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CHAPTER 1

What's in a name? Over the course of my life, I've had any number of appellations thrown at me. I must have heard every manner of insult and slur. And, my life being what it is, with me fated to live so much of it over and over again, the years have been many, and long.

I am here to tell you now, when all is said and done, a name is but a name — a label — and means little. It is the heart of a man, or woman for all that, which matters. Some hearts are true and some empty of truth, and you cannot always tell the difference just by looking.

Born around the year 1620 and then abandoned under the proverbial cabbage leaf, I no longer remember the exact day of my birth. An old woman found me lying half hidden in her garden when she went out to hoe her vegetables and, being kind of nature, took me back to her husband, a drunkard.

This happened back in the days when folk still believed in the Fae, when the church had but a tentative hold on the land, and spirits walked the downs. These two old folks lived isolated, away from the town, yet believed they shared that bleak moor with others, unseen. So when the old woman brought me in out of the misty morning and showed me to her husband, who'd been busy drinking all night long, he stared at me blearily and at once declared, "Woman, that's an elf child."

"Do you think so?" she asked uncertainly, peering down at me lying wrapped in her shawl. "It's a wee boy, and he looks new born."

"Throw it outside," advised the man callously.

"'Twill surely die if I do."

"It will bring all manner of trouble, if you don't."

Perhaps she should have listened to him. Had I perished then, in the damp beneath the cabbage plant, it might have prevented all the heartache that followed. But the old woman had never had a child of her own, so she sat with me on her knee while outside it began to rain and blow, and she told herself she couldn't be so heartless as to put me out.

When the old man roused from his drunken doze much later and saw me still there beneath his roof, he cried, "Aye, that's a rum thing."

So they called me Rum. I called them Ma and Sir when I grew old enough to speak. According to Ma, it did not take me long; I began jabbering before I could crawl, and learned words at an unnatural rate.

"Always clever with words and games and riddles," she told me later.

It was as well I'd been blessed with a good brain, for I had not much else about which I might brag. As I grew, it became all too painfully evident I was not human, or at least not entirely human. My head was long and narrow, and my ears came to exaggerated points. My arms and legs grew narrow also and looked fragile, though I possessed prodigious strength and could accomplish vast amounts of work if I chose, which I rarely did.

The old woman treated me kindly, even though she often speculated aloud as to what I might be. The old man was the first to give me a string of ugly names — everything he could imagine, from "a bad-un" to "lazy, no-good elf."

"He cannot be an elf, after all," Ma would protest earnestly, and thoughtlessly. "Elves are beautiful."

She did not pause to think about injuring my feelings. Neither of them did. In their eyes, I had no right to the sort of conceit that might take offense. The lowest of the low I was and, as Sir frequently declared, lucky he gave me house room.

The room he did give me was part of the loft, up under the thatched roof. The rest of the loft served as storage for everything from old clothes to broken furniture. Among these I eventually discovered a chest that contained relics from Sir's youth when he'd gone to sea. But that had been long ago. When I knew him, he only occasionally stumped away across the downs upon some undisclosed business, and spent most of his time drunk there beside the fire, swearing and quite often throwing things at me.

Ma did all the actual work around the place, caring for our lone cow and the hogs, when we had them. She kept chickens and sometimes traded the eggs for things she couldn't afford to buy. She scrubbed and spun wool and worked most of the hours that came her way.

I should have helped more than I did, given she showed me the only affection I ever saw. When I got old enough, she taught me how to do most of the chores, including the spinning.

Truth was, I hated being confined to any sort of work. I possessed great amounts of energy and could, as I say, accomplish much if I chose. But spinning, chopping wood, and splitting kindling bored me. Planting or hoeing the garden made me feel itchy and wild.

I liked to while away my time out on the downs, or sitting by the fire, on the rare occasions Sir wasn't there ahead of me. I loved staring into the flames and watching the pictures that formed, moved, and changed.

If Sir caught me at it, he would clout me on the head and swear at me. "That's a rum occupation for a young lad, Rum," he'd sneer. "What do you think you are, a goblin?"

I didn't know what I was, but I spent considerable time thinking on it. In many ways, I seemed human. I had five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. But I could tell I wasn't like anyone else. Sometimes Ma took me to the village with her, and I saw other children there. The ones who were near my size, and so presumably near my age, seemed put together differently. Their legs were shorter, their bodies sturdier. Their hair lay flat on their heads or fell to their shoulders in fetching curls.

My hair did not. It stuck up all over my head — Ma had never found a comb or brush that could make it lie down — and was black as the coal clunkers at the bottom of the fire.

None of the other children had sharp, clever faces like mine either, or eyes that tipped up at the outer corners, as green as new fern leaves ready to unfurl. None of them could talk as quickly or run as fast as I could. And none of them showed any inclination to play with me. Instead they stood about with their thumbs in their mouths, fixing me with empty stares.

"What is he?" I heard women ask Ma more than once.

She inevitably answered, "Why, a boy, of course."

They would shake their heads and lower their voices. "That ain't no boy."

Didn't they know that lowering their voices did no good? I could hear a vole stir in the grass at fifty paces, could hear what the wind said when it swept across the downs. I could hear what Ma and Sir said about me, all the way up in the loft.

They said —

We can't keep him. He grows unnatural, like.

I cannot throw him out into the world.

You never should have brought him in, in the first place. I told you so that first morning.

'Tis a sin to let a creature die.

Not a creature such as that. Mark me, woman, he will slit our throats in our beds some night.

I lay and thought about it, the prospect of slitting their throats. I knew where Ma kept the knives. And Sir had a flick blade he wore in his boot, and left there when he took the boots off. For that matter, I could use the axe.

He's a good boy.

He is not. He is turning into something neither you nor I want to see.

Maybe we should send him to chapel.

Aye, if you want the roof to fall in on him.

He needs to go to school.

I doubt they'll have him, Martha.

Martha was Ma's real name.

Besides, he's already too clever for his own good — and ours.

Husband ... what do you think he is?

Ma never got an answer to that question. At least, I usually fell asleep before I heard one.

I would dream deep dreams then, of fire, the light of a great beacon reaching high into the sky. The fire contained pictures just like the ones that danced in the hearth, only harder to see. I thought that perhaps people lived in the fire and had answers to all my questions.

Perhaps they were like me, those folk.

But one of the first things Ma had taught me was: Don't touch the fire. It hurts. It burns.

'Twould be entirely mad, then, to leap clear into the flames, searching for others like myself.

Names, so they say, are magical. I never had any trouble believing in magic. In fact, it seemed inconceivable to me that anyone could fail to believe in it.

How could a person disbelieve a power that made grass sprout and grow green? That caused a radish to spring up from a tiny seed and become red? That taught the birds to sing and brought the rain when the earth needed it?

Of course magic existed.

Even Ma and Sir believed in it. Ma often left a tiny dish of milk out for the faeries, though I knew for a fact the cat drank it. Sir frequently made the sign against evil, often when I walked into the room unexpectedly.

To be sure, Sir also made that sign at the pastor of the village chapel when he came calling. Reverend Rogers did not darken the door of Sir's humble cottage often. By the time I was eight or so, I'd seen the fellow there perhaps two or three times that I could recall.

But it does stand out quite vividly in my mind how he came toddling up the path to the door one sunny afternoon, perhaps because his visit served to define so much for me.

A small man with muttonchop whiskers and tiny eyes, Reverend Rogers carried with him an air of saintliness I could almost see. He made his way through the rusty gate and up to the door, and never noticed me at my perch on the roof until after he'd knocked at the door, when he looked up and started violently.

"God's mercy, boy, what are you doing up there?"

"I can see the ocean from here," I informed him. It was true. If I gazed away southward over the downs, my keen eyes could catch a line of blue in restless motion.

"Impossible," Reverend Rogers huffed. "It is too far. Anyway, should you not be at your chores?"

A reasonable question; I probably should. But I preferred to sit up there dreaming. I grinned at him, and he backed up half a step.

Fortunately, Ma came to the door then and greeted him. She seemed as shocked as I at his arrival.

"Mistress Stillskin," Reverend Rogers addressed her, "may I come in?"

Stillskin was the old couple's proper last name. And, you see, there came the magic of it, all over again. Possessing their name gave Reverend Rogers a certain power over them. It argued acquaintance, and acquaintance in turn argued intimacy. Intimacy, as I've learned, is a key that allows others to hurt you, and thus gives them magical power over you.

Quite apart from that, in our area of the world a surname often gave a hint of what a man did for a living, or what his ancestors had done. Ford guarded the stream. Weaver made cloth, Fisher might venture out on the tide.

Now, Pastor Rogers' use of "Stillskin" forced Ma to admit him to the cottage. He knew them, and knowing was a claim. She could scarcely turn him away.

Curiosity made me drop down from the roof and follow them inside. More than likely, I could have heard everything they said from my perch, but I could not see from there. For me, curiosity has always been a powerful force.

That's how I came to see Sir flash the sign of the horns at the good reverend, his hand down beside his knee, where he sat beside the fire.

Or perhaps, after all, he flashed it at me.

I do not think so, though, judging from the old man's expression, which soured even more than usual at the sight of Rogers.

"Good day to you, Mr. Stillskin," the good man greeted him. "A fine one it is."

"Too fine," Sir growled, "for you to darken my door."

"Will you not sit down, Reverend Rogers?" invited Ma, who possessed the only shreds of decency in that house. The poor woman looked mightily distressed, however, by this development. I could almost hear her wondering what she had on hand to offer him, and why ever he had come. "Will you take tea?"

Sir snorted, and Rogers shot him a doubtful look as he availed himself of a chair.

"No, thank you, my good woman. This will be but a brief visit."

"Thank the devil for good fortune," Sir muttered.

I almost liked him at that moment. All the blows and dire insults I'd taken from him in the past, though, prevented it.

"I've come to speak with you about the boy."

Me? No one ever focused on me. I seemed able to slip around the fringes of life precisely because no one saw me, or wanted to.

Ma pulled up a stool and eyed Reverend Rogers unhappily. "Aye, Pastor? What about him?"

Reverend Rogers looked as severe as possible for a small man who resembled a rabbit. "We have spoken of this before, Mistress Stillskin. You never registered him with the parish."

"Well," Ma began.

"Hush, Martha," Sir snapped. "I'll handle this." He shuffled forward on the bench he occupied. He inserted his pipe into his mouth and glared at Reverend Rogers over the stem. "Why would I register the boy?"

"It is customary to register all births."

"He's not my son."

Reverend Rogers glanced at Ma and cleared his throat. "I see. Still and all, Mistress Stillskin, even a child born outside of a marriage is required to be listed —"

Sir interrupted him with a loud guffaw. "Are ye addled in your wits? You think she was able to bear a child when he came along? She's been dried up long since."

Reverend Rogers' Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Then — to whom does he belong?"

"That's the question, eh? We but took him in, and that's an end to it."

"I see," said Reverend Rogers, who clearly didn't. "But what will you do with him?"

Now there was a question. I went quite still, awaiting an answer.

"Do? Do?"

"You intend to continue housing him?"

Everything in the cottage went abruptly silent. For an instant we might have been mere shadows of ourselves.

Ma's lips parted. "I wish —"

"Hush, I said, Martha."

Ma hushed.

Sir glared at me. It wasn't the sort of look he usually gave me, full of loathing and disparagement. This felt different, as if he tried to see inside me.

"We will continue giving him house room, aye, for now."

For now. What, precisely, did that mean?

"Master Stillskin, he is well grown. As a member of your household, you need to make certain provisions for him."

"I feed him, don't I? Give him a bed and clothing. Not that he earns it."

"That is just what I mean. Someday he will need to look after himself. The other children, most of them, have been to school. They've been to chapel. He has no acquaintance with either."

"He's well enough."

"Sir, he must learn a trade."

"I'll teach him all he needs to know."

At this statement, my mind reeled. Sir had taught me little, save when to duck. It was Ma who showed me how to slop the hogs, draw water from the well, even wield an axe.

For the first time, Reverend Rogers looked appalled. His nostrils pinched. "Not your trade, I hope."

"I'm a farmer. What's amiss with that?"

"You do farm, aye, but not a man from here to Land's End but knows how you truly make your living, or how you afford that poison you drink. Your name speaks your living."

Sir's eyebrows drew down. "You leave my name out o' it."

"I'm afraid I cannot. The boy should be sent to school."

"Martha will learn him."

That absurd statement made even less sense than the last. Ma stared at her husband; she could barely read and write.

Doggedly, Rogers went on, "Failing that, he needs at least to be registered in the parish records."

"I do not see why."

"Common decency, Sir."

Sir gave a grumble. Ma, effectively banned from speaking, twisted her worn hands on her apron.

Rogers pressed, "If he be a member of your household, he will have to be listed under your name."

"The hell he will." Sir pointed at me. "That's not mine."

Rogers flushed with ire. "I understand that, yet he has no other name, has he?"

"I call him Rum."

Again, Rogers' nostrils pinched. "No fit name for a Christian lad, and more, I think, a reflection of what usually fills that cup of yours."

The two men glared at one another.

Ma ventured, "Perhaps we could give him another name, an official one, like."

Reverend Rogers turned to her with some relief. "I think that would be a fine idea, Mrs. Stillskin."

"His name's Rum," Sir insisted.

For once in her life, Ma disregarded him. Still twisting her fingers in her apron, she said, "I've always liked the name Paul. If I'd had a son of me own, I would have called him that. Maybe Rum's official name could be Paul. 'Tis such a fine name for a man."

Her husband glared at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"His name will be Rum Paul Stillskin," she asserted, speaking it carefully, and told Reverend Rogers, "but you mark Paul Stillskin down on your church records."

He did.

That visit from Reverend Rogers did not prove our last. Over the years, he returned to call on us from time to time, almost as if, along with putting my name in his register, he'd scribed us on his conscience. When the notion of our existence cropped up periodically, he'd walk out to the edge of the downs with a repeat of one request or other.

"The boy should attend school with the other children."

"The boy needs to be put to a decent trade."

One foggy autumn morning, it was, "I must insist you send the boy to chapel."

On that occasion, Sir had just returned from being out on the downs all night and was only half sober. I could have warned the good reverend it made no fit time to approach him about anything. One thing I'd learned early — schooling or no — was to keep out the way of his fists and feet when he'd taken too much to drink.

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Excerpted from "Rum Paul Stillskin"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Laura Strickland.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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