Odds Are Good

by Bruce Coville

  “What is happening?” asked Samos breathlessly.

  “The ship is getting smaller,” said Jan. His eyes widened. “And smaller still! Now it is no longer than you are tall. And still it shrinks. And now—”

  He stopped, too surprised by what had happened to speak for a moment.

  “What?” asked Samos. “What is it?”

  “The ship has become a coin,” said Jan. He plucked the shining disk from the sand. On one side the coin was engraved with a perfect replica of the ship. On the other the golden surface showed a gull in flight with a single star above it.

  “What does it mean?” asked Jan.

  “I’d say that it means we’re supposed to take it with us,” said Samos.

  “Take it where?”

  The old man shrugged. “Wherever we’re going next.”

  Jan looked around. The beach ended at a jungle. It would have been too thick to walk through, save that directly ahead of them was a clear path. Taking Samos by the arm, Jan led him forward.

  The jungle was so green and dark that Jan felt almost as if they were walking underwater. It was quiet, too—unnaturally quiet. No breeze stirred the leaves, which hung limp and still. No howl nor roar, no cry of bird, buzz of insect, hiss of snake, nor chatter of monkey disturbed the awful silence, which was so heavy it made Jan afraid to speak. The only sound was that of their own passing, and even that seemed oddly muted.

  Jan stopped. A huge web blocked their path, its strands as thick as his thumbs. He turned aside, but the jungle was too dense for them to go around. Nervously, looking above and to the side for any sign of the creature that had woven it, Jan sliced at the sticky silk until he had made an opening through which they could pass.

  And still all was silent. They walked on, Samos keeping one hand on Jan’s shoulder.

  Another web, and yet another. And then, a hundred paces past the last web, the jungle opened.

  Jan caught his breath in wonder. In the center of the clearing stood a building of astonishing beauty. Made of shining white stone, with broad steps leading to a golden door, it stretched high above the trees. Ornate carvings of gods and monsters decorated the walls. Whether it was a temple or a palace, he could not say. He knew only that it was wonderful.

  He thought he heard the murmur of voices as he and Samos climbed the steps. But he could see no one.

  The golden door opened easily before he even touched it.

  They entered the building and walked through long curving corridors until, finally, they came to another great door. Jan waited for a moment. When the door did not open, he reached forward and pushed on it.

  It swung inward without a sound.

  They entered a huge, high chamber, its painted blue ceiling so far above them that it seemed like a sky. Around the chamber, in niches carved in the walls, stood statues of men frozen in horrible postures, as if they had been turned to stone at the most awful moment of their lives.

  A wide carpet, blood red, ran the length of the chamber, all the way to a platform mounted by a series of five broad steps. The carpet continued up the steps and stopped at the foot of a golden throne.

  On the throne sat Jan’s father.

  It took a moment for Jan to realize who it was, for he had not seen his father’s face in ten years, and he himself had been only three years old at the time. But soon enough he recognized the straight nose, the strong chin, and most of all the look in his father’s eyes, which made it seem as if some part of him was always looking into the distance, looking for something he could never find. Then Jan was seized by a strange welter of emotions—joy at finding his father, but also sudden, unexpected anger at the man for having been gone so long with no word. Underneath all that, and equally unexpected, was a kind of terror. What will he think of me? Jan wondered. Will he even know me?

  He started toward the throne. He walked for the first few paces. Then, unable to control himself, he bolted forward, racing along the carpet and hurling himself up the steps.

  He expected his father to rise from the throne, to fling his arms around him. But he didn’t, and Jan’s joy withered into fear when he stood next to the throne and saw why his father remained sitting.

  Hand and foot, arm and leg, he was bound to the throne by golden vines that seemed to grow directly from the throne and into his flesh.

  The boy stood in silence, uncertain at first of what to say. Finally it was his father who spoke. “Is that you, Jan?” he asked, in a voice little more than a whisper.

  Jan nodded. Then, as if the gesture had broken the cord that tied his tongue, he cried, “What has happened to you?”

  Jan’s father closed his eyes. “I have given my life to the crown and the throne.”

  Jan, his knees suddenly weak, slid to the floor. He leaned against his father’s legs, which were clad in blue silk finer than any he had ever touched before. “I don’t understand.”

  Straining against the vines, his father’s fingers stretched forward just enough to touch Jan’s hair. “When I went in search of the Golden Sail, I did not know I would be gone so long,” he murmured.

  “Why did you go?” asked Jan, holding back his tears.

  “Like you, my heart was restless. I longed for adventure.”

  “My heart longed for you,” whispered his son.

  His father drew in a sharp breath and didn’t speak for a moment. At last he said, “As you know, I went in search of the Golden Sail. When I found it, when I boarded the ship that carries it, the ship sped off on its own, bearing me to this land. Here I was greeted as hero, and king. Can you understand what that means, Jan? I was a fisherman, a sailor.”

  “A father, too,” put in Samos.

  Jan’s father groaned. “A father, too. But suddenly I was called ‘king.’ Little was it in me to resist, even though I understood what was being asked of me.” He sighed heavily, then shuddered. “I could have refused. They would not have forced me.”

  “Who?” asked Jan. “Who would not have forced you?”

  “The golden people,” said his father. “The people of this land. The golden land must have a king, Jan, or it withers and dies. But the land devours the king, as it has devoured me. Now I am withering, too; used up.”

  “No!”

  His father gave him a weary smile. “No sense in trying to hide from what is. I sent the ship to search for you, to bring you back, so that I could say farewell.”

  “And who will be king when you are gone?” asked Samos, who had come slowly down the carpet to join them.

  “Whoever will take the task,” replied Jan’s father.

  “Not Jan!” said Samos protectively.

  The king, Jan’s father, shook his head. “I did not bring Jan here to ask him to take my place. I brought him to say farewell, and to ask him to set me free. Could he be king? If he wants.”

  “Why would I want such a thing?” asked Jan, drawing back.

  “Because it is beautiful,” said his father, looking past him, as if he was seeing some other place, some other world. “The first years are more wonderful than I can tell you, Jan. You are beloved of the people. Feasting and dancing are the order of the day. But there comes a time when you grow tired, when what you are giving is more than what you have been given. Then the people grow petulant, like little children who have gone too long without a nap. And, eventually, you are empty, and it is time for a new king.”

  “I’ll set you free,” said Jan, drawing the sword he had claimed on the ship.

  His father shook his head. “Not that way. It’s too late for that. I want you to do something much more difficult.”

  Jan felt his grip on the blade begin to falter. Fear blossomed in his heart. “What?” he asked softly. “What do you want me to do?”

  His father looked directly into his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  Jan felt a deep heaviness inside him, a weight on his heart that threatened to sink it in the heaving sea of his sorrow and anger. To wait so long, to come so far, achi
ng for his father, for what he had never received from him—and now, after all that, to find not that his father was going to come home with him, nor that he had become a great ruler and wanted to share his kingdom, nor that he had a treasure to enrich their lives, but rather that he wanted something more from his son, and the hardest thing of all at that, this was a bitter discovery indeed.

  “Jan,” said his father softly. “Look at me.”

  The boy stared into his father’s eyes. They were like the sea during a storm, dark and troubled, and strange currents ran beneath their surface.

  “I brought you here because it was the last thing I could do for you,” said his father.

  “For me?” cried Jan.

  His father stretched his fingers toward Jan. The boy hesitated, then reached out and took his hand.

  “Forgive me and you will be free,” whispered the king. “You can go on to grow and live as you must. But forgive me not and I will haunt you as long as you live. You will carry me like a stone in your heart for all your days, and everything you do will be twisted out of shape.”

  “You brought the boy here to threaten him?” growled Samos.

  Jan’s father closed his eyes. “This is not a threat,” he said wearily. “It is a warning. I have sat in this chair for many years now, and as the vines grew deeper into my flesh, and then my veins, binding me to both the throne and the people, I came to know their lives, and their hearts. This has brought me great wisdom.” He gave his son a sad smile. “Alas, the wisdom comes far too late for me. But not for you, Jan. Not for you. I tell you only what I have learned. Forgive me, or carry me like a stone for all the days of your life.”

  Kneeling, clutching his father’s hand, Jan gazed up into the eyes he knew so well, though it had been so long since he last had seen them. Hurt boiled within him, acid in his veins. So much lost. So much lost.

  “I am more sorry than I can tell you,” whispered his father.

  Jan blinked, then nodded. He tightened his grip on his father’s hand. “I forgive you,” he whispered.

  Then he dropped his head against his father’s knees and wept, until the knot of his anger had turned to water as salty as the sea and flowed its way out of his heart.

  “Now go,” whispered his father at last. “Go out into the world. The ship is yours. It will take you anywhere you want to go. But one thing I beg of you, Jan. When you find what you love . . . stop looking.”

  An hour later Jan and Samos stood on the beach where they had landed. Jan took the golden coin from his pocket and flung it into the air. It spun high in a glittering arc. As it passed the peak, began to move away from the sky and back toward the sea, it changed into a ship, tiny but growing.

  “Where shall we go?” asked Samos, as they climbed aboard.

  Jan started to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tried again. “Where shall we go? Anywhere we want! After all . . . I’m a free man.”

  The Golden Sail caught the wind. The sea air was fresh and sweet in their nostrils. A gull cawed and wheeled above them. Beyond the gull they saw a single bright star, the first star of evening.

  A mermaid sang in the distance.

  And the ship sailed on.

  Biscuits of Glory

  I am haunted by biscuits—Elvira Thistledown’s biscuits, to be more precise. But I don’t have any regrets. If I had it to do over again, I would still eat one, if only to free that poor woman from her curse. I’d do it even knowing how it was going to affect the rest of my life.

  I was ten when it happened. We had just moved into a new house. Well, new to us; it was really a very old one—the fifth we had been in that I could remember. That was how my parents made their living: buying old houses, fixing them up, then selling them for a bundle of money. It was sort of neat, except it meant we never stayed in any one place very long, the places we moved into were always sort of crummy, and just when they got good, we had to move on.

  Anyway, on our third night in the house, I heard a clatter in the kitchen. Now all old houses have their noises, their own personal creaks and groans, and I was still getting used to the sounds of this house. But something about this particular noise didn’t sound right to me. So I grabbed my baseball bat and headed for the stairs.

  I grabbed the bat instead of waking my parents because I had been through this before. I was tired of embarrassing myself, so I generally investigated night noises on my own. But I always carried my trusty Louisville Slugger when I did. Just in case, you know?

  The floor was cold against my feet.

  My door squeaked as I opened it.

  Trying not to wake my parents, I tiptoed along the hall, past the peeling wallpaper (roses the size of cabbages floating against gray stripes—truly ugly), past the bathroom with its leaky faucets (I had already gotten used to that noise), on to the head of the stairs.

  I paused and listened.

  Something was definitely moving in the kitchen. I could hear scrapes and thumps, soft and gentle, but no less real for all that. I was about to go wake my parents after all when I heard something else—something totally unexpected.

  I heard a woman singing.

  I leaned forward and closed my eyes (I don’t know what good that was supposed to do, but you know how it is), straining to hear. The voice was soft, sweet and sad—almost like someone singing a hymn. I had to go halfway down the steps to make out the words:

  “Biscuits, biscuits of glory,

  This is my story,

  Biscuits of glory . . .”

  By now the hair was standing up on the back of my neck. Yet somehow I didn’t think anyone who sounded so sad and sweet could hurt me.

  Clutching my Louisville Slugger, I tiptoed down the rest of the steps and stopped outside the kitchen door.

  “Biscuits, biscuits of glory,” sang the voice, sounding so sad I almost started to cry myself.

  Pushing lightly on the kitchen door, I swung it open just a crack. When I peeked through, I let out a little squeak of fright. There was no one in sight, not a person to be seen.

  What I did see was a bag of flour, which wouldn’t have been that unusual, except for the fact that this bag was floating through the air.

  “Biscuits of glory,” sang the voice, as the bag of flour opened, seemingly by itself. “Lighter than lovin’, floatin’ to heaven, straight from my oven . . .”

  A measuring cup drifted into the air, then dipped into the flour bag. As the cup came out of the bag, a little thrill ran down my spine. Suddenly I could see the hand that was holding it! That was because the hand was now covered with flour.

  The hand repeated the action. It was an eerie sight: a floating hand, seemingly unattached to anything else, dumping flour into a big ceramic bowl.

  Next came the baking powder. Lots of baking powder.

  “Biscuits, biscuits of glory . . . ,” sang the ghost. Her voice caught as she choked back a sob.

  I couldn’t help myself. Stepping through the door into the kitchen I asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  The flour-covered hand jerked sideways, knocking over the container of baking powder. “Who are you?” asked the ghost in a soft voice, almost as if she was frightened of me.

  “I’m Benjie Perkins. I live here. Who are you?”

  “Elvira Thistledown,” whispered the voice, so lightly it was as if the words were floating. “I died here.”

  I shivered. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Making biscuits,” she replied, setting the baking powder upright once more. “I make biscuits every Saturday night. Saturday at midnight. It’s my curse.”

  “Sort of a strange curse.”

  “It was a strange death,” whispered the ghost of Elvira Thistledown, as her one visible hand picked up a fork and began to stir the flour.

  “Care to talk about it?” I asked.

  My mother always said I was a good listener.

  “I can talk while I work,” she said.

&nb
sp; Taking that to be a yes, I pulled up a stool and sat next to the counter. Soon I was so involved in her story, I stopped paying much attention to what she was doing. Oh, how I wish now that I had watched more carefully!

  “I always loved to make biscuits,” said Elvira Thistledown. “My mother taught me when I was only seven years old, and soon my daddy was saying that he thought I was the best biscuit maker in the county.”

  “You must have liked that.”

  “I did,” she said, sounding happy for the first time since we had begun to talk.

  “I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but is it possible for you to become visible? I might feel less nervous if you did.”

  “Well, it’s not easy. But you seem like a nice boy. Just a minute and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Soon a milky light began to glow in front of me. It started out kind of blobby, almost like a cloud that had floated into the kitchen, but after a minute or two it condensed into the form of a woman. She was younger and prettier than I had expected, with a turned-up nose and a long neck. I don’t know what color her hair or eyes were; she had no color. She wore old-fashioned clothes.

  “Better?”

  “I think so.”

  She returned to her work. “It was vanity did me in,” she said, measuring baking powder into the mix. “I was so proud of my biscuits that I just couldn’t stand it when that awful Dan McCarty moved into town and started bragging that he made the best biscuits in the state. ‘Why, my biscuits are lighter than dandelion fluff,’ he used to say. ‘Apt to float away on the first stiff breeze.’ After a while his proud talk got to me, and I challenged him to a contest.”

  “What kind of a contest?”

  “A biscuit bake-off,” she said, dumping milk into the bowl. I realized with a start that I had no idea where she was getting her ingredients from. “Both of us to make biscuits, results to be judged by Reverend Zephyr of the Baptist Church.”