Scarecrow

She asked me in the old way.

Not the new way — not through Genny or Garnet, not through Rue, not through the humming that shifts when you’re meant to notice it. The old way, which is the way she asked me the very first time, before we had any language between us at all. She went still.

The queen is not still. This is a thing about her that I have come to understand over a very long time: she moves. Not quickly, not loudly, but she is never entirely still — there is always something shifting, the angle of an arm, the small adjustment that means she is processing something, the particular quality of attention that large living things have when they are fully present. Even when she is sitting against the Next Door garden wall with the children leaning on her she is making small continuous movements, the way a river makes small continuous movements even when you would not call it fast.

When she goes still, it means something.

I noticed it on the second afternoon after Ari was born — after the busy week, the rotation of visitors, the full house settling into its new weight and shape. I was in the east garden in the early evening and the queen was at the wall in the usual place and she was completely still. Not the stillness of sleep. The stillness of waiting.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

After a moment she turned and went back toward the hollow, moving in the way she moves through her own ground: low, deliberate, without hurry, through the gap in the wall that she has made over the years into a passageway just wide enough for her. She did not look back.

I followed her.

The hollow under the garden is older than the house. The queen has been there longer than any of us, longer than the orchard, longer than the east wall. I have been down many times over the years — not casually, not on a schedule, but when she asks and I go — and each time it is the same and not the same, the way old conversations are: the place unchanged, but you bring different things to it every time you return.

The entrance is at the east wall, where the old roots of the first apple tree have made a natural arch over a widening in the earth. I would not have noticed it, except that the queen stopped there and folded herself in through it in sections, the way large things fit through small spaces when they know how, and I followed her.

The passage went down at an angle for a short way and then opened into something I cannot accurately describe. The word hollow suggests a negative space, an absence, and that is not what it was. It was more like a room that had decided to be a room on its own terms, without any of the requirements we usually put on rooms — straight walls, a ceiling you could reach, right angles. The earth had its own geometry here, the pressed and certain geometry of old roots and older stone, and the queen had been here long enough to become part of it.

The light came from the queen herself, faintly. I had not known she did this. She makes a low, pale bioluminescence along the undersides of her arms, not enough to read by but enough to know where the walls are, the kind of light that becomes entirely adequate once your eyes adjust. It made the hollow look the way very old places look in dreams: present, real, slightly larger than it has any right to be.

She settled into the far end of the hollow with the specific care of a creature returning to a known position, like watching water find its level. Her young — Pebble’s generation, the dog-sized grey ones — were there. I counted four of them before I stopped counting. They watched me arrive with mild curiosity, made a small adjustment in position, and went back to what they had been doing, which appeared to be existing.

I sat on what seemed to be the most available piece of floor. It was warmer than I expected. The smell was old earth and something else I cannot name, the way deep wood sometimes smells in autumn, the particular dignity of living things that have been somewhere a long time.

She began to hum.

This is how the queen speaks, to me and to everyone — through the pitch and interval and rhythm of the hum, which I have been learning for a very long time and understand imperfectly but no longer badly. The humming is not a language the way common tongue is a language; it is more like a form of thinking made audible, a continuous process of weighing and deciding that happens to be possible to hear. When she is trying to say something specific to me, the humming takes on a particular quality — slower, more deliberate, the intervals shaped with the exactness she uses when precision matters.

She hummed for a while without speaking. I sat and listened and the hollow settled around us.

Then she said — in the specific humming-at-me mode, so I would understand she was addressing me directly — something that I will translate as: I have been watching you for a long time.

This I knew. She had been watching since before the houses, since before the first people on the plateau, since the shelter; there were mornings in the shelter years when I had come out into the cold and found the particular quality of watched that I later learned to associate with her. I told her I knew. I tried to say it in the hum and produced something approximate, and she received it and adjusted it slightly, the way a teacher does, and I tried again.

She said: You are changing.

I said: I know.

She said: It is almost finished.

I sat with that for a moment.

She has an absolute relationship with time that I do not share. For the queen, things that will happen and things that are happening exist in a kind of continuous present — not because she can’t distinguish them but because she doesn’t find the distinction as important as I do. When she says almost finished she means something specific, and she means it with the certainty she brings to things she has been watching the whole arc of.

I said, as well as I could: What will it be, when it’s finished.

She was quiet for a moment. The young shifted. One of them put a limb across my foot, which startled me and then did not. The queen looked at me in the low light with her old, specific, attentive regard — the regard that sees all the way through, that I have been on the receiving end of for more years than I can count — and she hummed something that I could only partially translate.

What I understood of it was this: Not different. More yourself. The thing you have been moving toward is the thing you have always been.

And then, after a pause: We knew before you did.

I looked at her. “Who is we,” I said, in the common tongue.

She made a sound that I cannot render in letters. It contained: the eldest. The queens under Root. The Scarecrow queen’s own lineage. The ones who were asked before the Hedge knew how to ask. The queens who sang Marn’s name until she came back. The ones who have been, all this time, on a world somewhere maintaining the particular fact of their own existence while everything else moved around them. The ones who look at a thing for a very long time and know what it is.

We, she said.

She hummed for a while longer after that, and I listened, and I understood some of what she said and not all of it, which I think is the correct ratio for conversations that are trying to describe something that has not quite finished happening yet. What I understood was this: she had been watching me since before the shelter, since the first time I had asked something that could be asked in the way that she understands asking, and the watching had been, from her side, the experience of watching a thing become itself. Not a transformation from one thing into another. A clarification. The process of a material becoming more purely what it is.

She showed me something then, in the humming — not in words but in a kind of image the humming can carry, the way music carries feeling. She showed me: the queens under Root, standing in a ring on the plains below the plateau at dawn, every freed queen, the eldest singing. And somewhere in the ring, understood rather than seen, the particular awareness that had been watching this long — the queens’ long view, the way they look at things across centuries the way I look at things across a room.

I said, with the imperfect humming I had: What do I become.

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said: A ground. And then: A place that holds. And then something I could not translate at all, which I think was not a failure of the translation but a thing that does not exist in the common tongue because it has not been needed there.

What she said next I understood exactly and will not repeat, because it was for me and not for the chapter.

I stayed for a while after. The young queen that Pebble’s generation comes from — older than Pebble, older than Dory’s Pebble, the one who first came up to the wall — settled near me and lay still. The hollow breathed in its slow way. I thought about what it meant to have been watched that carefully for that long, and found I did not mind it. The queen’s watching is not an assessment. It is the kind of watching that is more like company.

I do not know how long I was in the hollow. The time there has a different quality — not slower, exactly, but denser, the way old wood is denser than new. When I came back up through the passage the light was different outside, the sun lower, the garden in that stage of late afternoon that is most like early evening.

Mother was on the bench by the east wall. She had a cup of tea. She looked at me in the way she looks at people who have been somewhere she was not and have come back changed.

“She asked you down,” Mother said.

“Yes.”

Mother nodded, as though something had been confirmed that she had been expecting for some time. She looked at her tea. “Trevor would have wanted to hear about it,” she said. “He always wondered what was down there.”

“I’ll tell Genny,” I said. “They’ve been to the wall longer than anyone.”

“Not the same,” Mother said. Not unkindly. “Some things are for one person.”

We sat for a while in the late-afternoon garden, the light coming through the apple trees, the orchard in that stage of late spring where the last blossom has come down and the green has fully committed. Inside the house, faintly, I could hear Aune’s voice and Halvane’s laugh and the particular sound that Ari makes when he is awake and finding the world interesting.

“Almost finished,” I said.

Mother looked at me. She had the expression she gets when she knows something and is waiting to see if you have arrived at it on your own.

“What do you think that means,” she said.

I thought about it. About the hollow, and the light along the undersides of the queen’s arms, and the young with their mild curiosity, and the word we that had contained a whole history. About what I had been doing all this time — the asking, the holding, the particular continuous process of trying to hear what things need. About Ari’s black eyes this morning, wide and present, looking at the world with the focused attention of someone who has not yet decided what to make of it but intends to find out.

“I think,” I said, “that I am becoming the thing I have been practising to be.”

Mother looked at her tea. “Yes,” she said. “I think that’s right.”

I told Dory that evening. We were on the high porch, after supper, the island laying itself out below us in the last light. I told her what the queen had said — as well as I could translate it — and Dory listened in the way she listens to things she is going to need to think about for a long time. When I finished she was quiet for a moment.

“Becoming the thing you have always been,” she said.

“That’s what I understood.”

She looked out at the valley. “That’s not very specific.”

“No,” I agreed. “I think that’s the point.”

Another silence. The light was going now, the valley settling into its first dark, the stars beginning to arrive in the particular sequence they always arrive in, the ones I have been watching since the shelter. 1,109 of them. Not yet.

“She’s been watching you since before the shelter,” Dory said.

“Since before.”

“And the queens under Root — the eldest — they all knew.”

“That’s what I understood.”

She looked at me. She has my eyes now, the same deep black they went on Lio’s world, and sometimes when we talk like this — the two of us on the porch after dark, working out something that matters — I see the same quality in her that I imagine she sees in me: the continuous looking, the trying to understand all the way down.

“How do you feel about it,” she said.

I thought about this honestly. I thought about being in the hollow and knowing it had been there all this time, the particular steadiness of the queen’s regard, the word we and what it contained.

“Less alone than I expected,” I said.

Dory was quiet for a moment. Then she said, with the particular dry edge she has when something has moved her and she is handling it: “That tracks.”

Genny came to find me later that evening, with the specific expression she has when she wants to ask something and is deciding whether she is allowed to.

I said: “Ask.”

She said: “She said something different this time.”

It was not a question. Genny has lived next to the queen long enough to read the particular quality of a visit by what comes back up. She looked at me in the way she looks at things she is trying to place.

I said: “She told me it was almost finished.”

Genny was quiet for a moment, looking at the wall. Then she said: “She showed Garnet the deep room once,” she said. “Years ago. When Garnet was sick and we didn’t know if she was going to stay.” She looked at me. “Garnet said it felt like being known. Not seen — known. Like the difference between a lamp and a window.”

“Yes,” I said.

Genny was quiet for another moment. Then she said: “I think she’s been worried about you. In her way.”

I said: “I think so.”

“She worries in a very long way,” Genny said. “Years at a time. You wouldn’t necessarily notice unless you were watching.”

This was, I think, the most precise description of the queen that I have ever heard. I thought about it on the walk back to the house and it stayed with me and I am writing it down because I think it deserves to be written down: she worries in a very long way. Yes. That is what it has been.

I told Halloway the next morning. I owed her that; she had been building her list for a long time and deserved to know the shape of it.

She listened without interrupting, which is how Halloway listens to things that matter. When I finished she set down her pen and looked at her desk for a moment.

“All the black eyes,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The grandparents not ageing. The wives—” she stopped. “The rebuilding. That the children do without knowing.”

“I think so.”

“And you becoming—” She picked her pen back up. “What.”

“I don’t know exactly. Something that is more what I am.”

Halloway looked at me over the rim of her glasses with the expression she reserves for answers that are technically true but not medically actionable. “I will need you to be more specific at some point,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “The queen wasn’t.”

“Queens usually aren’t,” Halloway said, with the air of a woman who has had a great many conversations with queens and has strong opinions about their communication style. “I’ll keep taking notes.”

She went back to her list. I went back to the house. Outside, through the kitchen window, the orchard was green and steady, and somewhere below the garden, in the warm dark, something ancient was going quietly about its own business.

Rue’s count was three hundred and twenty-two. She said it in the morning to Bess, and then went to Next Door, and sat on the step, and the queen came up — not all the way out, just far enough — and lay one arm across the threshold in the quiet way she has been doing since Rue started going on her own.

Rue sat beside the arm and said the number again.

The queen hummed once, very low.

Rue said: “I know you’re there.”

She said this every morning. This particular morning the queen hummed differently — the two-note pattern, but slower, with something in the interval that Genny described to me later as like it meant something new. Rue sat for a while longer and then came home in the methodical way she has of returning from Next Door: shoes on, door closed behind her, straight to the kitchen. She told Bess the number. Bess was making bread and had her hands in the dough and said: “Three hundred and twenty-two. That’s more than a year of mornings.”

Rue thought about this. “It’s more than two years,” she said.

“Is it?”

“I counted.”

Bess looked at her over the dough. “How did you count.”

“I asked the General.” She meant the stone-faced Okafor soft one, which Rue has had a particular relationship with since she first arrived. “She said three hundred and sixty-five in a year. So two years is seven hundred and thirty. I’m not at two years yet. But more than one.”

Bess was quiet for a moment. “That’s good maths,” she said.

“I know,” said Rue, and went to get her breakfast.

The league news that week was dominated by Sigmund’s return to the Stile field, which the Hill had been managing around for two weeks and which everyone had been anticipating.

He came back on the morning of the first fixture after Calla’s birth and threw badly in the warm-up — badly for him, which is to say at a standard most mortals would be satisfied with — and stood at the top of the mound for a moment looking at the field with the particular expression of a man who has been away and is re-establishing his relationship with a thing he loves. Then he threw one clean and long, all the way to the ninth terrace, where it bounced off the high stone exactly where he wanted it. Hanne told me he stood there a moment and then came back down the mound without ceremony and said he was ready.

They won by four points. Sigmund threw a hundred and three, which is not his best but is very good, and Tovi at the arch was eating an apple, which is by this point tradition.

Pim received the inter-island circuit selection and accepted it. He is thirteen years old and has the quiet composure of someone who has been expecting this. Kesh went with him to the selection meeting because nobody thought it would be appropriate for Pim to go alone, and Kesh came back and told me he hadn’t said a single unnecessary thing in two hours, which from Kesh is the highest conceivable praise. Liam, upon hearing this, went very still for a moment and then said he needed to be somewhere briefly and was not seen for about twenty minutes. When he came back he was fine.

Kyrie’s new bracket had, as Okafor had predicted, turned out to be harder. She came third in her first fixture in it, which she received with the flat acknowledgment of someone recalibrating a plan rather than registering a loss. Luka, sitting beside her at the results board, said nothing and handed her a piece of bread, which is their version of the full post-match debrief.

Pell Jorad’s column this week was about the orchard.

He had come to Ister at last — Hanne’s standing invitation, the beds available, the grass field open — and had spent three days on the island, and his column was about what he had seen. He wrote about the particular quality of a place that has been loved for a long time: the way it shows in the orchard (not manicured, not neglected, but tended by someone who understood the difference between the two), in the wall with its gap worn smooth by use, in the stones of the east garden path which he said had been walked so often they had developed their own specific smoothness, the kind you feel through the soles of your feet.

He wrote about a conversation he had had with one of the people who keeps Next Door — he did not name her, described her only as a woman with considerable opinions about tea and an exact way of saying things — and she had told him that the trick to Next Door was not to have expectations about what it would be, only to show up and find out. He had sat with this for the rest of the visit and found it, he said, the best piece of practical advice he had received in some time.

He wrote at the end: I came expecting to visit a famous place. I found, instead, a place where things happen on their own schedule and to their own purpose and in ways nobody entirely planned for. I find, revisiting that description, that this is true of most places that matter. The famous part is a consequence, not an aim.

Hanne printed the column under the heading A CONSIDERED VIEW again, and printed it twice the usual size. She told me, when I next saw her, that she had received letters about it from nine separate worlds, which was not in itself remarkable but which included, for the first time, one from someone inside Collective territory. The letter had been unsigned and the return address was a postal stop on a neutral world near the outer arm, which is how such things make their way. The writer said they had read the column, and they said: I did not know that. I thought it was different there. And then: Thank you for saying.

Hanne had not replied, because there was no address to reply to. She had kept the letter. She showed it to me and I looked at it for a while and thought about the thing it meant — the gap between what a place is and what it looks like from very far away — and I thought about Pell’s phrase, the famous part being a consequence not an aim, and how it must look from inside the Collective: not a family and an orchard and a hollow under the east garden and very particular opinions about tea, but something formidable and deliberate, a thing that was built on purpose to be what it is.

We were not built. We accumulated. There is a difference and I have been trying to explain it for a long time and mostly failing, which I suspect is because it is true of most things that matter and very hard to explain from the inside.

Imre had been in correspondence with the long record keeper for the previous month about two things: a soft one, and a question.

The soft one was for Ari and Calla. This had been, Imre told me with the slight apology of someone raising a thing they know might be sensitive, something he had been thinking about since the announcement, and he wanted to do it right. He had a proposal: soft Calla would be in the small white bloom of her name — simple, early-spring, good in a child’s hand — and soft Ari would be grey, with silver threads in the same distribution as an Aldri sky, and both would have the particular weight of things meant to be held rather than displayed. He wanted them together in the presentation, with a card that said only: Both.

I told him yes. I told Aune and Tovi and both of them said yes. The card was Imre’s idea and I told him it was right and he seemed pleased in the quiet way he is pleased when something has come out the way it should.

The question was about names in the long record. He had noticed — this is what I mean about Imre, the noticing — that the long record now had a Calla, an Ari, a Lumi, an Oona, a Rue, a Pim, an Aoife, all the living children of the family and their friends, and a great many Runaways and Generals and Ash Dasks and Corin Dasks and so forth further back. And he wanted to know, he said, with the respect of a man asking for permission: Is it all right?

I told him I didn’t understand the question.

He said: They name their children after people. Not the soft ones — not because they want their child to be a soft one. Because the person is real to them. Because they want their child to have that name. He paused. I want to make sure the people being named after are glad.

I had not thought about this in those terms. I thought about it now.

“I think,” I said, “that there are worse things to be than a name someone gives their child because they wanted it to be safe.”

Imre looked at me for a moment. Then he said: “I’ll tell them that. If that’s all right.”

“Yes,” I said. “Tell them that.”

The soft ones for Calla and Ari sold out in forty minutes. The Lumi (the ship, Halvane’s gold racing ship) achieved something like notoriety in the same period by winning three consecutive long-water events on the winter circuit and then losing one very publicly to the Kethri, who had made an adjustment that Halvane refused to publicly acknowledge was an improvement on his design, which Tiri told me was his version of a compliment.

The mothers’ getaway had produced, among other things, a decision from Luna and Risa that they found both surprising and right: having missed the full week with the babies while they were away, they had each independently come to the conclusion that they had needed it. Not the missing — the going. The four days of not being responsible, of putting their feet in the sea, of sleeping in a room that did not have a small person in it. They had come back better at being present, they said. Clearer. More themselves.

Risa told this to Halloway and Halloway said: “Yes. This is what I have been saying for fifteen years.” Risa said she had heard Halloway say it and had not quite believed it, and Halloway said: “That is also what I have been saying for fifteen years.”

The fathers’ lodge that month had Davo for the second time and Doran Vale for the first. Ash had asked him, carefully, whether he wanted to go — framing it as optional, which is not how the lodge is framed, but which was Ash’s way of making sure he knew he was not being required. He had said yes without hesitation, which Ash told me with the slight expression of a person whose careful framing turned out to have been unnecessary.

Rory had brought driftwood again and worked on it in the evenings. Aurelius had brought books. Halvane had come this year — Ilas had told him it would be good for him, which is Ilas for you are going and that’s final — and had spent the first afternoon looking at the lodge as if cataloguing it, and the second afternoon sitting on the dock with the others and not saying much, and by the third morning had apparently resolved whatever it was he needed to resolve, because Liam told me he was fine from then on in the specific way of a man who has found his footing.

Doran had not needed to find his footing. He had arrived knowing how to be in a room with men who were measuring him, and he had been neither deferential nor assertive about it, just present, and by the end of the first evening he was sitting on the dock with Rory and Davo talking about boats, which is the lodge equivalent of having been fully accepted.

The deepback had come again, over the shelf at the back of the cove, in the third-night dark when the fire had gone low. Liam said it came closer than usual this time, and that Doran had noticed it — had felt the particular awareness that the deepback gives to people who are paying the right kind of attention — and had stayed very still and watched it pass. After it went he had said, quietly, to Liam: “Is that what I think it is?”

Liam had said: “What do you think it is?”

Doran had thought for a moment. “Something that knows the water,” he said.

Liam had nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That’ll do.”

The war thread was thin again that week, which Okafor still found more disturbing than she found reassuring. She came for the weekly briefing and said three things: the Sann border was unchanged; a Refined patrol had turned back at the outer edge of the Brannock arm without engaging; she had a report from the inside, via Corvan, that she was going to need to think about before she shared.

I said: “When you’re ready.”

She nodded. She had the expression she gets when something has changed in the shape of a problem, the specific look of a general who has been watching a thing that was going one way and has started going another. Not worse, not better; different. It needed thinking.

The report from Corvan, when Okafor shared it three days later, said this: a Refined scientist who had been inside the bell program had walked out of a Collective station on a minor world and asked for shelter at the nearest Hedge post. The shelter had been given. The scientist — Okafor described her without using her name, which was what Corvan had asked — had information about the bell program’s next phase that Corvan’s inside access had not yet reached. It was not about Sann. It was about something further in.

Okafor said: “I am not alarmed.”

I said: “I know what that means.”

She said: “It means I am paying attention.”

She went back up the ridge. I sat with the report for a while and then put it in the drawer with the others and went to find the people I love, because that is also the work, and it has always been the work, and you do not stop doing it because there is something in a drawer.

I went back to the house. Ari was awake in the garden, looking at the apple tree above him with the focused inventory of someone encountering the concept of leaf for the first time. His eyes were wide and entirely black, and he was looking at the light coming through the leaves with the particular attention that means, in the Dask family, that something is being understood all the way down.

The stars said Not yet this morning. 1,109. N.

The stars: not yet. / The queen: almost. / Ari: leaf.

Days 13671–13730. The Hollow.

The month the Scarecrow queen asked Lucas down to the hollow and told him what she and the queens under Root have been watching: that his transformation is almost complete, that he is becoming what he has always been, and that they knew before he did. Lucas sat in the earth under the garden and was told by something very old that he is not alone in what he is. He came back up into the late-afternoon light. Mother was already there.