The Unnameables by Ellen Booraem

Author:Ellen Booraem [Booraem, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Young Adult, Childrens, Adventure
ISBN: 0152063684
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2008-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jail

We've got a Council to tell us what to do, and Constables to make sure we do it. Now we've got bars on the Trade storeroom in case somebody wants to take his own road. My Grandma would've had a thing or two to say about that.

—Journal of Tansy Carver, 1824

IF MEDFORD HADN'T known where the jail was he could have followed the sound.

He had just shut Town Hall's front door behind him when a series of bleats, thumps, bangs, crashes, and grunts echoed up the white-plastered stairwell.

He ran down the stairs to the cellar, the Goatman's staff in one hand and the squirrel bowl under an arm. Ward Constable was at the bottom, about to burst into tears.

"He hates it, Ragged ... Master Runyuin," Ward said as the two of them hastened down the narrow hallway. "He struggled. Tried to bite me. Seemed like a nice enough fellow before that."

"Is he waving his arms around?" Medford stopped and listened for wind.

"Nay, Bailey has him pinned down. I said we'd tie him if he didn't calm himself."

"Tie him?" Medford got moving again.

"Didn't impress him much, I have to say. Canst thou control him?" Ward looked so hopeful Medford didn't have the heart to answer.

The hallway was crowded with barrels and crates and piles of baskets, Island goods destined for the next Mainland Trade. A door at the end opened onto a ramp up to Harbor Lane, which led to the Trade Wharf. Trade goods typically were stored in the jail cell, but the Constables must have cleared it out.

Harmony Weaver's baskets were scattered all over the floor.

"See?" Ward picked up a basket. "His hooves were everywhere. He tried to walk up the wall." He set the basket on a crate marked TOWN RECORDS—NOT FOR TRADE and gave the crate an angry kick.

The jail cell was three-quarters the size of Medford's kitchen. It was in a back corner of the cellar, and had a barred window in each of the two outside walls. The windows were open to let in the breeze off the harbor. The cell walls were whitewashed, the floor swept. Wooden benches lined the walls. The room was almost pleasant.

Or would have been, if there hadn't been a writhing, bawling heap of Constable and Goatman in the middle of the floor. Bailey had his beefy arms around the Goatman, who was trying to butt him in the head, bite him on the wrist, and kick him in the shins.

"Bweh-eh-eh-eh!" the Goatman kept bleating.

Medford squatted in front of the squirming figure. "Goatman," he said. "Goatman. Stop. Hark to me. Goatman. Listen. Goatman."

"Bw-ee-eee," the Goatman said, arching his back and straining against Baileys arms. "I will not sta-a-ay in a hole."

"This isn't a hole. 'Tis a room, just like my kitchen."

"They will"—the Goatman writhed and kicked—"lock me i-i-in."

"I'll be here, too. We can look out the window."

"Looking ... is ... not ... be-e-eing."

'"Twon't be long. By tomorrow night we'll either be free or—"

Unexpectedly, the Goatman went limp. "I wa-a-ant this flatfoot to unha-a-and me," he said in a low voice.

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