Free The Unnameables by Ellen Booraem

the most startling blue, even brighter than Prudy's. "The breeze. Can you make it do what you wa-a-ant?"
    "Cry mercy, of course not," Medford said.
    The Goatman sighed and turned back to the ocean. "Neither can I," he said.
    Change the subject,
Medford's brain said. "Wouldst thou take tea?"
    "Everyone e-e-else can do it," the Goatman said. "Not me, though. Call it up, I can do tha-a-at. But then it does what it wa-a-ants. And I can't make it go awa-a-ay."
    "Perhaps some bread and butter?" Medford said.
    "I don't understa-a-and. I think all the right things, move my ha-a-ands right."
    "With honey, perhaps."
    "In the city they ha-a-ave gizmos for it. I looked in a window and a lady poked her finger at a thi-i-ing with blades and then she had wi-i-ind in her face."
    Ah,
Medford thought,
'tis a Mainland thing, like a motorwagon.
"So you poke something with a finger," he said.
    "Almost," the Goatman said. "I do this." He faced the ocean, then stuck his forefinger in his mouth to wet it. He held the finger up, waggled it a little as if beckoning someone who was already paying attention.
    Medford heard a distant
whup-whup-whup
coming from Mainland. He looked out at the water, which was smooth as varnished Sapwood at this early hour.
    Except—Medford went to the porch rail and squinted—except for what looked like a little herd of whitecaps far out to sea. The disturbance was speeding toward Island, moving faster the nearer it got. The waves were unusually tall for being so far out, getting taller as they neared land. The Pitch Trees lining the field across the road began to dance.
    "Uh-oh," the Goatman said.
    Medford barely had time to say "What...?" Then a blast of wind hurled him to the floor and back against the side of the cabin. He could hardly open his eyes, the wind was so strong. The Goatman was beside him, flung against the door, his robe up around his waist. It occurred to Medford that this would be a good chance to see how far up the goat parts went but he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough.
    The dog yelped, sounding far away. Something crashed inside the cabin. Medford remembered that he'd gone to bed yesterday without closing up his workshop.
    And then the wind was gone, just like that. Medford kept his eyes shut, afraid to move. The Goatman was muttering to himself. He rustled and creaked, getting up. "Like ye-e-esterday i-i-in that boat," Medford heard.
Creak-creak-rustle.
"Only a-a-all in one place."
    Medford opened his eyes, focused on the porch rail. His head hurt where it had banged against the cabin wall and his shoulders felt bruised. A hand came into view, the palm grimy, the nails long and thick and yellow, with matted gray hair between the knuckles.
    "He-e-ere," the Goatman said. "Let me help you."
    The hand hovered there. If Medford touched it, the world would tilt.
    The Goatman snorted. He threw down his staff hauled Medford to his feet, and staggered back against the porch rail.
    Medford's head throbbed.
Tea with Tonic Root,
he thought. There were fresh roots in the cupboard.
    "My sta-a-aff." The man was scowling, clinging to the rail.
    Medford started to hand him his staff. It was the goat head at the top that stopped him, one of four carved in such deep relief that the horns looked round. Below them, various swirls danced and curled and whirled down the staff.
    The swirls are the wind,
Medford thought. He frowned at himself and shook his head. Wind is invisible—how could something look like wind?
    "Bweh-eh-eh-eh," the Goatman said.
    "Oh, beg pardon." Medford handed the man his staff. A question, an important one, caught in his windpipe.
    "My uncle ca-a-arved the goat heads," the Goatman said. "I did the wind swirls." The blue eyes were kind, although there was a tinge of ... what was it, foreignness? Creatureness?
Unnameableness,
Medford's brain suggested.
    He ignored his brain. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Rambles and Tales
The Book says one should never turn