The Pearl Savage (9 page)

Instead Russel was all for asking
after her lunch, “What have you in your pail today, Princess?”
he asked in that sly tone she knew well.

Clara laughed, he was after her
tangerines to be sure.

Sydney wound the rope on the brass
cleats watching the interchange closely, “Do not take what little
food our Princess eats, brother,” he sounded with disapproval, his
eyes roving over Clara’s slender form.

Undaunted, Russel pushed the boat
toward the fields with his well-worn pole, “Ah, the Princess has
father pack extra of the sweet gems of orange, yes?”

Clara smiled, “Yes, I may have
enough to spare… if you behave yourself.”

Russel grinned back at her, ever the
jokester, he and Sydney’s muscled forearms straining for just the
right momentum as to not over shoot the first of the fields as they
approached. The familiar woven fences came into view and the men
stabbed their poles opposite each other to stabilize the pungy
alongside the fence which held the oysters. Clara looked at their
ghostly white forms under the shallow waters of the Great Lake, she
held fast as the brothers used the stern to leap into the shallow
water, rising fast to their calves. Clara readied herself to grade
the first of their efforts.

The men searched the baskets for the
largest (and oldest) oysters in the culch. There were few to be had,
seeing the basket weighed down with less than a dozen. Clara sighed.
She would need to use divers at the center of the Great Lake again,
fed by the Ohio River. It was there that she would possibly meet the
quota that the Queen had set forth. Ada wished to have the rare,
round pearls instead of the baroque pearls that were the natural
shape of what they cultivated. The round were lovely… but at what
cost? Clara hated the need for divers, sometimes these males holding
their breath for a depth of over forty feet. For what? A pearl to
satisfy the Queen’s need for yet another strand about her neck?
Foolhardy was a word she assigned to the Queen more often than not.
She gazed to the furthest point her eye could take her, where the
middle of the lake lay, small sphere-dwellings surrounding the
deepest trenches of the lake. By week’s end, she would take the pungy
to meet with the pearl divers, to inform them their services would be
needed again. That would also mean a meeting with Ada. Clara could
not avoid her all the time she supposed.

Russel leaped back into the pungy,
making it rock chaotically to and fro, Clara’s footing remaining
true. Turning, he reached for the basket and dragged it inside,
placing it on the floorboards. Clara looked at the biggest of the
oysters, prying one and if adequate, take the rest for harvest. She
grabbed her glove, and using her left hand, held the oyster tightly,
grasping her oyster knife, she worked the tip in at the most open
part by the hinge, moving back and forth until she finally flipped
the knife vertically, breaking the stubborn shell open. Letting the
muck drain while pressing the knife against the creature, Russel
handed Clara the oyster fork so that she might search for the pearl.

There! It was in the interior fold
closest to the back of the shell hinge. She moved it forward with her
fork, the creature seemingly trying to suck it back into its crevice.

Clara plucked it out and gazed at
it, holding the fat, pea-sized gem above her face, both men looking
at it critically. She studied it; the size was perfect with the
classic baroque “pinch” just off center. This field was
cultivated for a perfect cream color and size, but, as with any
organic thing, this oyster was not cooperating by yielding that
butter color with a hint of pink. Clara brought the pearl down beside
her and raised her eyebrows at the brothers.

“Pink,” Sydney said.

“Aye, it be pink, Princess,”
Russel agreed.

She nodded. The Queen would wish the
crop to yield that which was commanded but Clara knew that these
results could be tipped. Perhaps it was the item placed that caused
it. She asked the brothers.

“Glass, Princess, we use it
always. It is what the Guardian’s instructed for uniformity,”
Sydney said.

It was confounding, Clara couldn’t
explain the color.

“It is not overly pink,” Sydney
said.

“Just a sheen, is all,” Russel
said.

“She will not like it,” Clara
said, stomach becoming tight thinking about the Queen’s displeasure.

No one asked who She was.

The remainder of the day was spent
thus. Each field which yielded different size and colored pearls was
checked, all but the pink were in order. Each field represented
different colors at different levels of maturation, only the first
field had a mysterious color result.

Drat
.

After lunch, which was quite late,
Clara used the fresh water bucket (that had been in a dim corner of
the pungy) to rinse her hands of the sticky citrus of the tangerine.
Russel not bothering a bit, but indelicately sucking it right off his
fingers.

Clara laughed, “You enjoy the
tangerines more than I!”

“Aye, ‘tis true, Princess.”
Sydney chuckled at the two of them with their tangerines, he not a
bit fond of them.

The contents of their lunch put
away, Clara said, “It is time to get back,” seeing how the sun
had lost its highest arc, through the thick air of the sphere.

Clara looked at her time piece about
her neck…half past four o’clock. Ada would most definitely be about
and demanding an audience with her. Wishing to know how the fields
faired, or rather,
what they
yielded.

Sydney, who read her well said, “Let
us return to the pier.”

Clara nodded, wishing very much that
she had the forethought to fetch a flat stool upon which to sit. Her
legs were tired from standing the entire day. Tomorrow, she would
need not be in the fields. Instead, she would attend Trading Day and
see what wares the Royal Manse may need. That brought her round to
thinking of Charles. Where must he be? She wondered if he had become
busy in the other fields. Just as she thought it, there he was,
skippering his own pungy.

“Hail Princess!” Charles called
with a shout and a wave. His breeches tucked into supple leather
boots of the deepest chocolate, tied in the front with laces which
wound like Xs up the front. His shirt billowed behind him and his
forearms bulged as he manned the pole. His younger brother,
Alexander, “Alex” worked the stern as he worked the bow, only ten
and two years and already a deck hand.

She raised a hand in greeting and
called back, “Greetings, Charles and Alex!” She was quite happy
to see Charles, a glad tiding to see him. His good will for her plain
on every angle of his face, Alex a smiling mirror behind him.

Charles and Alex pulled beside the
starboard side of her pungy, the brothers fixing large hands against
the boats to keep them from hammering the sides together, Alex
steadied the stern to anchor it.

“Are you heading back to pier?”

She nodded, “I am.”

“Excellent, I will accompany you.”

Sydney gave a glower, failing to
hide his displeasure at Charles’ interruption.

Clara sometimes thought her life was
unduly complicated.

They moved alongside one another,
Charles at their stern with Alex still aft, “What say you,
Princess? What of your yield this day?”

Alex was a dear, “Yield is as
expected, however…”

Charles glanced her way then back
ahead of him, keeping the boats separated as the pier came into view,
“What is it?” he asked without looking at her.

“A cream field that has a pink
wash.”

Charles made a disgusted noise,
“That will not be good.”

“Yes, I know that.”

The brothers kept their own council,
not willing to add to her anxiety. Charles didn’t bother, he knew the
Queen would discuss the color. She would have to place blame
somewhere convenient. No matter, Clara would deal with the
consequence.

Clara stood straighter, squaring her
shoulders, “In all truth, I cannot control the oysters. It is
inexplicable why there be a color wash,” she said and shrugged.
There was no more she could do.

They pulled up on opposite sides of
the pier where the Pier Keepers took their lines, tethering them to
the brass cleats on the deck, worn smooth from a million tethers,
like golden cream laid solid.

Otis, a lean specimen of a man who
was lead Pier Keeper, helped Clara out of the pungy and she turned,
waiting for a brother to hand off her lunch pail. Russel did with a
wink and a grin, “I do adore tangerines, Princess.”

Clara smiled, turning back to
Charles, already on deck, “Let us walk together.” She gave a
small wave to Sydney, who looked forlorn at her departure with
Charles.

He turned to Alex, “You have the
pungy and,” Charles dug around in the pocket of his breeches,
finding his time piece on its copper chain, “one hour until supper,
do not be late, or mother will have your hide!”

Alex ducked his head and Clara
realized that the admonition must be warranted.

Charles confirmed this, whispering,
“He does tend to dawdle about.”

She understood completely as she
could be a champion dawdler when so disposed.

He, of course, knew that about her
and gave a look between she and Alex, which caused a bubble of
laughter to escape.

Charles frowned, “Dear Clara, do
not encourage him.”

“Yes, I mustn’t encourage his
dawdling.”

Alex giggled behind them as Charles
swept her down the pier and away from the bad example she was
apparently setting. The evening was shaping up nicely. Sarah would
come calling at seven or so this evening and she had managed to put a
peeve upon Charles,
marvelous
.

They walked quietly together for a
time, looking at the houses, some with candles lighting as the supper
hour drew closer.

“She will be angry, our Queen,”
Charles said.

“I know. That, I cannot help, as
well you know.”

“Let me accompany you as you
explain the yield, the pink pearls.”

Clara thought about this. She
mustn’t give him opportunity to avenge her in a fit of emotion. No,
she would hope something else would assist her this evening.

“I think… she may be deep in her
cup. As will be the case each day that King Otto and Prince Frederic
dawdle
here.”

A huge grin broke free across
Charles’ face, “Yes, they may dawdle about but I do not care for
their dawdling half so much as yours and my dear brother.”

Clara had made a joke at the
neighboring monarchs’ expense and it was a small blight erased from
her worry. She had only her mother’s love of grapes made wine to
possibly give her grace. With Frederic here, she was not sure how
things would come to pass.

They had passed Sarah’s school and
this was the fork where Charles must split from her to venture to his
own dwelling, “I do not require safeguarding this night, Charles.”

They stood underneath the street
lamp which came on as dusk approached, its soft hissing giving away
its operation.

Charles reached out a hand and
pressed his palm to her face, the warm, dry hand that had helped
shape games when they were young, guidance as they grew older, and
tenderness when there was no one else, “You seek to protect me from
myself, Your Highness.”

Clara lowered her eyes. Was she as
transparent as all that? Could she not contain her expression better?

“Do not self-recriminate, Clara.
It is
who
you are to think of
others first. But think on
this
;
what friend would I be to you if I allowed you to go to the Royal
Manse unescorted, to face certain persecution for things that are not
of your making?”

Clara did not have a fair rebuttal.
She knew if their positions were reversed she would not leave his
side.

“Alright, you may come with me.
But, I implore you, say nothing. Do nothing.
Promise
me
.” Her aqua eyes focused on his dark ones, hooded by the
approaching twilight and he nodded, once.

He had meant it when he agreed. Some
promises a person could not keep, even if their lives depended on it.
That is what Charles would soon find
out.

CHAPTER 10

Bracus, Matthew and Stephen slowed
as they broke into the clearing, the clan fire burning brightly, a
beacon of welcome after their long journey.

Members of the clan were gathered at
the fire but it was the Band whose eyes Bracus sought.
There
they were
, their height and throat slits an obvious marker of
their status within the clan, noticeable even in the dim light.
Bracus thought of how much the clan would benefit from additional
Band members. But a strange twist of genetics made the choice for
them. With just eight members, they protected the clan. Other,
neighboring clans had near the same number…which led Bracus to
think that it was greater than sheer coincidence. His thoughts
traveled to the Evil Ones. They were somehow mixed about in these
processes. As there was no record of this manifestation of physical
differences before the Days of Ash.

Philip was even taller than Bracus
and had a way of standing that flagged him to Bracus. Philip turned
and gave a salute. Bracus nodded in return, then realized he may not
be seen in the dim light and gave a short wave back. Philip strode to
Bracus, clapping him on the shoulders as he stopped in front of him,
“How goes your scouting?”

“Very well,” Bracus said,
grinning. This was his childhood playmate, the one Bracus spent much
time beating on and winning and losing battles with; practice for
real war. Philip’s hands fell away, the callouses of his dominant
hand scraping slightly against the bare skin of Bracus’ shoulder.
Years of archery had beaten their forward hands into submission.