8
Oscar and Mom were cuddled beneath a blanket on one of the couches. Pip was reading from a book propped on her lap. Tin looked down then went inside the bedroom.
“Be careful,” she said.
Corey had his arm between the bed and wall. Paper crinkled like wrapping paper. He pulled the plan from the hiding place.
“How much you think it’s worth?” he said.
She took it from him and unrolled it on the bed. A corner had been ripped off, and deep creases ran through the middle of it.
“If we post that on eBay, we’re talking, like, thousands, I bet. Wait, what am I thinking? This is Wallace freaking Noel. It’s got to be worth—”
“We’re not selling anything.”
She didn’t know why they were hiding the plan, or why she didn’t tell her mom about it. She knew why she was hiding the hat, though. Corey looked over her shoulder as she ran her finger across the title block. There was a scale in the corner. She put her thumb on it to measure distance.
“That’s not right,” she said. “We hiked, like, half a mile down the driveway before we got there.” She tapped the circle.
“More like a mile.”
“You felt it, so did I. This means something.” She lightly traced the circle. “It’s out there.”
They both stared at it.
“It’s a fence, I think,” she said. “Like for pets.”
“To keep us from escaping.”
“What? No.”
“That’s what they’re for, Tin, keeping pets from escaping. So maybe Uncle Wallace had a pack of hunting dogs he didn’t want roaming the hillside and just forgot to turn it off before he checked out.”
She thought a moment. He might be onto something.
“Or maybe it’s keeping something out,” she said.
“Okay. Maybe. You’re freaking me out a little but all right. But you walked through it and nothing happened to you. And I could’ve gone through it, too. I just didn’t want to.”
Tin ran her finger from the palace down where she imagined the path cut through the forest. There were several trails, including the driveway, and none of them were like the circle. There was something different about that path, like something had been pacing around the property. Around and around.
Like animals inside a cage.
“Monkeybrain was worried about Piggy,” she said.
“He was?”
“That’s what Pip said. He was worried about her.”
“You’re sticking with Piggy’s a girl?”
“And then we found her out there again. Maybe something was trying to get her. She’s valuable or something.”
“You mean like maybe she’s stuffed with money. Or diamonds. What if Wallace was mobbed up and—”
“No. Just… let me think a second.” She rubbed her face. “Let’s just start with how Piggy got out there.”
“I’m sure he made more than one stuffed pig.”
That was the logical conclusion. There had to be thousands of stuffed pigs just like this one. But why did she feel familiar?
“She was on the other side of that invisible fence.” She traced an imaginary path. “Like she was dropped.”
“Great. So basically you’re saying someone else is here and they’re after stuffed animals. That’s great, Tin. I mean, I already felt safe after you put the hat on and had the crazy dreams, but now I think it’s obvious we’re all going to die now. I think, right now, it’d be a good idea if we—”
“Stop. I’m just thinking out loud. There’s a good explanation; we just don’t know it yet. And we can’t tell my mom or your dad because they’ll want to go home.”
“You’re missing the point I’m making.”
“Something’s going on here, Corey. It wants us to know.”
“No, it doesn’t. Maybe it wants to eat us.”
“It would’ve done that already. No, it’s something else.”
She leaned the plan against the wall so she could look at it while she paced. Corey peeked down on the lobby. Pip was still telling her story. There was something off about the circle. It wasn’t centered on the plan.
That’s it.
It was slightly to the left and toward the top. She put her finger in what would be the center. There was nothing on the plan, but she knew what was there.
“The tower,” she said. “It’s coming from the tower.”
“What is?”
“That’s what the tower is doing; it’s emitting some sort of energy field. Think about how strange it looks, like the atmosphere is warped, right? You thought it was a nuclear reactor, but maybe it’s just sending out, like, an electromagnetic field.”
“A force field, right. Makes total sense. Uncle Wallace built a force field generator in 1920. Why didn’t I think of that?”
She leaned on the bed. “And remember how the steps had been taken down? The wood someone stacked under it like they were trying to set it on fire? He was keeping someone from turning it off.”
She didn’t tell him about the fuzzy stuffing that was in the firewood. He was already worked up.
“And you don’t want to tell our parents because…”
She took a deep breath. Keeping it a secret wasn’t a good idea. But maybe just a little longer.
“Think they’ll believe us?” she said.
“If we take them out there and they put their arm through the electric wall? Yeah, they’ll believe. I mean, I don’t know about your dream hat, but when the wall zaps their arms, they’ll be true believers.”
“We’ll ruin Christmas.”
“You know what else will ruin it? A toy monster that—”
Tin clamped her hand over his mouth. His eyes were getting bigger. She put her finger to her lips and gently let go.
“There’s no toy monster,” she said.
“Are you kidding me?” he whispered loudly. “You just said all of that and you think this is a safe merry place? What if it thinks we’re toys?”
“We’re not toys.”
“I know that. But what if it—”
“Shhhh. Think of all the money we won’t make if we leave right now. All that treasure in the loft selling on eBay. You’ll buy everything you ever wanted. Just calm down. Pull it together. There’s something strange about this place, but there are no toy monsters. Okay?”
He nodded abruptly, closing his eyes. “Okay. All right.”
Tin studied the map again. The balance of the circle had been solved. It was coming from the tower. But there was something else bothering her. The handwritten notes on the plan were barely legible. She tapped the lobby.
“He labelled this one toy room. Pip said that was Gingerman’s room.”
“Who’s Gingerman?”
“That was her name for the gingerbread man. She was real intense about putting him in there, said it was his room.”
“Pip says a lot of things.”
“She also built a replica of Toyland.”
“I built the Millennium Falcon out of Legos when I was six.” He tapped his head. “From memory.”
“She’s four. And no, you didn’t.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“You’re missing the point. She insisted that was his toy room.” She tapped her chin and stared. Why was that bugging her? It was the way she said it.
There was a knock on the door.
Corey jumped. Mom peeked inside. Tin’s heart leaped. The plan was on display, but her mom just smiled and said it was story time. Maybe Corey was in the way and she couldn’t see it. Or maybe she didn’t think anything of it.
It was story time.
Candles casted flickering shadows over the stockings. Each of their names was outlined in gold glitter on the fuzzy hems.
Tubs of popcorn were on the couches. Mom and Oscar were digging from one of them. Pip was snuggled between them, her head above the sleeping bag. Her laughter bubbling.
Tin was looking at the tiny door on the ceiling.
She was on her bac
k, the scuffed hardwood against the head, feet propped up. No socks, her soles warming at the fire as she told the famous Mr. and Mrs. Big Toe story and their eight little toes.
Pip’s favorite.
There was a hole in Mr. Toe’s sock. He was on the right foot. He was cold at night when he poked out. Mrs. Toe told him he needed to get his nail cut. There were arguments and jokes, whining from the little toes.
It ended and Mom went to warm up hot chocolate. Oscar told Corey to put away his phone. Pip went off to the side with Monkeybrain to prepare her story. She liked to practice, but it sounded more like a conversation. She talked to Monkeybrain all the time, but there was something different about this. There were pauses.
She’s listening.
“My favorite part,” Corey said, “was when Mr. Big Toe told Mrs. Big Toe that little toe was a giant wart.”
“Shut up.”
She turned her head, a satellite homing in on an imaginary conversation that was beginning to sound like a disagreement.
“Pip?” Tin said. “You all right?”
“Is Momma back?”
Mom and Oscar came from the kitchen with trays of hot chocolate with melted marshmallows. The musty smell of the lobby turned buttery and chocolatey. Corey put away his phone before his dad saw it. Oscar threw fresh logs on the fire. The smell of chocolate and smoke invaded the lobby, the pop of dry wood sending glowing embers against the screen.
“Momma?” Pip whispered.
“Oh, yes.” Mom cleared her throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome to the stage a very special Christmas story. Put your hands together for our own Piper!”
They clapped. Pip whispered something to Mom.
“Oh, and Monkeybrain!”
Pip took her place in front of the fireplace, her face bathed in shadows. She curtsied to more applause. Monkeybrain’s lanky arms were snugly around her neck, his purple face pressed against her ear.
Pip bowed her head and took a deep breath. Dramatic tension filled the lobby.
“This is going to be good,” Corey whispered. “Not as good as the toes—”
“Shh.”
Several more seconds of quiet were filled with crunching popcorn and sips of cocoa. Pip looked up with her hands at her sides.
“It was a very cold Christmas Eve in the port town. The snow was as deep as it had ever been. And colder than anyone could remember. The sky was so clear that you could read a book by moonlight. That Christmas Eve, Gingerann was working at the hospital.
“She didn’t have children or a family, so she worked on Christmas Eve so the other nurses could be at home to wake up with their children. Even though she didn’t have a family, she hoped to have children someday. The doctors told her it wasn’t possible, but miracles happened every day.
“She wore a floppy red hat and curly green shoes, and candy canes were always in her pocket. She loved Christmas, but she really loved this one. The sailors were coming home.”
She bowed her head to gather her thoughts.
“That was oddly specific,” Corey whispered.
“They came back from a long journey to the North Pole, where they had gotten lost and forgotten. It was a Christmas miracle they returned at all. Sick and hungry, they filled the empty beds. The doctors and nurses tended to their wounds. They smelled worse than they looked. But Gingerann took one look at them and announced, ‘No one will be lost this Christmas!’”
Pip’s voice echoed.
No one was munching popcorn anymore.
“You sure she’s four?” Corey whispered.
“Gingerann tended their wounds,” Pip continued. “She dressed them with ointment, medicine and spooned warm soup. She sat by each one and told them Merry Christmas, tucking a candy cane into their pockets. The healthier ones ate it right there.
“The last one was in the worst shape of all of them. He smelled sour and of something rotten. His hands were wrapped in grimy bandages. His eyes peeked between bands of gauze. She feared he might have lost parts to the cold, but all worry fell away when he looked at her. It was those eyes that captured her heart. They were the blue of a deep ocean, the blue of an endless sky and solid ice.
“She sat by his side and never left. All through the night, she held his hand. Sunlight crossed the room. That was when the real Christmas miracle occurred. When Gingerman showed his face.”
“This is about gingerbread?” Corey whispered.
Tin barely heard him. Pip lifted her face upward as if gazing on morning light. She smiled like she was remembering.
“His eyes crinkled as he began to unwrap the gauze. She probably should’ve stopped him, but one by one he slowly revealed a smile. There were scars, but, miraculously, he looked better than his shipmates. It was truly a Christmas miracle. He squeezed her hand and whispered his secret. He said, ‘I am the toymaker.’”
Toymaker? Chills shrank the flesh of Tin’s neck.
Corey dug out his phone and showed it to his dad, quietly whispering as Pip fell silent. Oscar nodded.
“They left the hospital on Christmas Day, Gingerann and Gingerman, hand in hand. She never came back. They moved to the country and built a house where every day was Christmas. Gingerann wanted a family, but the doctors were right. No miracles there. So Gingerman made her one. And their hearts swelled with joy.”
“Made her a family?” Corey whispered. Tin elbowed him.
“But as time went on, the Gingerman grew fatter but not jollier. His Christmas spirit wore thin and leaked from him like a balloon old and fading. He grew troubled and dark. She understood what was happening, and her heart was broken. She didn’t know who he had become, but she knew what made him that way.
“Gingerann never returned to the man she loved. The only Christmas miracle left was that she somehow forgot about him. There were no memories, only pictures of someone she used to know.”
Pip faced the fireplace. Her back was to the audience, Monkeybrain firmly attached.
“If you want to play, and stay out all day,” she began singing, “I know the place we can do it…”
A second wave of chills swept over Tin. Pip continued humming, watching the fire. Mom looked at Tin then shrugged. This was stranger than the gingerbread replica in the kitchen. Oscar and Mom whispered. They began clapping.
“That was, um, that was… amazing,” Mom said.
“Did you get that?” Oscar asked Corey. “All of it?”
“Yeah,” Corey said. “A little dark.”
Mom hugged Pip, and Oscar knelt down next to her. They were slightly confused and maybe a little nervous. She was smart for her age and good at a lot of things. But this was uncanny. Unnatural. Four-year-olds didn’t tell stories like that.
Or build gingerbread house replicas.
Mom and Oscar went to the kitchen. Tin could hear them muttering. It was likely a discussion on how to raise gifted children. Corey went to the bathroom. It was just Tin on the couch now. Pip was still looking into the fire. She held Monkeybrain against her chest. The fuzzy purple hands were around her neck.
“Pip?” Tin said. “Where did you hear that story?”
Pip was humming the song, swaying back and forth. Then she stopped and spoke without turning. Her voice was calm and in the same tone as the story.
“Their story’s not over, Tin.”
That sent a quiver down her spine. The shock, though, was delivered when Monkeybrain slowly pulled himself up. His head over her shoulder, he looked right at her with those big eyes.
Tin stepped back, wondering if Pip was playing a trick, lifting him up and pretending he was real. Then he did something that was utterly impossible.
He smiled.
9
Tin opened her eyes to blackened logs.
She blinked heavily, her eyelids slowly falling. The blankets were on the floor. So were her sweatshirt and sweatpants she had shed sometime in the night.
She listened to the embers pop and the haunted groans of a crooked old
roof and leaning walls. Pip had slept with her mom on the opposite couch. It was empty.
She shuffled into the kitchen. Everyone was at the stove with plates and forks. Corey was pouring a pool of syrup on a stack of French toast.
The gingerbread monstrosity was still unfinished. Walls were stacked and waiting to be assembled. Gingerman was in the toy room, right where Pip said he belonged. She was licking her fingers, singing a song, but not the one from last night.
“Tiiiiin!” Pip shouted. “It snowed last night.”
She sounded like her four-year-old self again. The calm and unsettling storyteller tone was replaced with giddy excitement. She hopped back to the stove. Mom put a piece of French toast on her plate.
“Good morning,” Mom said. “Get yourself a plate—aren’t you cold, hon?”
Tin was wearing boxers and a T-shirt. Everyone else was bundled in sweatshirts and stocking caps. Their breath escaped in a wispy clouds.
“Where’s Monkeybrain?”
Pip ran her tongue over her sticky lips as Oscar glugged a river of syrup on her plate. She followed him out of the kitchen. They were going to eat in the sunroom, where they had a view of the woods.
“She’s full of beans this morning,” Mom said.
“Do you know where her monkey is?” Tin said.
“She put him upstairs with the pig, said they were telling secrets. Her imagination is running on high octane.”
It’s not her imagination, Mom.
“Get something to eat, hon. We’re going to make another snowman, one Corey won’t tear down.” She poked his ribs. He looked confused. “Maybe a snowball fight later, boys against girls.”
Despite Tin’s reluctance, anxiety and the need to talk this out, she was hungrier than all of them combined. Mom went to join Pip and Oscar. Tin didn’t bother with a plate, folding a piece of French toast and putting it down like a hotdog-eating contest. The second one she drizzled with syrup.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“You need to eat like a human,” Corey said.
“By the fireplace.”
She took three pieces of French toast with her. She paced and chewed, looking at the photos on the wall—the animals posed like family. Piggy on stage. She hadn’t noticed that before. That could be a different one than the one upstairs with Monkeybrain. Telling secrets.
Toyland- the Legacy of Wallace Noel Page 7