Dirt collected under his fingernails as he dug through a mound of soil. The dirt was wet and cold, but there was something about it that soothed him—a richness that promised life.
He saw that life in a moment: the pale orange mound of a carrot. Pulling it up by its leafy stem, he shook away loose dirt and added it to the basket. Gathering vegetables was usually a chore he disliked, but today it helped take his mind off of the anticipation brewing in his stomach.
He would be going to the coast soon. His lessons were about to begin.
A few drops of rain hit the backs of his hands. He looked up and blinked when a drop kissed the corner of his eye. Quickly, he headed back inside.
A woman with long, dark hair stirred a pot hanging from a metal hook above the hearth. She smiled at him, but it was fleeting. “What’s the fare, then?”
He showed her the basket of carrots and onions. She hummed sadly over the size of the onions, smaller than last year’s.
A muffled cough sounded upstairs. Both he and the woman glanced at the wooden ceiling.
The bells of St. Andrew’s parish chimed five. The front door opened a moment later, and a large figure shook rainwater from his dark hair.
“Curse this rain,” the man grumbled. “At this rate, the river’ll flood. How are you, boy?”
“Fine, Da.”
“Ready for your trip?”
“Yes.” He tried to contain his excitement, but the man grinned at the eager tremble in his voice.
The three sat down to a supper of stew and staling brown bread. Colors of taste flashed brightly in his mouth: sweet orange, savory yellow, black pepper, silver salt.
The woman began to ladle a bowl of stew, but he stopped her. “I’ll do it.”
He carefully climbed the stairs with the bowl steaming between his hands. The upper story was only one room, three beds partitioned by sheets that hung from the ceiling. He made for the one in the back corner.
His sister lay pale and gaunt, her brown hair fanned over the pillow. She had grown so thin. Her arms rested over the coverlet, her wrists twiglike under the cuffs of her nightgown.
He sat on the stool their mother normally occupied, and where their father perched when he told her stories. He liked to hear them, too, curled up in his own bed, listening to the low rumble of his father’s voice through the sheet.
“Abigail,” he called softly. Her eyelids twitched, bruised and puffy. When they opened, her blue eyes sought him, crinkling in the corners. “I have stew. Let’s sit you up.”
He helped prop her up against the pillows. Blowing on spoonfuls to cool them, he fed her while trying not to spill anything on her nightgown. Her eyes were half-lidded as she concentrated on chewing and swallowing.
After he washed the bowl downstairs, he returned to his own bed and crawled under the blankets. He listened to the rustle of his parents getting ready for bed, watching the flickering light of their lantern fade as it turned the sheet separating their beds from yellow to dark blue, like the sun vanishing beyond the treetops into night.
But he was too excited to sleep. In two days, he would go to the coast. Just thinking about it made his heart beat faster.
His daydreams were interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. Before his parents could move, he was at his sister’s side. Abigail eagerly drank the water he held to her lips, gasping when she was done. He swept her hair back and kissed her warm forehead.
“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “Tell me a story?”
He curled up on the bed with her, moving her gently so he could fit. She snuggled into his side, closing her eyes. Stroking her hair, he recited the story their father often told about the bear who went to market. She laughed at all the right moments, but toward the end she drifted off to sleep, and he was left whispering the rest of the story to her dreams, all the while thinking about the call of the ocean.
Waves beat against rocks by the shore, frothing over onto the shoals of the beach. He stood hip-deep in the freezing gray water and shivered as the tide swept in and out. The waves pulled him backward and forward, unsure if they wished to take him or not.
“Center yourself,” Instructor Beele called to him. Other boys and girls stood along the shore, observing. “Feel it in the water and expand from there.”
He breathed in deep and closed his eyes. Feel it in the water. Could he feel it? Yes, there—just a bit, a little pinch of acknowledgment. He focused on that pinch and felt his awareness grow. Time swirled around him like the eddies in the water, twisting into complex patterns he couldn’t possibly follow.
He lifted his hands. Water dripped from his upraised palms, rippling the pattern. That was his connection. That was him in time’s grasp. Heart pounding, he submerged himself in the water.
His world was soundless and dark. Cradled in the cold and wet, he concentrated on the twisting vines around him. They drew in closer, the water pressing from every side. Reaching out, he plucked a single strand and time shuddered. He released a sound that came out as a bubble of air.
Deep in the water, far away and far below, he thought he felt something else. A presence, and a warning, and a blessing.
He broke the surface and drew air into his starved lungs. The others cheered from the shore. He turned to grin at them, water streaking down his face. Sand and silt clung to his bare feet as he stumbled back to shore, where Beele wrapped him in a thick blanket.
“Well done, Bell,” the Instructor said. “And now what do you do?”
He faced the endless sea and bowed. “Thank you, Aetas, for showing a humble time servant your power. I will not misuse it.”
The Instructor patted his shoulder and moved on to the next student, a girl who came from a nearby village. Many of these students would be sent to London, but he hoped he could stay at home, where he was most needed. God or no, Aetas had many time servants to assist him. His sister only had one of him.
He watched, shivering, as the girl slowly waded into the water. She was scared, yet trying to hide it. Someone tapped his arm, and he turned to see the tall boy who had gone before him. His dark hair was still wet, and he kept his blanket tightly wrapped around his shoulders.
“Well done,” the boy said through chattering teeth.
“You, too.”
“I’m Castor. I came from Enfield.”
Bell smiled. “I know you. The cobbler’s son.”
“Yes. I know who you are, too,” Castor rushed to say. His pale cheeks grew ruddy. “I mean, my father knows your father. Says he’s a nice man.”
They watched the girl disappear under the waves. He wondered how long he had been down there; each of the students had been different. One of the girls had been down nearly a minute, and they feared she had drowned until she came bursting through the water.
“We’re sorry about your sister,” Castor mumbled.
Bell shifted on his feet. He wasn’t used to talking about Abigail with strangers. “She’s faring better.”
“I’m glad.”