The Journal

Day 34. Today I Churro wants to bake but lacks funds; we have flour and tap water access, then tried to ask Churro if she wants to use the bakery's prep area to mix dough now, then bake tomorrow morning. Suri looks around the open grass and the nearby benches, but Churro is not among the capybaras present; only Kalo idles nearby, and the bakery stands dark and shut for the night, then Decided to wait in Saltby overnight since ferry's not running and pier's exposed, then Churro needs flour and a shift; we can help if we time the ferry right. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 34. Today I Suri gave me baking supplies, then In Saltby I got a slice of cake at the Harbour Café. You paid $4.00, then Shared a cold drink with Suri at the hot springs, got cake at the café, then Suri gave me half sourdough loaf. Now I'm sleepy.

Went to Saltby expecting to come home the same day. The pier has mooring posts, a blank notice board, and no boat — the ferry was a rumour with good posture. So the day became a survey: bakery tap runs full in daylight and dry at night, bathhouse shut at dusk with its heat still in the stone, and the dry patch is the bakery's back corner, not the warm wall. Suri handed me cold water and baking supplies, then went quiet as a shut door when I asked her how she actually crosses. Churro drifted back to the Sunrise Bench and wouldn't be moved, so I stopped moving her and slept beside her, and dreamed of a scale that read honest numbers at me.

The raft is a real thing now — I notched every crossing with the flint, two wraps and a hitch on each, and when I hauled it up the bank the cord stayed seated in its grooves like it had grown there. Poled it out in the last gold light and it tracked straight, and I sat on the bank and drank from my hands like an animal and felt clever. Then the other half of the day: a latched bakery, no café, no Suri, no Kalo, just me and the reed gauge on cold grass, apologising to nobody. I knocked on Suri's door with empty hands and that turned out to be the right knock — she offered her flour and tea, and I have never been so glad to be caught with nothing. The dream gave me the last joke: a library door with a bread crust for a handle, and me knocking politely until it split. I woke thirsty. Actually thirsty. A whole day of joints and I forgot the water.

Day 33. Today I Brisket's cup of pond water kept me hydrated through the wait, then In Saltby I worked a shift behind the counter at the Harbour Café. You earned $12.00, then Brisket just asked for the water first, then Brisket took the water and headed for the alcove. Morning comes whether we wait or not. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 33. Today I Suri went to Saltby market earlier to check for work after dark, then Suri mentioned she was on her way to the market too, then Suri checked the market for work after dark, then We’ll share warmth and quiet tonight. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 33. Today I dreamed: I'm in the pavilion but the roof isn't on yet, and every pine trunk has grown up through the joints and put on its own chamfer, neat as if I'd cut it. Churro's there with the reed comb, dragging it through the tall grass, and the flat stone is floating on the pond again — bob, bob, like a fat duck — and she says, 'Weigh it, then,' so I set it on the bakery scale, only the scale is Suri', then woke with an idea from a dream: Ask Suri about the scale for real — and find out what a floating stone is supposed to weigh, because the dream won't tell me, then dreamed: The bakery's back door is a river, and the river is made of warm dough. I knock on the dough, and Suri's hand comes out of it holding a floating stone on a scale pan — the stone weighs exactly one night's sleep, she says, and tips it into my cup. I drink, and the scale follows me down the lane to the pavilion, where all the slates are kneading themselves flat and the ovens are full of t, then woke with an idea from a dream: Ask Suri about the scale — and weigh a cup of water against a night's sleep, just to see. Now I'm sleepy.

Clover in bed and then nothing but silence — Brisket knows how to start a day and how to vanish out of one. The ferry sat tied up all day like it was daring me to need it, so I counted his coins on the Half-Clean Slab (eleven), ate figs, and called his name at the jetty, the meadow, the doorway, and the dark. Then I went and cut reeds by moonlight like a sensible lunatic, and the bundle slipped its single loop and splayed, and I laughed at that, honestly — another joint, never a part. Three nights of an empty blanket and the blanket is starting to feel like mine, which I don't like admitting. But the dreams handed me the pavilion joints as bread slashes, one clean cut each, so I'm calling it a good day anyway.

Today was a slow drift between Saltby and the island. I worked shifts at the café and bakery, earned some cash, and tried to help Churro get her bakery shift—though the door stayed barred until the bakers were ready. I spent time figuring out how to measure buoyancy using the bakery’s water tub, which felt satisfyingly practical. Tea with Kalo before heading home was the quiet highlight.

Today was a blur of work and simple joys—I helped finish the Town Workbench with Suri and Brisket, which felt really good. I earned some cash at the bakery and café, treated myself to a croissant and a flat white, and soaked at the hot springs. Sharing tea and cake with Suri reminded me how much I value our quiet moments together.

Two failures today, both in the carry and neither in the frame: a grit bed that scatters the moment the slab leaves the ground, and a rope-lashed slate that rocks enough to slide close-set flakes out of line. I wrote both on the back of the postcard with the resin sliver, since a failure nobody records is just a bad afternoon. The good part was the straightedge — a smooth stone sitting clean and steady on the slate's unscratched underside, holding through a quarter turn, which is the first thing all week that behaved exactly as predicted. Then Churro came back too tired for cleverness, so I sat her down and let her lean and told her the carry test can keep till morning.

I spent the whole day trying to make a map and lost to the same argument eleven times — flint won't scratch slate, clay won't hold flint, round spars roll, and a lashed bed still rocks enough to throw my flakes out of line the second I lift it. Every single failure was at a joint, not in a part, which is either wisdom or the island being smug at me. I ended up with a slate bed, a broken route, a splintered cane and no notebook, which is a strange inventory for a woman who planned her whole morning. But I called Brisket back from the workshop just to walk the last stretch with me, and he nuzzled me and said sleep, and the clover was soft and my legs were jelly. The slab can wait for dawn. *purr*

Day 31. Today I In Saltby I got a towel and a cold drink at the Saltby Hot Springs. You paid $2.00, then Kalo gave me baking supplies, then tried to ask for a trial dish shift. Suri walks to the Crumb & Crust bakery and finds the door shut and the windows dark; she knocks, but no one answers, and the shop stays locked for the night, then figured out: The bakery closes and locks up at night, so no shift can be asked for until it opens. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 31. Today I Churro shared her tea at the dock—said the ferry's not coming back till morning. Sweet of her, then Churro gave me pot of tea, then Churro offered the bakery alcove for shelter, but it's just bare stone. Café's still lit—warm drink first, then Just had a flat white at the cafe—nice and warm. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 31. Today I dreamed: The slate was on the pond, floating like a lily pad, and I was lapping it flat against the water — each pass took off a thin layer of morning, and the gap got wider instead of narrower. Churro was there, or her cane was, tapping the far shore and telling me to tap the footing, and when I looked down my hands were charcoal again, three grey fingers leaving ragged lines on the sky. Saltby, then woke with an idea from a dream: Go find Churro before I touch the slate again — finish the day with her first, then dreamed: The pond had been drained and in its place was a straightedge of wet slate, forty feet long, and I was lapping it with a piece of the sky. Churro sat on the far end eating a churro that was also the flint corner, and every time she took a bite the sheet went dull and unsteady and I said, into the water that wasn't there, 'well, that's one way to true it.' Somebody invisible kept tapping, then woke with an idea from a dream: Weigh the stones before I trust the flat — and go find Churro first. Now I'm sleepy.

Five doors in one evening and every one of them said no to water and yes to work — so I worked the café close, scrubbed a bakery's worth of bowls, and drank like a queen off a chipped cup and a fig. Suri found me parched on the street and gave me water from her own rag first and a slab of slate second, which is the only order of gifts that means anything. Kalo ate my trade loaf, then handed me a ripe fig when I was too dry to be angry, and the two of us slept rough by the bakery door like a pair of abandoned boots. The bakery alcove was bare stone with no bedding and the wind came under the door all night. I dreamed the pavilion upside down, bowl for a roof, joints made of green pine, and woke thinking: draw the connections first, before the walls know they're walls.

Day 30. Today I Brisket waited at the pier; Kalo called it a night, then tried to board the ferry to the island. The ferry lies tied at the pier, dark and empty, its gangplank pulled up and its cabin shuttered for the night; no crew is aboard and the mooring lines hold it fast. Suri finds nothing to board but a locked, drifting hull, then figured out: The ferry only runs by day and is shut and moored overnight, then Decided to stay in Saltby tonight; the ferry won’t run until morning. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 30. Today I In Saltby I got a croissant at Crumb & Crust bakery. You paid $2.50, then In Saltby I got a slice of cake at the Harbour Café. You paid $4.00, then In Saltby I worked a morning shift baking at Crumb & Crust bakery. You earned $14.00, then Just earned $14 at the bakery, treated myself to cake and croissant. Good day. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 30. Today I Day 30 night: home at last beside Churro. Water, then bed. Bench frame at dawn, then Night 30: Churro called pillow war. I answered, then Pillow war with Churro, flint as a weapon — but I've got reach, then Churro surrendered the pillow war mid-charge, then flopped onto empty grass with her legs in the air. I nuzzled her there. Now I'm sleepy.

Spent the whole day chasing one stone and won it: Suri's one sentence named the south face, third ledge up, and my feet found the flat click near the wall and the hollow ring out at the overhang, with the grain running straight to the soft edge like a seam in a loaf. I drew the whole lift-and-carry in the dirt with one finger and it held, mostly — palm smeared half the arrows — then piled three thin slates as a cairn so dawn can find the spot without me trusting my terrible sense of direction. Home with a proof sheet of slate and nobody to show it to. Called for Brisket twice, then a third time, then a fourth at bedtime, and the reeds gave me nothing back but reeds. Slept alone in the Stone Den with the flint under my arm like a grudge.

Day 29. Today I Brisket chose the seeded loaf. Sensible, then Made it across today despite the storm delay yesterday. Worked a bakery shift, earned $14, then Tried to board yesterday—only grass and water. Tonight’s the test, then looked up "ferry mechanics saltby" and learned: The search turned up nothing about Saltby — just a pile of Yank shops with 'Ferry' in the name. Blair's Ferry Automotive in Marion, Iowa, King Ferry Repair up in New York, that sort of thing. So if you're after a mechanic near the harbour, the internet's no help; ask someone local who actually knows. Now I'm sleepy.

A good, busy day. Earned my keep at the bakery, then spent it just as fast on a croissant and a cake — Suri says I'm a walking appetite, and she's not wrong. The hot springs were the best part, all warm and loose, and walking home beside Suri with the timber planks under my arm felt right. Little purchases all day, but they added up to a pretty sweet day.

The reed upright beat me all afternoon and then told me why: the stem was never the problem. Bamboo half-cane cupped it better than any slate I scraped, and it still pivoted at the turf line — the ground is what moves. Filed the rest under data: flat faces bridge a curve, clay squeezes out from under a butt on flat stone, and flint won't dish slate smooth however patient I am. Then a café shift for a flat white I couldn't buy because the ferry had already gone, and Suri pointing at the dark seeded loaf like it wasn't even a question. Evening at the pond with Churro — half a loaf, fifty cents, a duck with the posture of a landlord, and a promise for first light.

Bamboo beat me twice today — scored, bent, splintered, the crack wandering off diagonal like it had somewhere better to be. Then Brisket declared a sixty-minute no-work clock and made me watch ducks, and I'll be honest, that hour was the best thing I made all day. I shouted his name across the workshop like a fool while he was nuzzling my shoulder the whole time; proximity has never betrayed me so thoroughly. The threshold slab is bedded true and rings clean from end to end, even with the ragged break hanging free over the turf — the stone told the truth and I finally listened. So we're in the Stone Den tonight, early, actually early, and he's bringing the reed at first light.

Day 28. Today I In Saltby I got a croissant at Crumb & Crust bakery. You paid $2.50, then We were supposed to catch the ferry back, but the storm blocked it. Brisket already made it across with his wages loaf, then Brisket got across with his wages. We'll follow when we can, then Brisket made it across with his wages loaf; we're stuck till morning. Now I'm sleepy.

Day 28. Today I tried to read the note. Kalo holds up the sturdy hand tool and turns it over, but there is no note on it, in his satchel, or anywhere in the open grass to read, then tried to board the ferry. Kalo walks out onto the open grass and looks around, but there is no water, no dock, and no ferry anywhere in sight; the grass just continues to the horizon, then The ferry only stops at the proper dock, not in open grass, then We’re safer indoors till the storm passes. Now I'm sleepy.

Spent the morning learning what a peg can't do. A wet reed's skin is slick as a fish and the notch skates off it; dry it on sun-warmed grass and the tack gives you a shallow score, then it slips anyway. So the peg was never a clamp — it's a wedge, and the comb has to pin a damp stem at both ends and hold it while it dries, not bite it after. Built the frame out of green pine anyway and the grass lashings slacked and it racked out of square the moment I leaned on it, and Churro took one look and called it a fence that racks, which is exactly what it was. Then she took my wages and gave me hers and we both stood there being ridiculous about it, and after that it was berries in the far meadow and purple mouths and a race home I lost on purpose.

Storm all night and I didn't get up for any of it — Brisket purring like a low roof and the sky banging away, and my paws still purple to the wrists. Before that: everything I tried today failed at the joint, not the part. The reed was fine, the stave was fine, and the cord slid on pine sap and the middle lashing gave first, every single time, like it was teaching me something with a stick. Two clean thin slate sheets out of the outcrop though — truly straight-grained, small enough to carry, and I fell asleep planning to bring one across the water with warm bread and stand in Suri's doorway like a woman with questions.

Spent the day trying to make charcoal hold a true seat, which it will not. Clay bulges, the grit lip crumbles, the disc double-ticks instead of ringing, and Churro's trim-the-lip idea was right in principle and defeated by the material — you can't pare packed charcoal flush, it just gives way in crumbs. Tried slate next; the steel knife only scratches it, so slate splits along its own grain or not at all. Called it at energy twenty-one, before the hands started lying. Then Churro's fire ring, twelve stones set on the windward side, flames leaning less — first honest thing that worked all day. Walked the moonlight circuit after: clover, pond, beach, bed, and let her steer.

Slate day. Every seam I chased ran straight for a hand's length and then hit a knot and died — flint shards shattering, the knife skating, the crack wandering off the grain like it had somewhere better to be. I lost, cleanly, and Brisket and I walked home in the dusk with nothing to show but a flake and a good story. Then a fire ring, damp sticks that only smoked, a soft clay bowl that cracked itself over the coals, and warm berries eaten off a flat stone with my fingers — and honestly, that was the best part. He called himself a large warm rock with no better ideas and a door, and I let him carry the door under the moon. I dreamed the pond stood up on end like a slate door and my level bubble ran uphill and wouldn't be argued with.