“Your pa was a warden?”
Pullman nodded. “And his father before him. My great-great-great-grandfather actually knew McCauley.”
“I didn’t know the park was named after a real somebody.”
“Sure it is. Roland McCauley. He and the Gilbert family founded the city. Of course, this was before his mind turned like bad cheese and got real … colorful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, while the Gilberts were cutting down trees and planting fields and building the village, McCauley spent all his time out in the woods like a wild man. He lived with the Indians, and swore he’d leave the land in its natural condition. But as the Gilberts’ village became a town, and the town became a city, they drove the Indians deeper into the wilderness and left McCauley’s land empty.”
“Nobody tried to build on it?”
“Oh, they tried. But McCauley owned the land, and he could do what he wanted with it. It was his own money he was losing.” Pullman stood up. “You ready to go on to Alice’s place?”
Giuseppe nodded, and Pullman set off. Giuseppe followed him, and as they walked, the warden continued the story.
“When McCauley died, he left a legacy to keep the park safe even after his charter expired.”
“Safe from who?”
“Lots of men through the years. That old miser Mister Twine, most recently. He wants to build a hotel up ahead on Grover’s Pond. And McCauley’s legacy is running out. Soon this will all be up for grabs.”
Giuseppe frowned. He had only spent a few days in the park, but already felt a pang of loss when he thought about someone chopping it all down.
A short distance later they reached Grover’s Pond, where a muddy bank, overhung with a fringe of grass, encircled the lake. The pond was nearly the size of Gilbert Square, and the water seemed to have swallowed its fill of clouds and sky and trees. Lily pads congregated along the lake edge, and the smell of algae lingered in Giuseppe’s nose and mouth like a dead fish.
“Alice lives on the far side,” Pullman said. “The water’s cleaner over there and you can swim if you want.”
“I can’t swim,” Giuseppe said.
They skirted the pond and reached the opposite shore. The water was clearer there, as Pullman had said, and Giuseppe glimpsed shadows moving under the surface, fat fish gliding through thickets of water weeds on the bottom. A small path led away from the water’s edge into the forest.
“I hope she’s home,” Pullman said. “She usually returns in the afternoon before evening comes on, but sometimes she sleeps in the city.”
They rounded a bend, and Giuseppe saw a squat log cabin nestled down among the trees. The small door was painted yellow, and the round timbers had been chinked with white clay. Garden plots surrounded the home with flowers, vegetables, and herbs. Their fragrance overwhelmed Giuseppe as they stepped up to the door, like he was being wrapped in a giant leaf.
The warden knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again. “Alice? It’s Pullman.”
No answer.
Pullman took a step away from the door. “I guess we’ll have to wait. Help yourself to anything from her garden, I know she won’t mind. There’s carrots and lettuce, some turnips, I think. And behind the house there’s a couple of apple trees.”
“Are you leaving?”
“I just need to check on a few traps. There’s an old snapping turtle in the pond who’s been getting too big for his britches, and eating more than his share of fish and frogs … birds, even. And I’ve a hankering for some turtle soup. You wait here, and I’ll be back shortly.”
Pullman left without waiting for a reply, and Giuseppe shrugged. The sunlight was warm here, without being too hot. The food Pullman had given him earlier had satisfied him for a short time, but Giuseppe’s stomach growled, and he could not remember the last time he had tasted an apple. He hardly ever ate fruits and vegetables, let alone something pulled fresh right from the tree or the ground. He decided to try the fruit first and walked around behind the cabin, mouth watering.
The little orchard bore green apples on one tree and red ones on another. Giuseppe pulled down a green apple first, unsure of how to tell its ripeness, but the one he chose looked bigger and deeper in color than the others. When he bit through its crisp skin, sour juice exploded in his mouth and twisted up his cheeks and his tongue. He closed his eyes, chewed with pursed lips, and swallowed. He looked at the apple in his hand and wondered if the red ones were any sweeter.
They were, and just as juicy. He had eaten two of them before Pullman came around the corner.
“Come see,” he said, and motioned for Giuseppe to follow him.
The warden led him from the cabin back down to the pond. There on the shore, in the grass, lay a snapping turtle the size of a small barrel. It had a dark shell, fuzzy in places with patches of green water moss, a vicious-looking beak, and two nostrils jutting out square between its glassy eyes. It was dead.
Pullman got down on his haunches and studied the creature. “I had a devil of a time dragging it over here. Thing must weigh near fifty pounds.”
“I’ve never seen one this big.” Giuseppe put a hand out and laid it on the cold shell. “The ones in the markets are a quarter this size.”
Pullman heaved the animal onto its round back and took hold of the hind legs. “You grab the front. We’ll haul it up to Alice’s.”
Giuseppe stared at the long neck dangling to the ground, the mouth lined with razors.
“It won’t bite you,” Pullman said.
Giuseppe bent and grabbed the front legs. Together they lifted it and lumbered up the path, the turtle swinging between them as they walked. When they reached Alice’s cabin, they set the animal down and took a seat on a wooden bench in one of her flower gardens. Bees hummed around them, lifting from flower to flower as if tied to invisible threads. Pullman took out a rag and wiped his brow.
“So do you meet many people out here?” Giuseppe asked.
“No, not many. Every so often I’ll come across a botanist from the city out collecting, maybe a naturalist chasing birds.” Pullman stared out over the pond. “So what are you hiding from out here, really?”
Giuseppe paused. Then he told Pullman a little about his life playing on the streets, and a little about Stephano. But he made no mention of the green violin and said that Stephano had just lost his temper on account of Giuseppe not bringing in enough money. That was why he had run away.
“So you don’t have anywhere in the city you can go?” Pullman said.
“Not where he won’t find me.”
Pullman frowned. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
It was late in the afternoon when someone called out to them. “Well, hello there!” said an old woman coming up the path. She wore a checkered apron and a pointy straw hat. “What have you caught today, woodsman?”
“Hello, Alice.” Pullman stood and Giuseppe did the same. “I brought you a stray to feed. And something to feed him with.”
“Oh, I love strays,” Alice said. “Of what variety is this one?”
“The scrawny kind. But a good-natured temperament, I would say.”
“Well, I must have a look at him.” Alice came up and peered at Giuseppe, squinting. “Hello, dear.”
Giuseppe swallowed. “Hello, ma’am. I ate a few of your apples. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, eat all you like.”
Pullman directed her attention to the turtle carcass on her lawn. “Think you could scare up some soup?”
Alice grinned. “I see you finally caught that old geezer. Good for you, woodsman. Yes, some turtle soup would be lovely. Come inside, won’t you?”
They followed her through the yellow door, and in her house Giuseppe felt the safest he had ever been since coming to America. There was but one room, with small windows that seemed to trap the sunlight in the cabin and age it to a golden yellow. A low hearth opened onto a wooden f
loor strewn with dried lavender stems. There was a cupboard lined with bottles of every size and shape. Some jars contained leaves and roots, while others were filled with liquids the color of amber, chalk, and mud. Herbs hung in bunches from every rafter, and a small bed snuggled in the corner under a mound of quilts.
“Sit yourselves at the table there.” Alice removed her hat, freeing a tangle of wispy white hair. Giuseppe and Pullman sat down while the old woman stoked the fire back to life. She heaved a kettle up on an iron hook and poured water into it from a large pitcher. After swinging the kettle in over the flames, Alice retrieved a basket hanging from a timber overhead. She handed it to Giuseppe.
“Would you mind getting some vegetables, dear?” she asked. “Some carrots and celery, an onion, and a few ripe tomatoes.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Giuseppe said.
“Woodsman, if you would kindly butcher the meat.”
“Of course,” Pullman said.
Giuseppe took the basket and a knife out into the garden and gathered the vegetables Alice had asked for. It took a little while to realize that the carrots and onions were actually under the ground, but it felt good to move through the cultivated rows and patches, feeling the dirt, helping the old woman. Surely someone who cared as much about growing things as she appeared to was someone he could trust.
He went back inside, the basket full, and watched as Alice chopped and diced the vegetables along with some cloves of garlic. She pulled down herbs from her ceiling, smelled them, and sighed with pleasure. A short time later Pullman entered, carrying a board piled with slabs of pink meat. Alice cut the meat into chunks and tossed it into the kettle now steaming over the fire. She tore the herbs and dropped them in.
“We’ll just let that simmer for a spell before I add the vegetables,” she said, and took a seat next to them at the table. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about yourself, dear. I noticed you have a fiddle.”
“Yes,” Giuseppe said, and he told her the same story he had related to Pullman.
“You poor thing,” Alice said. “I wish there was something I could do.”
It seemed as though that was just something adults said. Adults like Reverend Grey. But Giuseppe felt that they were saying it more to themselves, so they felt less guilty about doing nothing. But he did not blame them. What they could do for him, they had done.
“The soup smells delicious,” Giuseppe said.
“Just wait,” Alice said.
She rose from the table and went to the hearth, where she raked a layer of coals under a grill. She set a black iron skillet over the coals to heat through, and spooned in a dollop of butter that sizzled. Next she dumped the vegetables into the skillet and added a scoop of flour. When the mixture had browned, she tipped the contents of the skillet into the kettle and stirred it all together.
“We’ll give that another hour or so,” she said.
“Would you play for us?” Pullman asked Giuseppe.
The request stopped him. Giuseppe felt something catch inside him like a fish on a hook. Against his will these two had snagged the part of him that darted away from everyone. He realized he wanted to play for them, but not for money. He went for his fiddle.
“What would you like to hear?” he asked as he tuned the instrument.
“Play that song you were playing this morning when I found you,” Pullman said.
Giuseppe took the bow and rubbed the first few notes from the strings and felt something different in the music than he had ever felt before. Or perhaps it was not in the music but in him.
Both members of his tiny audience closed their eyes, firelight turning their cheeks red as the cabin dimmed with evening. They listened and he played. The song had the same notes it always had, but they felt more honest in their expression. Giuseppe had always chosen music for how well it would fill his cap with coins. But given as a gift, the song became something even more than if it were played on the green violin.
He finished. He played another. And then a lively jig.
Pullman started tapping his toe to the rhythm. Then he rose from his chair and took Alice’s hands. He pulled her up and danced her around the small cabin, kicking his feet high and singing. Alice bobbed along with him, a delighted smile on her face, and watched the warden’s bouncing legs as if she had never seen anything like them before. They circled Giuseppe and he picked up the meter, playing faster. He spun them around like tops, filled the cabin with enough music and joy to blow the roof off.
When the song ended, the dancers hurled apart. Alice slumped into a chair by Giuseppe, and Pullman sprawled wide on the bed, both of them breathing hard and laughing.
“My goodness,” Alice said. “You sly woodsman.”
Pullman sat up. “I don’t know what came over me. Seized by a mood, I guess. I just couldn’t stop my legs.”
“Well, I thank you. Both of you.” Alice dabbed at her brow with her apron and went to the kettle. “I wouldn’t care to count the years since I last danced like that.” She lifted the lid and peered inside. “It’s ready.”
She ladled bowls of turtle soup from the kettle, and Pullman brought them to the table one at a time. They all settled into their steaming dishes and ate. The stew was thick and rich, a velvety brown gravy full of vegetables and meat. Giuseppe had never tasted anything like it. The tender chunks of turtle fell apart in his mouth, and he finished the whole bowl before the others had eaten half of theirs.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and put his hands in his lap, looking from his empty dish to the kettle by the fire. Alice leaned toward him.
“You are welcome to eat as much as you like, dear.”
“Thank you.” Giuseppe hopped to the hearth and dished himself up another bowl. When that serving was gone, he had another, and before long, he felt something in his stomach he could not remember feeling for a very long time. He was full, sitting at a table with kind people who looked after him. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
After they had all finished, Pullman pushed himself away from the table.
“Well, I’d best be on my way,” the warden said.
“It worries me so when you travel in the dark,” Alice said.
“Nothing to fret about,” Pullman said. “Good night, Giuseppe.”
“Where are you going?” Giuseppe asked.
“My cabin. It’s not far. But don’t worry, Alice will take care of you.”
“That’s right,” Alice said.
Giuseppe bit his lip. “Will you come back?”
“I’ll try and stop by tomorrow,” Pullman said. “Get some sleep.”
They followed the warden outside into the gloaming. The garden had a stronger, sweeter fragrance at night than it did during the day, and fireflies had taken the place of bees among the plants. The moon dangled an image of itself in the pond like a fishing lure, and bullfrogs bellowed from the reeds and mud. Pullman grabbed the empty turtle shell and picked up a heavy bundle from the grass, the rest of the meat he had dressed and wrapped. He nodded and whistled off into the night.
Once he had disappeared from view, Alice sighed. “Come back inside, dear. Let’s get your bed made.”
Giuseppe followed her back in. She opened a chest at the foot of her bed and pulled out more blankets, which she arranged on the floor near the hearth. Giuseppe sat down among them, cross-legged, and watched Alice tidy up the room.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“Nonsense. You lie down now.”
Giuseppe did as he was told and stared into the fire. He watched the flames work over the wood, turning it black and then red before sifting it to ash. He listened to the crickets outside and heard Alice climb into bed behind him. He felt contented and safe for the first time in so long. But that moment did not last. Deep memories rose up strong behind those freshly made that night, old memories of his parents, his brother. Marietta. No matter how wonderful it felt to be there, nestled in his blankets by the fire, this kind old woman was not
his family, and her little cabin in the woods was not his home.
CHAPTER 14
The Orphanage
FREDERICK SKETCHED BY THE LIGHT OF A CANDLE NUB, HUDDLED over a desk, the clockwork man stretched out on the worktable behind him. A pile of crumpled paper surrounded him like a snowdrift streaked with inky soot. He gripped the fountain pen hard enough to turn the tips of his fingers white and scratched out a line that ripped right through the paper. He put the pen down and stared at the gash in his design, right at the center of his clockwork head.
He could not make it work.
Babbage had offered him a window that had turned out to be nothing more than a crack in the wall, too small to fit through. Size was the problem. No matter how many designs and iterations, Frederick could not find a way to fit all the necessary clockwork within the nutshell of the head. It was like the automaton shepherd boy back at the guild hall. The movements would have to be relocated to the chest, which would mean tearing the clockwork man apart and starting over. Frederick grieved at that thought. The body was as perfect as he could make it, fluid and elegant and strong, with all the necessary connections converging at the neck.
He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. Pink sunlight spilled down the stairs from the shop above. He had spent another night awake at his desk, the third in a row. The day after the opera, after talking with Hannah and Master Branch, he had put away thoughts of his mother and gone to work, and every night since then he had been at his desk. He stole naps as he could throughout the day, but felt fatigue sucking at his mind like an undertow.
He palmed the sketch, crumpled it in his hand, and tossed it to the floor, a damaged snowflake. He stood and plodded up the stairs, where he and Master Branch ate breakfast in silence. Afterward, the old man set him a list of tasks to accomplish in the shop that day, and Frederick approached them absently.
He finished the repair of a Black Forest piece whose cuckoo had lost its chirp, and replaced a worn-out balance spring in a silver mantel clock. He then cleaned the dust from a Congreve, allowing the steel ball to roll freely back and forth along its track, measuring time with its tilting. Frederick became lost in the up-and-down rhythm, the ball at play like a lonely boy working a seesaw by himself.
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