by Ted Staunton
“Look, you won’t get away with it. I’ll tell everyone.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Luther’s eyes narrow, and the knife comes back up. “Really? Who’s going to believe you? Huh?”
“Tracey and Mark have been following me, filming for their movie. They probably shot the whole thing.” I’m hoping this is true. On the other hand, why aren’t they here?
“Nice try,” Luther sneers. “I followed you. They got lost in the smoke way back. It’s just you and me, kid. Nobody’ll believe you.”
I look at the knife pointing at me. I remember the beef jerky on it. Would he use it for anything else? Maybe it’s time to knock off the hero stuff. I take another step back. My knee gets bumped again. I realize what’s been whacking it. “That’s what you think,” I say. I yank up the dress, grab my phone and aim it at him. I press the button and click, there’s the camera sound. “I just took your picture,” I say.
“What? Gimme that.” He starts to get up.
“Don’t move!” I shout. I’ve got the phone at arm’s length, still pointed at him, like a gun, with my thumb up. It’s probably not as impressive as a gun, but it freezes Luther. “If I press this button,” I say, “the picture goes right to my grandpa. He’s friends with Irene Steele, and you know what else he is? An explosives expert.” Hey, Irene did say there were always fireworks when Grandpa was around. “Anything happens to me or that bell, when he sees this picture he’ll come after you. He was in the real war, and he doesn’t take prisoners.”
Luther’s shoulders sag, and he slumps back down to the ground. He calls me a name I’m not supposed to know, then tosses Laura Secord’s bell into the weeds. It makes a muffled clank. “Take it.” Wincing, he tries to reach back between his shoulder blades, then gives that up too. “You hit me.”
“You hit me,” I say. “We’re even.”
“Get lost.”
“You get lost. I’ve got things to do.” This is starting to sound like recess in grade two.
Wincing some more, Luther climbs to his feet. One of his boat shoes has come off. “Ow! I think I twisted my ankle.” He grabs a sapling for support while he stuffs his bare foot back into the shoe. It’s a very knobbly foot. Maybe 1812 boots do that to you. Now that he’s standing up, I can see that his legs are as white and almost as skinny as mine. His orange plaid shorts are even bigger than my cargos. Luther puts the knife in a leather holder he pulls from a pocket, then bends over with a groan and gets his hat. “So go be a farb,” he says over his shoulder. He limps away, rubbing his arms.
I wrestle the bonnet off. I see the clip-on microphone on the ground, dragging by its cord. I clip it back on, then walk over to Laura Secord’s bell. The weeds are all mashed down where Luther fell. A big electrical cord snakes through them. I bet it’s the same one I tripped over yesterday. I also see that the weeds are clusters of shiny leaves in threes—poison ivy. The bell is lying in poison ivy too. I lean in and pick it up using the bonnet.
As I step away carefully, a patch of silver-gray catches my eye. The lump of duct tape is not in poison ivy. I pick it up too. Inside the tape is the rusty caltrop, split in two. The halves are hollow. Inside one is a little chip like a computer memory card. How weird is that? The tape must have been holding the caltrop to the inside of the bell. I push the halves back together with the chip inside and fold the tape around them. I put the caltrop and the phone in my cargo pockets. Then I gather up the bonnet with the bell and what’s left of the cow costume and start back the way I came, watching out for the old P.I.
TWENTY
I haven’t gone far before I hear Tracey and Mark calling me. “Over here,” I call back. We find each other a moment later. “Watch out for the poison ivy,” I say.
“What happened to you?” Tracey exclaims. “Where are the cow guys? We lost you in the smoke; then Mark was getting this bizarre stuff on audio and then the sound conked out.” She looks at the cow costume, and her eyes widen. “My god. Were you in a fight?”
“I lost the cow guys. I dunno where. Then Luther tried to steal the bell.”
“Whaat? Oh, Spencer, I’m so sorry. I never thought in a million years—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I took care of it.” Although now that I’ve taken care of it, I’m feeling a little trembly. A lot trembly, actually. “Can you guys carry some of this? Careful—the bell has poison ivy on it. The dress might too. I think I have to sit down for a sec.”
We come out of the trees by a picnic bench. I sit down and wait for the trembling to stop. Mark takes back the mic and battery pack. I wriggle carefully out of the dress. Around us, the battle appears to be over. Tourists are talking with reenactors, who are all alive again. Fiddle music drifts our way instead of gun smoke. I say to Tracey, “Luther said the bell was farb.”
She lifts the bonnet and angles the bell so I can see inside. Just below some sticky bits left by the duct tape, it’s stamped MADE IN CHINA. I look up at Tracey. She nods. “Luther’s right. Maybe they didn’t cover it in history class, Spencer. Laura Secord really did walk twenty miles and warn the British, but she went by herself. No cow, and she didn’t walk barefoot either. That would have been silly.”
“Then why does your gram say she did?”
“Gram says history is in facts, but truth is in stories. I think she wants everyone to understand what a brave thing Laura Secord did and how everybody underestimated women.” She looks at me. “They still do. Luther calls me a farb for acting the part of a soldier. I bet he would have thought twice about stealing the bell if you hadn’t been dressed like a girl.”
I think about that. I don’t know if my stick legs in monster cargo shorts are going to scare anybody off, except maybe beavers looking for a bigger meal. Then again, Luther wasn’t exactly the Mighty Hulk either.
Beside us, Mark’s phone chimes. I remember mine buzzing as the battle started. I dig it out and check. Nobody called, which is a relief, now that I think of it. So whose phone did I hear? The cow’s? That gives me another silly movie scene: cows in a field taking calls. Maybe I’m losing it.
“You feeling better?” Mark looks up from his phone. “We really need to get back to base and rethink. We’re running out of time.”
We stand up. “Did I do bad?” I ask.
“No, we did. We got some footage of you before we got separated, but not enough. And we’ve lost our cow guys, and the cow suit is kaput anyway, and Stef got hurt and can’t walk around the site.”
“How did she get hurt?” Tracey hoists the camera.
“The cow kicked her. So…”
They both look at me. I shake my head. “Sorry. My grandpa is taking us to brunch. And you told me I could film.”
Tracey sighs. “You’re right. It wouldn’t work anyway. I mean, look at the costume.”
She’s right. The pioneer dress is smeared with dirt and plant stains. Lace hangs from one cuff, and the torn sash is dangling by a thread. The bonnet is just as bad, the brim all crushed. “Sorry,” I say again.
“Hey,” Mark says as we gather everything up, “you did your best. We’ll improvise something. It’s part of film.”
Tracey nods. “You can help, but first we’ll have to figure out what to film. Following Laura was going to tie it all together.”
We follow the fiddle music back across the meadow. I’ve heard a lot of fiddle music this weekend, and I’ve learned something: I don’t like it. It does give me an idea though. “Instead of following Laura Secord, why don’t you follow Ken the fiddle guy around? He goes everywhere, and I sure don’t think he’s vegan.”
“Heeey,” says Mark. “Fiddle soundtrack.” I shudder a little.
Tracey says, “Spencer, one day you’ll be a director. We’ve got to talk to the others and check with Ken. Can you take the bell back? Gram will need it. She’ll have to do her first talk soon. And tell her sorry, okay?”
TWENTY-ONE
I lug the cowbell back to the cabin. Lying in the bonnet, it doesn’t clank. This
is a good thing, as the clanking was getting on my nerves. It was almost as bad as the fiddle music.
Irene Steele has her spinning wheel set up on the porch again, and she’s back in costume. Grandpa is standing near the cow, wearing his beret and aviator sunglasses, hands in the pockets of his chinos. He nods at it as I trudge up. “I wouldn’t get too close, Spence. She kicked somebody a while ago.”
“I heard,” I say. “I’d have thought cows would like vegans.”
Grandpa laughs. “How was the filming?” he asks as we walk over to Irene.
“Things got weird,” I say. “But I get to do some more later.”
“Weird?” Grandpa takes off his sunglasses. “How did it get weird?” Before I can answer, Irene is booming, “Spencer! And my bell! In the nick of time too—I shall be starting soon.”
I hand over the bonnet. “The bell’s got poison ivy on it. Clean it off before you touch it,” I say loudly. “Tracey says sorry. She didn’t think you’d mind.”
“How did it get weird, Spence?” Grandpa repeats.
I don’t answer because I’m watching Irene’s hand sneaking up into the bell, even after I warned her not to touch it. How deaf is she? Whatever. It’s her problem. But that reminds me of something, and I dig in my pocket. “Oh yeah. This fell out of it.” I’m looking down, forgetting to be loud, but her head snaps toward me anyway.
“My caltrop!” she exclaims. “But of course.”
It’s Grandpa’s turn for a head snap. He stares at both of us. Irene turns a little pink. “I put it in the bell for safekeeping. One treasure with another, and both dear to my heart.”
“I didn’t know the bell was fake,” I blurt. “Luther tried to take it, and the caltrop fell out, so I hit him with it.”
“What?” Now they’re both staring.
I babble on. “I told you things got weird. Luther was mad about farb stuff. That’s why I was trying to follow him last night. He said he was going to do something, but I didn’t know what.”
Grandpa looks at Irene. “Is Luther in the business?”
“Import/export?” I say. “No, he’s a dentist.”
There’s a silence as they look at each other. Then Irene says, “Exactly. He’s an over-eager young man with too much whisker and too little brain.”
Grandpa nods. “Fair enough. I wouldn’t want our caltrop idea getting stolen.”
“Never fear, darling man.” The caltrop disappears into the folds of her dress, and she’s all smiles again. “Our business shall remain ours. As always. Now shoo, both of you. I have to prepare for my first talk. Spencer, a million thanks. I shall clean the bell immediately. Do come by later, both of you, and bring Bernard. TTFN.” She stands and bustles into the cabin.
Grandpa and I step off the porch and into the sunlight. “She’s quite a gal,” he says, putting his aviator glasses back on. “I hate to think of her losing a step, but Lord knows we all get older. I thought she’d care for my little gift more than that.”
“Grandpa,” I say as we amble off, “I think the caltrop was a fake too.”
“Why do you say that, Spence?” Grandpa’s hands are in his pockets again. He’s looking at everything but me.
“Well, when I hit Luther with it, it broke in two. It was hollow and there was, like, a little memory card inside it.”
“Ahhhhh. Yes,” Grandpa says. “I was teasing Irene about it being the real thing. She understood. The card has all the product and manufacturing specs for making the souvenirs. That’s really why it was valuable. In our line of work, you always want your pitch package to stand out.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“Well, really I am, Spence, but I like to keep my hand in every once in a while, just for the fun of it. Call it a hobby. Keeps me young, like my grandsons do. And who knows? Irene and I might make a last little killing in our golden years.” He starts to walk again. I follow. “Tell me, Spence, exactly how did you deal with this Luther character?”
I tell Grandpa how Luther tackled me and grabbed the bell and how I hit him with the caltrop.
Grandpa whistles. “Good for you. Damn risky, though, when he had a knife.” He turns to me and takes his glasses off again. “I remember my wartime training. How did you take him?”
I figure now is the time. It’s easier than lying anyway. I get out my cell phone. Grandpa’s eyes widen, then narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. I punch up the photo of Luther. “I told him I’d text this picture to you right then if he didn’t drop everything and take off.”
Grandpa blows out a breath, then nods and smiles at me. “Great play, Spence. Gutsy.” Then he cocks an eyebrow and says slowly, “It’s a good thing you had your cell phone.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It probably was.”
Grandpa wraps an arm around my shoulders and gives me a hug. “Spence, do me a favor and send me that picture anyway. I want it for a souvenir.” I punch the buttons. A moment later I hear Grandpa’s cell phone ding.
“Thanks, bud. And one other favor. Let’s not tell your parents—especially your mom—everything we did this weekend, okay? Let’s just keep some of this between you and me and Bernard.”
It sounds good to me. In fact, it sounds way better than the fiddle music I hear coming closer. I turn and see Ken the fiddler strolling toward us. Tourists are gathering. Basil and Mark are walking backward in front of him with the camera and microphone. Tracey has the clapperboard. “Cut,” Basil says.
Tracey comes over to us. “Ken’s going to fiddle up a crowd for Gram.” To me, she says, “How’d it go?”
“All good,” I say. “Your gram isn’t mad.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Spencer.”
“That’s okay. Hey, can I film?” I have a feeling this is my last chance. Tracey goes to talk to Basil and Mark, then waves me over. “Go for it,” Basil says.
Grandpa steps back. The camera settles on my shoulder. I check the eyepiece. This time it’s clean. I settle my glasses. Basil plants the microphone boom near Ken but out of camera range. Tracey sets up with the clapperboard. I do a test focus. Ken swims into view, grinning as he saws away. Tracey steps in front of him. The clapperboard is marked B 13 / 1.
“Sound,” I say.
“Speed,” says Mark.
“Mark it.”
Crack goes the clapperboard. Tracey steps out of the way. I keep the camera on Ken. People around him are swaying to the music. Some start to clap in time. Ken starts to stroll, and I follow. He’s easing the people to where Irene Steele will talk. I catch a flash of Grandpa’s beret, I think, in the background and then a patch of baby blue, the exact shade of a BREAD T-shirt from the 1970s. I sure hope it’s Bunny. All at once, I’m starving. It’s time for brunch.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Tracing the threads of a story back can drive you crazy, but it’s always worth doing, partly to remind you of the odd kinds of things that get your imagination going (the ridiculous cowbell sitting on the hearth at our summer cottage comes to mind) and partly to remind you how many people you should thank.
First off then, thanks to the Seveners (hey, Group of Seven is taken) for diving back in with a new twist to our collective saga of the McLeans. And hats off to Andrew and all at Orca for keeping the pool open for us.
Thanks especially to Richard Scrimger for being such a good sport and willing participant in closely linking our stories of Spencer and Bunny. Kicking ideas around with Richard and making things work always means the fun far outweighs the frustration when books are being cooked.
Thanks also to Rob Quartly, who patiently answered my questions about low-budget filming, and Ken Ramsden, trad musician par excellence, who is no stranger to the heritage reenactment scene.
My interest in the War of 1812 fittingly stretches back to one of my own grandpas, the late W.J. Stewart, who was instrumental in the preservation and restoration of Toronto’s Fort York. You can find a plaque about him there if you visit the fort—something that’s well worth doing, by the wa
y.
My interest in reenactors began with a wonderful nonfiction book by Tony Horwitz, Confederates in the Attic, which, among other things, delves into the world of Civil War reenactors in the United States and introduced me to farb and hardcore. I’ll confess right away that most of what I wrote about 1812 reenactors springs from my own imagination and the Horwitz book. My sincere apologies to actual 1812 reenactors if I’ve gotten things wrong. I’m sure you’ll let me know.
Speaking of letting me—and us—know, thanks also to all the readers and supporters of Seven (the series) and the Seven Sequels. Your enthusiasm got us here.
Finally, as always, my thanks to Margaret and Will for love and good suggestions.
TED STAUNTON is the prize-winning author of many books for young people, from longtime picture book favorite Puddleman to the young-adult novel Who I’m Not. His novels Jump Cut and Coda are part of the popular Seven (the series) and Seven Sequels. Over the years he’s also performed and led workshops everywhere from Inuvik to Addis Ababa. When not writing, Ted plays music in the Maple Leaf Champions Jug Band. Born very young, Ted is now older and lives with his family in Port Hope, Ontario. Speed is the prequel to Jump Cut, Ted’s novel in Seven (the series).
SEE WHERE SPENCER GOES NEXT IN AN EXCERPT FROM JUMP CUT FROM SEVEN (THE SERIES).
“TWO SHOT”
BY SPENCER O’TOOLE
FADE IN:
EXT.—A COUNTRY ROAD—LONG SHOT, FROM ABOVE—DAY
A red Miata, top down, zooms along.
CLOSE-UP—SPENCER
SPENCER (Colin Farrell?) is behind the wheel. His hair blows in the wind. He’s all in black with cool black shades. His chiseled face has a three-day beard.
EXT.—GATES OF HUGE MANSION—LONG SHOT, FROM ABOVE—DAY
Miata turns in at gates of a huge mansion.
EXT.—STEPS OF MANSION—TRACKING SHOT FOLLOWS FROM BEHIND SPENCER—DAY
SPENCER strides up steps to mansion. Door opens. BUTLER nods.