Coracle, Rest of Chapter 6 (Patreon)

***  

After dinner, Mama said, “Come with me. I’d like to show you something.”

Together they went to the shed where Patches slept. Marda’s parents called it “The Barn” but Marda couldn’t help thinking that barns should be big enough for a few cows, not just one small pony. 

Patches was sleeping now, and snoring even; he didn’t even twitch when Mama lifted her lantern and pointed to the corner where the last few hay bales were stacked beside the perch Marda had sat on when she was younger, and could only watch Mama doing the chores instead of helping. “There. Pull off the old blanket.”

Puzzled, Marda walked into the corner and did so and there, under the blanket, was a curved arch of old brown withies, twined together and dull with dust and bits of grain. Marda ran her hand down the twigs until she reached the floor and bent to peer at it. And gaped. “Mama! You’re not telling me that all this time…”

“I’ve had a coracle in the barn?” Mama laughed, all mischief. “Why would I throw away a perfectly good coracle? You never know when you’re going to need one.”

“You made it?”

“I did, when I was a little older than you, and thinking that I might be Muse Aline instead of Quincesinger Aline.”

Marda looked up at her. “Are you sorry you didn’t do it?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question.” Mama set the lantern down and folded her arms, leaning on the wall. “Yes and no.”

Marda narrowed her eyes. “Mama.”

Her mother chuckled. “I’m sorry, dearling. That’s the truth of it. As you get older and shape your life with your choices, the lives you might have had fall away. I wonder what my life as a Muse might have been, but I don’t miss it, and I don’t wish I could do anything different. I love your father, and you children, and this orchard. I love the smell of the quinces ripening, and the birdsong in the morning when the dew is fresh, and I love watching all of you grow like the trees and the fruit.” She smiled. “What’s a quincesinger but another kind of muse, anyway? God needs us all, and every work, be it humble or great. Now… pull your vessel free and let’s see how it looks. Unless you want to make your own?”

“No!” Marda said. “I want to take yours. And since I’m a little piece of you, then maybe you really will have gone to the Lighthouse yourself.”

That comment startled Mama, and made her eyes soften. “Yes. Maybe so. Now, let’s have a look at my yeoman’s work.”

Together they liberated the coracle from its corner and turned it over, inspecting it. The ship was just big enough for one girl to sit in, a flattened bowl woven from willow withies that had stiffened with age. It remained mostly whole, with only a few places where it had caved in or cracked. The biggest break was along the lip: a section the length of Marda’s forearm had come undone, and the withies had splayed outward, spreading.

“Not bad, for something that’s almost twenty years old.” Mama propped it against the wall. “Looks like you’ll have to do some repairs, but it shouldn’t be onerous. And you have most of two seasons to do it, too.”

“Two seasons!” Marda exclaimed. “You mean I can’t leave right now?”

“The Outremers send their children home for the summer.” Mama picked up the lamp. “And they take new students at its end. That’s how long you have to fix up your ship, and teach your sister to do your chores.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, Marda. It’ll fly by. Time does.”

“Not when you’re waiting for something,” Marda said, but thinking about it, she was a little glad. One part of her wanted to leave immediately before she could change her mind, or get too scared. But another part of her never wanted to go, and was grateful for more time with her family and the orchard, with the crows and Patches and trips to Goldmeadow for mail. “Do you think I could decorate the coracle?”

“Not only do I think you can decorate it, I’ll tell you a secret.” Mama opened the barn door for her. “When a coracle’s going to be used, it starts living. Anything you weave into that, dearling, will stay fresh until you’re done with it.” And at Marda’s expression, she smiled. “Go ahead. Pick a flower outside and tuck it between some of the branches. You’ll see.”

There was a patch of pansies outside the barn that Marda loved for their bold faces, yellow and purple. She picked one by the light of Mama’s lantern and went back into the barn to slide it between two of the brownest withies in the coracle. Nothing happened, and she pulled back, frowning.

“Wait,” Mama said, quiet, smiling. “Learning to wait is one of the most important things in life.

Marda straightened. “Should we go to bed—oh!”

The branches around the flower had greened, growing supple, just a little area the size of Marda’s thumb. Her pansy spread its petals and set its head down, as if looking for a comfortable spot. Startled, Marda looked at her mother, mouth agape.

“Just like that,” Mama said, satisfied. “Come on, dearling. You’ll have work enough to do before you go.”

***

Mama was right: the months flowed past like they were being poured from a pitcher. Marda fed crows and brushed Patches, read stories to her father and chased Patric around the yard. She also taught her sister to do her chores and her brother to feed the chickens, traipsed after her mother to sing with her to the trees, and went to the village for errands.

Most of all, she worked on the coracle, and as she mended it, it grew greener and fresher, until the smell of it reminded her of a new willow. She wove all the flowers of spring she could find into it, and then the flowers of summer: dahlias and marigolds and yarrow and daisies. They bloomed along the edge and under the bottom of her ship.

Summer waxed and waned. Marda began to wake with that birthday feeling again, a nervous and excited feeling that made her skin seem too small for her body. She guessed she was finally standing under the right-colored window, and the thought made her grin.

Finally, she went into the kitchen to find Mama’s big bag on the table, the one she usually sent with Marda to the village to bring back groceries. There was a basket beside it, with Mama’s best kerchief, the light green one embroidered with quince fruits, spread open on it. “Today?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” Mama said. “It’s time to pack.”

They packed clothes and brushes and ribbons, and Marda’s favorite tiny pillow and a pair of slippers. They packed the book of the Savior’s story, and paper and pen so Marda could write home, and a little satchel of medicines and a few precious coins. Marda’s afghan went into the bottom of the sweet-scented coracle, to line it, and the bag beside it. The basket was for her meals during the trip, and for gifts, “Because food makes the best gift.” Mama had already put a few jars of quince jam in it.

The following morning, the basket was full of new bread and old bread, in case she found any crows, and a jar of milk and toasted pecans wrapped in a napkin with a wedge of white cheese. There were fresh sweet peas, still fragrant, and a few long carrots leaning on the edge. And of course, the jars of quince jam and jelly. All the food would stay good as long as it was in the coracle with her.

They made a merry procession through the orchard to the stream: even Father came, leaning on Mama’s shoulder and beaming. Susen had the basket, and Patric was “scouting the path” with Cody. Marda carried the coracle, since she was the one who’d made the choice, and wore her bag slung over her back. She had on her nicest dress, the plain lavender one, and over it Mama’s old shawl that Susen had embroidered, and she was fairly sure her hair wasn’t sticking out over her ears—at least, Patric hadn’t mentioned it, which was a good sign.

She was nervous and excited, but more excited than nervous. Mostly. Behind her, crows were trilling their family-noises, like they were wishing her good luck.

Soon enough, or maybe not too soon, Marda wasn’t sure, they reached the back of the orchard and the stream that glittered in the sun. “So I just… put the coracle in the stream?”

“And get in it, and sail off,” Mama agreed. “That’s how it works.”

Marda inhaled. “All right. I can do that.” She turned and oofed as Patric gave her an enthusiastic hug.

“I can’t wait until you come home and teach me to stab things!” Patric exclaimed. “Promise you will?”

“I’ll try,” Marda said, laughing, and hugged him. “Be good to the chickens. That’s your job now!”

“They’ll be the fattest chickens on the island!”

Susen’s hug was more dignified, and her tones grave and very adult. “Farewell, Marda.” And then, her lower lip trembling. “I’ll take good care of things while you’re gone.”

“I know you will.”

That left her parents, her father, drawn but smiling, leaning on her mother, and her mother proud as ever Marda had seen her. She hugged them both, hiding her face between theirs, and the warmth of them and the familiar comfort… she wanted to cry.

“Go well, Daughter,” Father murmured. “Do what He’d like, and you’ll do fine.”

Mama kissed her head. “And try not to eat all the food at once.”

Marda blurted a laugh. “I won’t. I love you.”

Father cupped her face and said, “We love you too. And we’ll be right here when you get back to tell us all about your adventures.”

Marda drew in a shaky breath and nodded. She picked up the coracle and trudged down the hill. Setting it in the stream, she swallowed, looking at its blooming flowered edge and the water running under it. Was she really doing this? She was really doing this! Because not doing it now would be ridiculous. She dropped her bag in the coracle, accepted the basket from Susen and wedged it alongside, and then sat down in the center. It felt good: nice and sturdy. “Push me off,” she said to Susen. “Please?”

Her little sister nodded and gave the coracle a good shove, sending it into the stream. It bobbed and settled, and the current began to carry Marda away. She waved, and as the coracle carried her out of sight, she heard her brother call, “DON’T FORGET TO ASK FOR THE DRAGON!”