So they were back to him driving the truck, but Elliot was still falling. Cody was telling Shelby what he planned to paint on Elliot’s cast and how he’d redo Shelby’s to match it. Shelby said she was just about ready to take her own cast off with a chain saw. Never mind the truck, how did Elliot even get up from the ground and open the lid to let the Butterfly Child breathe, is what they wanted to know, what with all his injuries? Ah, he’s a tough one, isn’t he? It goes to show what adrenaline can do. And did you see when Jimmy popped his shoulder back in, how Elliot went so pale! In all her life, said his mother, she’d never seen him look so white. And did anybody notice how, once the shoulder was back in, Jimmy glanced down at the ankle, and the words slipped off the edge of the microphone, and what did Jimmy say?
A faint sound like a low-down whistle was running through Elliot’s head. Maybe the sound of a train leaving without him. Nobody paid it any attention; they were all still reciting the events of the day.
“What the heck have you gone and done to yourself, Elliot?” Jimmy had said — or something like that, but mostly those words had been lost. He’d beckoned the doctor over, the ambulance came and went, and everything had tumbled into jubilation.
Then the deftball finals had begun.
Nobody could concentrate, it was nearly hysterical out there — nobody except for the Horatio Muttonbirds, of course, who concentrated fine — and anyway, Bonfire’s best player was in the hospital! So. They didn’t win, but there’ll be other championships, and there’s just one Butterfly Child! Right here in Bonfire! The Mayor gave them the party with the GC teakwater, even though they lost, and now everybody’s planning. The whole town’s planning more parties, and what they’ll do with the surplus crops, and how they’ll have to put on extra markets and contractors, and how they might end up exporting to other Kingdoms!
Because look at her, look at that sweet Butterfly Child. Look at her sleeping in an empty tissue box on the shelf just above Elliot’s head. Alongside the chart that says his blood pressure and so on. She looks more like a teenage girl than a child, though, doesn’t she, let’s say a teenage girl could be shrunk to the size of a cork.
Corrie-Lynn was opening the front of the red wooden house. It was the doll’s house she’d built: She’d brought it into the hospital room and placed it on the bedside table. Now she gently scooped up the Butterfly Child from the tissue box, and there was quiet while she lifted her across to the doll’s house, and positioned her, still sleeping, on a tiny wooden bed lined with a handkerchief.
Then they were talking again, about how much pain he was in, poor Elliot, and what a hero he was, and he was falling through it all, but through the fall he found a way to speak.
“But I’ve gotta get the train in the morning,” he said. “Train to the Magical North,” and the room laughed.
“Not a chance,” they said, and he kind of knew that anyway, so he gave back his half smile. He said, “Well, as soon as it’s better, I’ll be taking the train. How long does a broken ankle take to heal?” and there was quiet.
Someone ventured: “You won’t be able to put any weight on that ankle awhile.” Someone else: “When my cousin broke his ankle it took eight weeks to heal.” And: “We’ll ask the doctor when she’s back.”
He was falling faster: Eight weeks was too long. A plummet toward the ground.
“Ah,” he said. “I’ll get crutches. I can take the train on crutches.”
Then Corrie-Lynn, standing alongside the doll’s house, right by Elliot’s bed, spoke in a big, clear voice.
“You can’t go, Elliot,” she said, and she swung her elbow sideways, indicating the doll’s house. “The person that finds the Butterfly Child? He’s got to stay and take care of her for as long as she’s around. And that could be a year, maybe two. Did you not know?”
His head cracked hard against the dirt.
7.
Two weeks later, Petra Baranski watched from the porch as a pickup truck pulled into her driveway.
Elliot negotiated his way out of the passenger door. He grabbed his crutches from the back of the truck and gave Kala a thumbs-up to say thanks. Then he waited, leaning on the crutches, while she reversed, gunned it down the driveway, and was gone.
It was summer again in Bonfire, but a good sort of summer — long days, balmy nights, breezes that touched your shoulder blades just when you needed them. The celebrations had quieted and everyone was waiting. So far, no sign of any change in the crops, but it can be weeks, people said, before a Butterfly Child takes effect.
Petra had been doing paperwork at the porch table, and now she straightened the edges of papers while Elliot got himself up the porch steps. Five or six butterflies were lined along the porch railings, and a dragonfly was hovering above Petra’s pen. She waved it away gently.
Elliot stopped beside his mother and pressed his forehead against the window to look inside.
The doll’s house was on the sideboard in the living room.
“She gone out?” he said.
“Sleeping. How was school?”
“She sure does sleep a lot.” He rested the crutches against the wall of the house and sat down, breathing in the quiet afternoon. There was a smile about him, a spark in his eye, and Petra waited, watching his face.
Then he took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the table.
“Elliot Baranski,” said the envelope in bright red marker. There were fat quote marks around his name like little balloons.
Petra raised an eyebrow.
“From Cody’s sculpture,” he said, his smile open now. “I’d forgotten all about it, but I was walking by today, so I looked, and there it was.”
“A letter from the Girl-in-the-World!” exclaimed Petra. “Did she get your letter? Is she answering you?!” Then she quieted. “Nobody saw you? You didn’t tell Kala or any of the others, did you? I looked it up the other day, and turns out the penalty for not reporting a crack is banishment to the Undisclosed Province, or even death. It’s kind of hard to believe in this day and age, but still.”
Elliot shrugged. “That must be an old law. Wouldn’t be enforced anymore. Read the letter.” He leaned back, closing his eyes.
His mother opened the envelope and read.
Dear Elliot Baranski,
You’re unstable or you’re high or you’re a kid who wants to write fantasy.
I’m thinking probably the last one. And finding a note somewhere weird like a parking meter inspired you, so you invented a place called Cello. (Or maybe you’ve got an imaginary Cello in your head all the time, and you went with that right away?)
Anyway, since you’re the kind of person who puts your fantasy in parking meters, I’m thinking you’ll be back to check on my reply. I’m happy to play along if you want, but I feel compelled to say that I have issues with your world-building.
These are my issues:
(a) The use of the word “cracks” to explain the way between our worlds. It’s not original. And the bit about a sculpture catching the letter but you’re “not sure of the science”? Are you for real? You’ve got to get your “science” figured out up front!
(b) You’re way too hokey and sweet. You need an edge.
(c) You say you’re about to go on a trip to the “Magical North.” Well, I guess you want to narrate an “epic journey” of some kind, but maybe you could change the place name? “Magical North” makes me think of reindeers and Santa Claus and that maybe you’re planning to rip off Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights.
But I like how you just got right into it, without trying to set things up. Even though it was confusing, it felt more real that way. The republican thing was kind of funny.
Also, thanks for your suggestions about beans.
And listen, what I said in my letter about cakes? Well, there’s homeless people and refugee camps and then there’s me crying about frangipane tart. So. Just forget I said that.
(PLUS, the computer guy downstairs is great at baking.)
M.T.
P.S. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in Cambridge, but if you want to write more about your imaginary kingdom, why don’t you leave your next letter in the Trinity porter’s lodge? The parking meter doesn’t seem like such a safe place. You could address it to “M.T., c/o Federico Cagnetti.” He’s a porter there. I’ll tell him to watch out for it.
P.P.S. I know Elliot Baranski is not your real name, but it’s a good one. I like that too.
Petra finished reading and widened her eyes, and they both laughed.
“I don’t know where to start,” said Petra through her laughter. “Honey, she’s critiquing your existence. She thinks Cello is —”
“I know.” Elliot picked up the empty envelope and balanced it on the palm of his hand. “She seems harmless enough, I guess, this M.T.” They both laughed again.
“Now, what do you think?” Petra shook her head thoughtfully. “Has the World forgotten about Cello? Or is this girl just ignorant? Will you write back to her?”
“Well …” Elliot put his hands behind his head, looking out over the fields. There was still that grin at the edge of his mouth. “It seems to me that if I do start up a correspondence, it’ll just end up as a whole lot of me trying to persuade her that I’m real. Which could get —”
“Tiresome,” his mother agreed.
She reached over, across the table, to brush the hair out of his eyes, and there it was beneath her fingertips — the faintly damp forehead, the sun-warmed hair, the sweet, complex realness of her son.
But later that night, he did write a reply.
He’d finished his homework; the Butterfly Child was still asleep; and there was a pecan pie baking in the oven, which he planned to give to Kala the next day.
“Don’t go baking her pecan pies,” scolded his mother. “She’ll just fall for you harder than she has.”
Elliot wasn’t listening. His ankle was playing up. Taking all his attention.
“Ah,” he said eventually. “She’s driving me to and from school every day. Least I can do is bake a pie.”
Then, because he couldn’t run across the fields to the greenhouse, or play deftball, or pack his rucksack for a journey north, he sat down and wrote.
Dear M.T.,
I’m sitting here wondering why you don’t know about the Kingdom of Cello. Or are you pretending not to know?
I’ll tell you what I recall from World Studies, but keep in mind I’m rusty on that. Used to be, there was some movement back and forth between Cello and your World, especially around the 1600s, and especially from your cities of Cambridge and London.
Anyhow, but you guys had a sickness called the plague, which came across here, spread over Cello, and spilled across the Kingdoms and Empires. That’s when they made the decision to close up the cracks. (There’s still occasional plague outbreaks, although not in Cello, on account of Cello’s Winds.)
Now and then little cracks reopen — never often, and never big enough for people to get through, just matchboxes or orange peels. But the World Severance Unit seals those fast, and anyone who finds one has to report it right away.
As for your issue with the word “crack,” well go ahead and take it up with the Department of Etymology, I guess. Let me know how that works out for you.
(My mother just said she seems to recall it was people in YOUR world who named the “cracks.” Bunch of scientists in London in the 1600s called the Royal Society? They were keen on Cello, apparently, and visited a lot.)
Not sure who you should talk to about changing the name of the Magical North. They’re kind of proud of their province and its name — still, try the MN Provincial Council. Maybe bring along a security guard when you do, and have an escape route in mind. They might have sweet-as-honey magic up there but they sure as hell don’t sugarcoat their tempers.
I haven’t got a clue what “hokey” means or who Santa Claus or Philip Pullman are.
Thanks for being nice about my name. (My mother says she wants the credit for that, since she did the naming.)
Got to go check a pecan pie.
Yours,
Elliot Baranski
P.S. Forgot to say: had to postpone my trip to the Magical North on account of a broken ankle and a Butterfly Child. So if you want to write back, I guess I am around after all.
P.P.S. I guess I should check. Have you got the plague?
A few days later, the Girl-in-the-World replied.
Dear Elliot Baranski,
Oh, it’s a KINGDOM. I should have guessed. Always with the kings and the queens, you fantasy guys. Why not a republic for once? I’m guessing, next there’ll be dragons. Also, some kind of a strong-willed princess with rebellion on her mind? Or a physically unattractive older woman who wants her pitiful son to be king so she’s plotting to poison the rightful heir with a brew made out of frogs’ warts?
So, how far have you got with your Kingdom? Can you outline the political system for me? Class structure? Oppressed minorities? What about foreign relations, primary industries, and your GDP?
And what about your sky? Is it like ours? Do you have a single moon? (I bet you have three and one of them’s a triangular prism, right?) I like stars — I hope you’ve got stars. Talking about the heavens, what about religion? Seems like you don’t have Santa Claus, so you’re not a Christian nation. Do you celebrate any religious holidays? Ramadan, Chanukah, Valentine’s Day?
Where are you at with technology? Have you had an industrial revolution or are you still hanging out on the land? Or in caves? If on the land, what do you grow on your farms? Do you even have them? (Farms?) Or do you eat holograms? Do you use winnowing baskets, sickles, and horse-drawn ploughs? Or do oxen draw your ploughs? Or technotrons? Or do you, Elliot, pull the ploughs in the Kingdom of Cello?
It’s funny you mention the Royal Society — and nice one, making them the people who “named” the cracks (touché) — because I’ve been reading about Isaac Newton, and turns out he was in that group, or club, or whatever. They were sort of like the first group of scientists in England, right? He even ran it for a while. Turns out his special skills went beyond gravity: He was also great at telescopes, calculus, colours, and problem solving.
Anyhow, do you guys have any special skills or are you just basic humans? I mean, can you walk through walls? Fly? Go invisible? Read minds?
Do you dance? Do you have a sense of humour, and if so, is it witty, sarcastic, slapstick, ironic, or crass? What’s your Kingdom’s position on sexual freedoms, gay rights, abortion? Do you have animals? What languages do you speak? Can your ANIMALS speak? Are you magic (or is that just for the sweet-as-honey “Magical North” — I still think you should change that name). What’s your life expectancies there? Same as ours?
Finally: What’s the wind got to do with the plague, what’s a Butterfly Child, and how’d you break your ankle? (I broke my ankle snowboarding once, and I still have nightmares about this feeling I got, about a month after it was broken, like I could feel bones shifting and grinding around in there, and it was like I wasn’t real anymore, or I wasn’t me, or my body was out of my control. Like something had got inside my ankle, and wanted to taunt me. It hurt like hell. In addition to creeping me out.)
I’ll send more questions later, gotta go.
M.T.
Elliot read the letter.
“Ah, for crying out loud,” he said mildly. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash.
Shelby was flexing her fingers, twisting her wrists in their studded leather armbands. The cast from her broken arm had been removed that morning. She was reacquainting herself with the arm now, gazing at it as she walked.
“It didn’t heal properly,” she said. “I tried to take a swing at someone earlier and I couldn’t connect.”
The six were walking down Broad Street, heading to the Town Square for cold drinks, Elliot swinging high on his crutches.
“It’ll take a while,” Gabe suggested, “to get your
normal strength back. Maybe longer for you, Shelby, your normal strength being what it is.”
“Who’d you take a swing at?” said a voice.
They were passing Jimmy Hawthorn’s place, and the Deputy Sheriff was home, working in his front garden.
“Who’d you take a swing at?” he repeated patiently.
“Can’t say a thing around this town,” sighed Shelby, “without somebody hearing.”
Jimmy shrugged and went back to his trowel, and the six of them kept walking.
“What’s that whistling sound?” said Elliot.
“It’s me,” said Nikki. “Whistling.”
“No. It’s more than that — it’s like a lower sound, like the wind.”
“Ah, then, it’s probably the wind.”
They passed Isabella Tamborlaine’s place, and now they were on the commercial part of Broad Street. A door swung open just ahead of them, and out came Norma Lisle, town vet.
She was holding a program player to her chest, its cords and cables dangling.
“Just taking this next door,” she said. “Seized up in the middle of The Greenbergs last night — right at the bit where that plumber — the one that’s always so handy when the characters’ toilets block up — when he’s about to kiss the schoolteacher with the temperamental kitchen sink. Any of you kids see the show?”
“He went ahead and kissed her,” said Cody. “But don’t let it get you down that you missed it, Norma. It wasn’t such a great kiss. And I kept wondering if he’d washed his hands.”
“Ah, Cody,” laughed Norma Lisle. “It’s the best thing there is in the televisual waves, isn’t it, though I can see from your friends’ faces here that we might be alone in that opinion. I’ll just pop in and see if the Twicklehams can fix this, but listen, Elliot, before I do, how’s that Butterfly Child?”
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