I walk to the turning grounds. It is warm and the drying mud tightens

  its grip on my forehead. The earth is loose underfoot and releases my

  feet without effort. The mud is never dry in Clabby, but today it is

  about as dry as it got, especially here by the turning grounds, where

  a solid footing is useful when you’re trying to lift something

  heavy.

  I sit down on the

  viewing trunk beside Hansa, of the Morovan. She is watching Senna,

  who folds reeds from the river into plaits and twists them into

  little figures. He is of the right cross-combination. They’re good,

  his reed characters, but she won’t tell him. Neither will I. It is

  unseemly to address the performer about his feats. In any case, it is

  Cullen I am here to see.

  ‘Well,’ I say,

  whispering.

  ‘Well,’ replies

  Hansa.

  ‘On a free are

  you?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. To work on

  the recounting.’

  ‘Well? How are you

  getting on?’

  ‘It’s coming

  along,’ I say.

  I

  take a quick glance at Cullen. He has been there the whole time,

  exercising away, but it is the practice not to acknowledge the object

  of your attention straight away. He is waiting for my look. I take a

  moment then turn my head towards him. In response, he throws the

  cloak from his shoulders to reveal a bare, unmuddied chest. It is

  rare to see such abundance of bare flesh and I feel a twinge at my

  knees.

  I am twenty-two years old, and I have not chosen a partner. I am from

  the Doonish line, so I am restricted to a partner from the Morovan or

  Engen line. There were five extended families who followed the Gaffer

  up the mountain in the days when the worship was at its strongest –

  the Doonish, the Morovan, the Engen, the Torrain and the Abercarn.

  When they decided that there was no going back to Chiram, the Gaffer

  brought in a proliferation regime, which meant that only certain

  pairings were allowed. This was based on similarities between the

  clans. The Doonish and the Abercarns both tended to have fair hair,

  so it was decided that they couldn’t pair up in the beginning in

  case that this was a result of some unknown family connection. The

  Engens and the Morrains had the same laid-back temperament, it was

  said, so pairings between offshoots of these families were also

  forbidden. In the six generations that have since passed, such

  distinctions are no longer there, if they ever actually existed. It

  is difficult to tell what colour anyone’s hair is around here, we

  are always so caked in mud.

  I have three potential partners to choose from. In the Morovan line,

  there is Jakon, but he is only fifteen and much too immature to be

  brought into the conjugal hut. Although it wouldn’t bother some.

  Among

  the Engens, there are Cullen and Roan. Cullen is my most likely

  suitor. He is about twenty-five, the oldest of his siblings. Last

  year, he was overlooked for one of his younger clan-brothers, Storn,

  who paired up with my clan-sister Lasar. I’m sure it was painful

  for him. I almost want to choose Cullen as a partner simply to redeem

  him.

  There

  are two kinds of performers at the turning grounds: those who show

  arts and crafts, and those who show strength. Cullen began with the

  feats shortly after he was passed over last year. He sang to begin

  with, but his singing was akin to the sound of some wounded animal.

  His terrible version of ‘Heart of earth, eyes of water’ still

  resounds in my head during quiet moments. Quickly recognising his

  weakness in this, he soon moved over to the feats of physical

  strength.

  I like him, but I

  haven’t decided yet if I will choose him. Despite his obvious

  strength and fitness as a partner, somewhere I feel pity for him. You

  can sense the effort it takes, squeezing himself into the mould of

  our expectations.

  We rebel in our

  first age of wisdom, convinced we’ll never oblige ourselves to

  follow the rules of the village. As we get older, the pressure of

  co-living loads its burden more heavily onto our shoulders. I’m

  sure when Cullen was passed over for partnership, that part of him

  thought he had succeeded. But the pity he received after his younger

  brother was chosen ahead of him - he probably hadn’t expected that.

  It is fine to be a rebel, but not if you’re the only one. There is

  only one route towards adulthood for Mudders and that involves

  partnership and bringing children into the world. It would take

  someone with a very strong will to choose another path.

  I

  kissed him once. Cullen. I’m sure I have. I’ve probably kissed

  every male in this village within three orbits of my age, whatever

  their cross-combination. Sometimes more than just kissing. It is the

  same story for everyone. At the festivals - Sunstop, Harvest,

  Glorious Exile - it is typical for those at first wisdom to get hold

  of some fermented chope leftover from the meal and drink until reason

  goes into exile. Those at second wisdom know it goes on, but they do

  nothing to stop it. Perhaps they acknowledge the burden of such slim

  choices and allow us to behave recklessly while we can. You can’t

  be too reckless, of course. If you found yourself carrying a child

  from the wrong cross-combination, there would be serious trouble. How

  serious, I don’t know - I have never known it to happen. We have

  seen females choose

  a partner and deliver a child within a shorter gestation period than

  normal. But it doesn’t pay to think too closely on that.

  My

  slowness in choosing a partner is the favourite topic of conversation

  among my clanfolk, and I prefer to keep them guessing rather than

  explain my intentions. Not that I really have any idea about what I

  want to do. With this seeing sickness, it is hard to look too far

  into the future.

  If

  I could think of a way to get out of it, I would. I can’t think of

  anyone I would like to spend time alone with in the conjugal

  dwelling, while your neighbours giggle behind their hands outside. As

  a youngster, I was taught about how a male plants his seed and I

  still don’t understand exactly how it could possibly work. Then the

  bleeds began. It is all so primal, so beyond rational thought.

  ‘What are you at

  today?I ask Hansa, looking elsewhere, pretending I have

  not noticed Cullen throwing off his robe.

  ‘I’m at the

  earth chamber,’ she says. ‘Very quiet today.’

  ‘How many have

  been in?’

  ‘Just one. You

  know who.’

  She was talking

  about Baran. He is the only one who closely followed the old

  rituals, always in the chamber honouring our ancestors, making Turas

  at the cleansing hut. Few people find time for that any more. Once a

  year, on the anniversary of the exit, we spend the morning in Turas

  before the big meal. That is the extent of most people’s engagement

  with the worship these days.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  ‘He

  wasn’t happy,’ she says.

  I

  throw my eyebrows up quickly. This is me saying he is never happy.

  Hansa smiles in response.

  ‘I

  know.’ She twiddles a loose fibre at the base of her smock, waiting

  for the mirth to blow by. ‘He was going on about the visitor,’

  she says finally. ‘Honrick, I suppose we’re to call him.’

  ‘What

  did he say?’

  We’ve

  been whispering, but now the volume lowers again and I have to lean

  in to hear.

  ‘That

  he’s been showing things to the Mister. These sheets he has

  brought. They show his way of living, you know, down in Chiram.’

  ‘Sheets?’

  I say.

  ‘Like

  sheets of fabric.’

  ‘Another

  Magward?’ I say. I can see why Baran doesn’t like it.

  ‘Baran

  thinks that the Mister is getting too close to him.’ She shuffles

  closer to me so that her hip touches mine, then turns her head and

  lines her mouth up with my ear.

  ‘He

  said that he heard the Mister call him Usal.’ She says it so

  quietly that the breath scarcely leaves her mouth.

  ‘No,’

  I say.

  The

  only Usals we have ever known are Usal Gracey and Usal Whistlebine,

  the people who helped the original nine when they fled from the city.

  Usal Gracey helped them escape and Usal Whistlebine provided them

  with food in the early days of the settlement. It is an old word,

  from the language as the Gaffer spoke it. We wouldn’t use it in

  everyday exchange. It means ‘noble’ or ‘honourable,’

  something like that, but its true meaning has never been explained to

  me. I’m sure the Mister doesn’t know any more than I do. I never

  thought of it as a title that could be gifted to someone else.

  ‘So,’

  she says, giving me my space once again. ‘A lot is changing around

  here.’

  ‘Did

  he say anything about the Magward?’ I ask. ‘The new one, I mean?’

  ‘No,

  but I expect we’ll hear something soon enough,’ she says. ‘A

  story like that doesn’t stay secret for long.’

  I finally look up to

  watch Cullen’s performance. He begins with a routine of the

  swinging of two solid tree stumps, the ends tapered and carved into

  handles for better grip. His shoulders and chest expand with effort

  as he manipulates his burden, his silver eyes beaming intently from

  their cavities. There can’t be anyone stronger than him in Clabby,

  I am sure. He has been performing these feats for too long.

  I

  want to ask Hansa more, but Cullen’s performance has begun and it

  would be a grave insult to look away now.

  Cullen

  has finished with the stumps and is now in a sitting position,

  lifting his backside from the ground with vibrating arms. Maybe I’ll

  just choose him, I think, and get it over with. I’ll place my hand

  on his shoulder and say .

  That’s all it would take to be free from these burdens.

  So,

  I rise from the low tree trunk, and wait for Cullen to finish his

  repetition. Once he has finished, he sits on the floor, gathering

  fast breaths into him, his chest shining with perspiration, trying

  hard to assume a dignified expression. I feel Hansa’s gaze from her

  seat below me. After a moment, I give Cullen a nod of appreciation

  and I leave without a further word.

  ***

  I

  had planned to meet up with Cluder to have another look at the

  recounting, but I need solitude after a long day of exchanging with

  others. I quickly make my way to the workshop, following my mother’s

  memory lines, trying not to step in them.

  I

  discard my cloak, then throw a handful of fuel into the fire. I take

  a moment to rub my hands together in front of the new warmth,

  clearing the excess earth from my finger pads. Then, taking my

  position on the stool, I pump my foot and squelch my fingers into the

  spinning clump of dark clay.

  I

  make fripperies when I am concentrating on something. Beakers, vases,

  bowls, I could craft these in seconds without really thinking. A

  quick birl of the wheel, a caressing press, two sets of clawed

  fingers creating a hole. The shelf above my head groans with assorted

  vessels, glistening after their hinch-bake. At my feet are dozens

  more which I haven’t managed to glaze yet. Some of them are

  starting to lean or collapse in on themselves.

  Mister

  Artain was the fourth Mister. She endured many difficulties during

  her time and did not achieve all of her aims. Her reign followed the

  reign of Gansmal Morovan, which, as Ardo has recounted to us many

  times, was one in which great hopes were smashed by grave

  disappointments. As we know, efforts to re-establish links with the

  Gaffer’s original homeland in Chiram did not bear fruit. When the

  Gaffer, who was by now very old, learned that his old neighbourhood

  had been wiped from existence, he sank into a pit of nostalgia from

  which he did not resurface.

  Sometimes

  I abandon the wheel and set about moulding the clay by hand into less

  practical, decorative pieces. People seem very pleased with my

  recreations of the Barr Hut – there are versions of it in every

  dwelling in the village. But today, I focus on the simple, repetitive

  stuff. The click of the pump and the gentle turn, the wet earth

  becoming smooth in my fingers. It ignites my memory.

  When

  Gansmal Morovan died soon after, Artain inherited a depressed

  community. What’s more, she had health issues of her own. Her feet

  were a damnable curse, beset by a constant barrage of rashes, itches

  and irritations. Unpleasant rumours said that she wore sandals while

  away from the eyes of others, to protect her feet from the

  aggravating dirt and moisture. Some criticised her weak feet as an

  indication that she was not fit to be Mister –

  Another

  handful of clay – the one thing we have plenty of.

  Mister

  Artain brought about many developments that continue to this day. It

  was she who decreed that males and females should have separate

  quarters. The future harmony of the village would only be secured if

  we got rid of the idea of small family units separated away from each

  other. We would only survive, she said, if we learned to treat

  everyone equally, regardless of their blood connections. As we know,

  this philosophy endures. It is central to our continued prosperity.

  Maybe

  a pause here? When I am recounting it. Or perhaps it would be best to

  run through it quickly, not giving them a chance to contradict me.

  Despite

  her achievements, she is still known by most as the ‘sandal-wearer.’

  But she should be remembered for more than this.

  The

  wheel has slowed now. I have not yet placed another handful of mud

  onto the platform.

  I

  absently rub my wet hands on the woollen sleeve of my smock, my foot

  still working the wheel. I find my attention drifting to the shelf,

  to the half-dozen angular blocks I made during my memorisation the

  previous day. These might be the simplest of all of my absent-minded

  creations, but I wondered if they were the most practical. We used to

  build with bricks, back in the early days of the settlement, but a

  wave of radicalism had swept through during the time of Mister Gween,

  which said that we had strayed too far from the original teachings,

  that bricks were a corruption of our sacred earth. The kiln was the

  only brick-built construction to survive. Without the kiln, it was

  reasoned, we would be without one of our key enterprises. I couldn’t

  even imagine what a brick dwelling might look like.

  All momentum now

  lost with the memorisation, I comfort myself with the fact that I am

  making progress. I have split the account up into five sections, one

  for each finger of my hand. I can get through two of them without

  stopping, before it begins to fall apart. Of course, who knows how I

  would perform once I stand in front of the public on the anniversary.

  I might not have a word to say for myself.

  Mister Artain was

  the fourth Mister, the first female Mister that Clabby ever had.

  I would repeat this first line until I was certain it had stuck, then

  I would add the second line and repeat the two together until both

  were stuck. Then I would add the third line, then the fourth line and

  so on. This was my method.

  I have also made

  markings to denote each of the phrases, trying to make the task

  easier. The first marking shows four lines standing alongside each

  other to denote ‘fourth.’ On top of that, I scratch a circle –

  that means ‘female’ - then on top of that, a triangle to signify

  ‘Mister’. The problem is that I don’t have a good place to make

  the markings, to fully work them out. I scratch the marks on the

  walls of my workshop, and sometimes on the floor, but they don’t

  stay there for long.

  I lift my foot from

  the pedal and the wheel stops spinning. I think about what Hansa said

  about the visitor.