. Not refused. Stopped. We were in the middle of a conversation, the one Isolde wanted, with almost no purpose at all, tea at their end and supper at ours, with the children’s drawings and Dot being asked whether she minded an extra arm. Dinraal had just waved at a recording of the tower. I’d waved back.

And the link went quiet. In the middle of a word.

We waited. The way we’d agreed. You wait. Silence stays silence until someone chooses to end it.

Dot sent one pulse. Are you still there?

Nothing came back.

She sent one the next night. And the next. At the agreed hour. And then at every hour, because she said it was possible the agreed hour had moved.

Nothing.

Asha had said, near the end, that there were timing differences. That the clocks didn’t agree. That they’d have to resolve them before they could say anything about distance. Toby thought something had drifted. Keir thought the relay at their end had failed. Luna thought something had happened to them, and didn’t say it, and didn’t have to.

And then the Overseer’s people came down on the station, and the Hand came into high orbit, and Crane’s office started opening my letters, and there was a war.

And there wasn’t time.

Dot kept the relay.

The little structure I’d built in the support of the workshop wall, the one that branched three ways with the return curve. She took it out of the wall, very carefully, the week the Hand came, and put it in one of her own compartments. Behind the soft door in her side. Where she keeps the things she’s decided are hers.

And every morning since, at the dawn count, she’s sent one pulse.

I didn’t know that.

I found out on the roof, with Andraste, at the second hour after midnight on the last night of the thirty days.

”Every morning,” said Dot. Through the chimney. ”Since the ninth night. One pulse. At the dawn count. After Old Son’s.” A pause. ”This unit did not inform the operator.”

”Why not?”

”Because there was never a return,” said Dot. ”And the operator had enough doors that did not open.” A longer pause. ”This unit considered it a reasonable compromise. This unit learned compromise from Okafor.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time.

”How many mornings?” I said.

Dot told me.

I’m not going to write the number down. It’s in Genny’s book now. It’s very long.

”Tonight,” said Dot, ”there was a return.”

Andraste was looking at me.

She’d heard all of it. Through the chimney. She didn’t know what Hearth was; nobody on Avalon did except the ones who’d been in the yard that first year, and most of them had never spoken of it either. Keir. Toby. Luna. Risa and Sera and Liam. Dot. Old Son.

”Who are they?” she said.

”People,” I said. ”With our silver.”

Andraste went very still.

”Our silver?”

”The same,” I said. ”Not like it. The same.”

We went down.

Not to the map room. To Dot. Who was in the courtyard of the house on the rise, under the arch, with her rivers moving very slowly in a colour I’d never seen on her. Something between blue and gold. Old Son was beside her. He’d come down off the tower; Dot said she’d asked him to, because the first rhythm had been his and it seemed right.

She opened the soft door in her side.

And there it was.

The relay. Very small. Branched three ways, with the return curve, the way I’d made it in the wall of the workshop when I was twenty and didn’t know anything. Sitting in Dot’s compartment on a bed of something soft she’d made for it.

It was moving.

Very slightly. The way silver moves when it’s answering.

I put my hand near it.

Not on it. Near. The way Genny teaches. And waited.

And felt it.

Three. A pause. One.

And then something else. Something long, and complicated, and careful. A pattern I hadn’t felt in a very long time. The repeat-the-beginning-before-each-new-part that Toby worked out on the second day.

They were starting the dictionary again.

From the beginning. One line at a time. As if they’d never stopped.

By the time the sun came up, everyone was in the courtyard.

Of course they were. Nothing happens in the house on the rise to one of us without the rest. Mother in her coat. The five of them. The children, waking in the heap in Rory’s cot and coming down one at a time to see. The grandparents. Genny with volume fifteen. Garnet with her drawing board.

And the ones who’d been there.

Toby came first. Through the arch from the long ward, where he’d been on night watch with Wren. He knelt down beside Dot on the warm stone of the courtyard and put his hand flat on it, the way he did on the red glass that first time, and closed his eyes.

”They repeat the beginning,” he said. Very quietly. ”Before each new part. Same as before.” He opened his eyes. ”It’s them, Lucas. It’s the same people.”

Keir came. And Aster, who said nothing at all, and stood very close to the relay with her lights very dim. Liam and Anja. Sera, with Goldie. Luna, with Elin, who looked at me across the courtyard and didn’t need to say anything.

Risa came last.

She stood at the edge of the courtyard with small Sigmund on her hip and a cloud over both of them, very still, and looked at the relay in Dot’s compartment.

”I thought they were dead,” she said.

”So did I.”

”You never said.”

”Neither did you.”

Risa looked at me for a long time.

Then she came across the courtyard and put her free hand flat on Dot’s shell, next to mine.

”Hello,” she said. To the relay. Very quietly. ”It’s been a long time.”

Then she stayed there. With her hand on Dot’s shell. Not saying anything. Small Sigmund’s cloud drifted down very gently and rained a little on the relay, and Dot let it, and the relay didn’t mind.

Risa told me later, on the roof, what she’d been thinking.

”I was pregnant with Dory,” she said. ”That week. Nobody knew but the four of us. And Ruth, and the queens.” She looked at the stars. ”And on the eighth day, Isolde asked Dot if anyone at our end was expecting a child. Because she’d seen me in the back of a recording with my hand on my middle. Nobody else had noticed. Nobody on Avalon.” Risa was quiet for a long time. ”She sent a drawing. A little one. A bird, in a nest. Asha said it was a Hearth thing, for luck.” She put her chin on her knees. ”I kept it. In the box with Dory’s first shoes. I never told anyone where it came from either.”

”Show me,” I said.

So she did. In the morning. Before the arches. A very small drawing, one line at a time, of a bird in a nest, faded now, folded very small.

Garnet looked at it for a long time.

Then she sent it back to them.

The first picture came through at mid-morning.

A line. A second line. A poorly proportioned square.

The same square. The very first one. That Asha had sent on the first day, which Enna had said might be a door.

Garnet drew it as it came. On her board. Line by line. And when it was done she looked at it for a long time and then wrote under it, very small: Hello again.

The second picture took until noon.

The tower. Our tower. The old one, on the canyon rim at Scarecrow, with the red glass under it. Drawn the way we’d drawn it for them all those years ago, very rough, with Old Son on top. Holding a mirror.

They’d kept it.

All this time. On their side. Whatever their side was. They’d kept our drawing of the tower.

Old Son, beside Dot in the courtyard, lifted his mirror.

And flashed it. In the noon light. Three. A pause. One.

The third picture was a face.

Dinraal.

I’d have known him anywhere. The tired eyes. The careful mouth. The way he held his head, like a man listening for someone to need him. Older, I thought, a little. Or only more tired. It was hard to tell through a picture built one line at a time.

And beside him, Isolde. With the notebook. A different notebook, I thought; it was thicker.

And at their feet, filling precisely the part of the frame where anyone would have needed to stand, the great dark shape they’d called the First Weapon, with his head on Dinraal’s boot.

Nobody in the courtyard said anything.

Then Mother, very quietly, from the edge of it: ”How long has it been for them?”

”I don’t know,” I said. ”Asha always said the clocks didn’t agree.”

Garnet was drawing. Very fast. Dinraal’s face, and Isolde’s, and the First Weapon at their feet. When she’d finished she looked at the drawing and then at me.

”They’ve been looking,” she said. ”Haven’t they. The whole time. The way Dot was looking.”

The words started in the afternoon.

Slowly. Through the old dictionary, which Dot had kept too, in another compartment, every word we’d ever built together. Silver, four ways. Scarecrow. Hearth. Food. Bowl, which had taken three attempts because Liam had borrowed one and not returned it.

Liam, in the courtyard, went very red when Dot read that one out.

”I gave it back,” he said.

”Eventually,” said Sera.

The first thing they said, when there were enough words, was a question.

Dot read it out. Very carefully. The way she reads things she wants to get right.

”Are you still there?”

I put my hand flat on Dot’s shell.

And she gave me the structure. The little branching shape, the one that knocks without turning the handle. And I sent one pulse.

Yes.

And then, because it had been a very long time, and because I’d never once said it to them, and because I say it to everyone now, every night, in order:

I sent the word Dot had kept for it. The one we’d never needed, in nine days of bowls and gardens and silver.

It took her a long time to find a way to put it in their language.

She found one.

The answer took an hour.

When it came, it was a picture. Not a face. A room. The laboratory, Garnet said; she recognised it from the old drawings, the long table, the window over the field. Full of people. More than there’d ever been. Asha at the front, talking too fast; you could tell from the way her hands were moving. Eve beside her with one finger raised. Enna with her arms folded. Aramaeis, very old now, in a chair by the window.

And in the middle of them, on a cradle on the table, the relay.

Theirs. The one we’d taught them to build. The little piece of Dinraal’s silver that could hold its own shape.

Still holding it.

And then words. Slowly. Through the old dictionary.

Dot read them out.

”We lost you,” she said. ”In the middle of a word. Asha says the clocks moved. Enna says the relay was fine. Eve says both of them are right.”

”We kept the hour.”

”Every day. One pulse.”

”Isolde said you would answer.”

A pause. Then, in a different hand, the translator said; a different sender:

”I’d still like to know about your gardens.”

Andraste was standing very close to me.

She’d been there the whole time. Through the morning and the noon and the afternoon. Not saying anything. Watching. The way she watches anything she doesn’t understand yet and might need to fight.

”They waited,” she said. Very quietly. ”The whole time. The way Dot waited.”

”Yes.”

”On Hyrran,” said Andraste, ”we have a word for people who keep a door open for someone who might never come back through it.”

”What is it?”

She looked at the relay in Dot’s compartment for a long time.

”Family,” she said.

Keir asked to show Enna the Scarecrow.

Late in the afternoon. When there were enough words. He stood in front of Dot with his drawings under his arm, all of them, every ship he’s built since the yard, and he didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then he said: ”Tell her the aircraft never flew.”

Dot told her.

”Tell her it didn’t need to,” said Keir. ”Tell her the release went into the next one. And the one after that.” He spread the drawings out on the courtyard stone. The Open Hand. The Scarecrow, long and narrow, with her four fins like arms. The interceptors. The refitted Hands. ”Tell her it’s in all of them. Every one. Tell her a hundred people have walked off a failing ship because of it, and the ship didn’t fall.”

Garnet sent the drawings across. One line at a time. It took the rest of the afternoon.

The answer came while the sun was going down.

Dot read it out. Very carefully. In the voice she uses when she’s reading something she wants to get right.

”Enna says: show me the load path.”

Keir laughed.

Out loud. On the courtyard stone. With his drawings round him. I’d never heard Keir laugh like that, not once, not in all the years since the yard; he laughs quietly, usually, at things nobody else has noticed.

He laughed so hard Aster had to put a hand on his shoulder.

”She hasn’t changed,” he said. When he could. ”She hasn’t changed at all.”

And he sent her the load path.

Every one.

The second message from Enna came an hour later. It was much shorter.

”Good.”

And under it, after a pause long enough that Dot thought the link had gone quiet again:

”You’re welcome.”

Okafor came through the courtyard arch at dusk.

She’d been in the map room all day. Getting ready. Forty-two worlds. Three hundred and forty engines built twice. The Meridian and the Harness and the Steady and the Marian and the Clare and every interceptor in Risa’s wing. Tomorrow at dawn.

She stood at the edge of the courtyard and looked at all of us round Dot. At the relay. At Garnet’s drawings, laid out on the stone. At the face of a man none of us had seen in a very long time.

”Dask,” she said.

I told her.

All of it. From the wall to the relay to the ninth night. The nine days. Enna’s release. The Open Hand. Dot’s pulse, every morning, for longer than Okafor had been Marshal.

She listened without saying anything.

When I’d finished, she looked at the relay for a long time.

”Every ship we have,” she said. ”Has that release in it.”

”Yes.”

”And you never told me where it came from.”

”No.”

Okafor looked at me. Not angry. Okafor’s very rarely angry. Something else.

”There are a lot of things in this war,” she said, ”that we’ve had to carry on our own. Because there wasn’t anyone else.” She looked at Dinraal’s face, in Garnet’s drawing, on the stone. ”I’d have liked to know there was someone else. Even if they couldn’t come.”

”I know,” I said. ”I’m sorry.”

She knelt down.

Okafor. The Marshal of Avalon. On the courtyard stone. Beside Dot. The way she knelt on the riverbank on Tiel.

”Can they hear us?” she said.

”Not hear,” said Dot. ”Read. Slowly.”

”Then tell them this,” said Okafor. ”Tell them my name. Tell them I’m the one who decides where people go here. Tell them we’re going to war in the morning. A long way off. Against something very big.” She was quiet for a moment. ”Tell them I’m not asking for anything. Not yet. Not ships. Not help.” She put her hand flat on the stone beside Dot. ”Tell them I’d like them to keep the hour. Every day. While we’re gone. One pulse.” She looked at the relay. ”So there’s someone else who knows we went.”

Dot sent it.

It took a long time. Dot was very careful. Some of the words weren’t in the old dictionary, and she had to build them out of pictures, the way we did in the beginning. War was the hardest. She sent a drawing of the ring, very simple, from Garnet’s sheet. And then a drawing of the house on the rise. And then an arrow, from one to the other. And then she stopped, and thought about it, and turned the arrow round.

So it went from the ring to the house.

Coming home.

The answer came at the first star.

Not words. Not at first.

A pulse.

One.

At the agreed hour. The one Dot had kept every morning. Moved, Dot said, to match ours. They’d done the sums. They’d found our dawn.

And then, after it, words.

”We’ll keep the hour.”

”Every day.”

”Dinraal says: come home.”

And then, in the other hand, the one that wanted to know about gardens:

”And then tell us everything.”

I said it that night.

On the porch. In order. For the last time before the ring.

Everyone was there. Everyone always is. Forty-two worlds on the grass. The Mom Squad on the steps. The grandparents. My wives and my children and Genny and Garnet and Pip and Brock and Saska and Rowan and Callum and Nan Vey with her iron.

When I got to the end, I didn’t say it out past the ring this time. Into the quiet.

I said it the other way.

Through Dot. Through the relay in her side. Down the little branching structure that knocks without turning the handle, to a room with a long table and a window over a field, where someone was keeping the hour.

Dot found the word for it in their language again.

It took her less time than before.

Dinraal and I talked that night. After the porch. Just the two of us.

Not really just the two of us. Dot was there, translating, slowly, with her rivers very bright. And Andraste on the roof above, where she could hear. And Asha somewhere at their end, I think, keeping the relay steady. But it felt like the two of us. On the courtyard stone of the house on the rise, with my hand near Dot’s open door, and a man I’d met through a fingernail of silver a very long time ago on the other side of it.

He asked about Father.

I hadn’t expected that. I’d expected him to ask about the war. About the ring. About what we were going to do in the morning. He asked about Father.

Isolde had told him, he said. On the ninth night, before the link went quiet. She’d seen the names on the wall in our recording. The one with the cross beside it. She’d asked Dot whose it was, and Dot had told her, and Isolde had written it in her notebook. Trevor Dask. His father.

”I would have asked,” said Dinraal. Through Dot. ”If there had been a tenth night.”

So I told him.

The forge. The scarecrow in the dead field. Lead into gold, which was easy, and sand into bread, which was hard, and never telling me why it mattered. The words that got stuck, Mother said, like a filter with ash in it. Standing between our beds every night after we were asleep and saying it, so that it was said.

It took a long time. Dot had to build half of it out of pictures.

When I’d finished, the relay was quiet for a long time.

Then Dinraal told me about his.

I’m not going to write all of it. It belongs to him. Dot says it’s in the dictionary now, every word, and if he wants anyone to read it he’ll tell them.

I’ll write that his father carried the same silver he does. That it came down to him the way Father’s forge came down to me. That his father was called Bahamut, and fought under banners Dinraal never saw, for people who wrote him down in lists and then rubbed out the lists. That Dinraal had spent a long time finding out who his father was from what other people had erased.

”I found him one line at a time,” he said. ”The way we found you.”

I didn’t say anything for a while.

Then I said: ”Did you find out whether he knew?”

”Knew what?”

”That the silver was never only yours.”

The relay was quiet for a very long time.

”No,” said Dinraal. ”I don’t think I ever will.” A pause. ”But I think he would have liked you. You ask the same kind of question he did. The kind that makes everyone in the room quieter.”

Andraste came down off the roof when it was over.

She sat beside me on the courtyard stone, with her blade across her knees.

”He’s a First Blade,” she said.

”He’s not a—”

”He is,” said Andraste. ”I can tell. From how he speaks. From the way he waits before he answers.” She looked at the relay. ”From the way he asked about your father before he asked about your war.” She was quiet. ”On Hyrran, that is how you know a First Blade who has lost people. They ask about the dead first. So that the living know they will be remembered too.”

Aramaeis asked to speak to me on the last morning. Before dawn. Before the arches.

He asked the question Dinraal said he’d wanted to ask, all those years ago, before the link went quiet. Through Dot. Very slowly.

”What did you change. In the people. And what did it cost you to learn.”

I thought about that for a long time.

Then I told him about the cistern. About Hana, and the vessel that split in the pressure chamber, and the four minutes. About the stabilizer, and Mother’s silver, and Maura’s. About the paths that should have joined and didn’t, and the ones someone had made sure wouldn’t. About the first time I made something complete and the first time I couldn’t.

”It cost,” I said, ”finding out that somebody had done it on purpose. And that they’d thought it was the right thing to do. And that they’d written it down in very careful words so nobody would have to say what it was.”

Aramaeis didn’t answer for a long time.

When he did, Dot read it out very quietly.

”Recovery. Assurance. Allocation.” A pause. ”Our army had words like that too.”

”I know,” I said. ”You told us. On the eighth day.”

”I’ve been angry about them since,” said Aramaeis. ”Every day. In the hour.” Another pause. ”It has been useful. It has been the most useful anger of my life.” A long pause. ”Be careful where you are going. Places that are made of careful words are the most dangerous places there are.”

And Corin.

I’ll write this last, because it happened last, just before the arches. Just before dawn.

He came down the stairs from the children’s room on his own. On his hands and knees. Seven weeks old and looking a year. Across the courtyard, past everyone, to Dot.

And looked at the relay in her open door.

For a long time. Carefully. With Father’s eyes. Working out how it was made.

Then he put out his hand.

Not on it. Near it. The way Genny teaches. The way I’d done, all those years ago, in the wall of the workshop.

And the relay answered him.

Three. A pause. One.

Not because he asked it to. Because he was there. Because he has the same silver I do, and the same silver Dinraal does, and the relay knew it the way the silver always knows.

Corin didn’t ask it for anything.

He just put his hand near it, and listened, and smiled.

At the other end, Dot said afterward, Asha made a sound that the translator couldn’t render at all.

Old Son flashed it from the tower at dawn.

Three. A pause. One.

And then, after it, for the first time in all the mornings since the ninth night, Dot didn’t send the pulse alone.

She waited.

And something on the other side of the silver sent it with her.

Days 4158–4159. Three, and One.

I never wrote about Hearth. The nine days, the first year in Scarecrow: a wall that wouldn’t hold still, Old Son’s thirty-one, and someone answering in the same silver. Dinraal, Isolde, Asha, Eve, Aramaeis, Enna. We taught them to finish a path; Enna taught us the release that’s in every ship we’ve built. On the ninth night it stopped mid-word. Dot kept the relay behind her soft door and sent one pulse every dawn without telling me, because I had enough doors that didn’t open. On the last night of the thirty days: a return. Dinraal and Isolde and the First Weapon in a picture one line at a time. They kept the hour too. Okafor knelt: we’re going to war; keep the hour while we’re gone. Dot turned the arrow round. Dinraal says: come home.