We had reached Mr. Canner’s house, and there was Mrs. Mudkin standing on the top step, tapping her fingers against the porch pillar.
“Girls, I need to be able to count on you. Now take this bell.” She shoved the old school bell at me. “Ring when you’re done and don’t you be in too much of a hurry. I’ll be next door visiting.”
Mr. Canner was grumpy that we were late. He scolded Lizzie for having thrown out his mail the last time we were there. “Don’t throw anything out today, missy. You understand?”
I was reminded of Joe. He would sometimes say “Listen, missy,” but he was always joking when he used that word missy. “Listen here, missy,” he might say, “I’m not as old as you think,” and “Listen up, missy—I was quite a looker in my day.”
In the last few days, when Joe tapped at the door of my brain like this, he was always still there. He was still alive, but somewhere else, maybe out in the fields or in the barn.
Mr. Canner was dressed up again, this time in a white shirt with a stiff collar, a plaid handkerchief around his neck, a shiny black vest, perfectly ironed gray trousers, and polished black shoes. He gestured to the side table and said to me, “Go on, read from that one on top. Start where the bookmark is.”
I opened the book and flipped to the bookmarked page. I looked at the title of the story and then around the room.
“Go on,” Mr. Canner said. “Bird got your tongue?”
The title of the story was “The Legend of Finn McCoul.” If the house was on fire, if an earthquake shook the rafters, if a hurricane battled the windows, I was not about to leave Mr. Canner’s house until I had read the story of Finn McCoul.
I’d no sooner read the first few lines than Mr. Canner interrupted.
“Aye, Finn McCoul, one of my favorites.” Mr. Canner was less pinched today; his head even seemed less pointy. He settled back into his chair. “Continue, continue.”
And so I continued the tale of Finn McCoul, an Irish hero, a giant of a man who lived with his equally large wife, Oonagh, in a castle at the top of Knockmany Hill. No man could beat Finn, and Finn feared no man. Only one thing did he fear: the giant Cucullin, who was said to be bigger and stronger than Finn himself.
“It’s a good story, i’nnit?” Mr. Canner said at various points. “I do like a good story.”
One day Finn learned that the giant Cucullin was coming for Finn, and Finn rushed home, supposedly to check on his wife, Oonagh, but in truth, to see if she could help him.
“Listen to what she does,” Mr. Canner said.
Oonagh devised a plan. When Cucullin arrived, Finn was in a cradle pretending to be their child. After several other clever tricks, Oonagh invited Cucullin to see the child. Cucullin was horrified to think that if Finn’s child was this big, how enormous must the adult Finn be? The tale ends with Cucullin fleeing Knockmany Hill, vowing never to return.
“Ho, that’s a grand tale, i’nnit? That Finn was a mighty man.”
“Seems to me it was his wife who was mighty.”
“What?” Mr. Canner’s face resumed its pinched prune shape.
“She was the one who used her brains to save her husband.”
“Fuh. You don’t know anything about Finn McCoul.”
Lizzie joined us. “Another Finn?”
Next we walked to Pork Street to attend to one-armed Farley in Mrs. Broadley’s boardinghouse. We approached with caution, given that the last time we were here, Mr. Farley had become agitated about seeing the King of Ireland. We found him hunched in his armchair dressed in the same clothes we’d last seen him in: blue jeans, red flannel shirt, and brown slippers. He didn’t seem to remember us.
“What do you want with me?”
Mrs. Mudkin explained our presence. “… and so the girls are here to help you with anything, little or large. How’s that? What would you like them to do?”
Mr. Farley did not answer. He stared down at his brown slippers. I wanted to fly out of the window, be anywhere but there in that stuffy and stuffed room that smelled of furniture polish. In the china cabinet were Mrs. Broadley’s fragile dishes and figurines, the cabinet like a time capsule, the whole room like a time capsule, with Mr. Farley as the human exhibit. And then I saw the iron birds again. I bent closer. Two crows.
I tugged at Lizzie’s sleeve. “Look in there. See anything strange?”
“What? That Eiffel Tower? That little bunny?”
“No, there, those crows.”
“What about them?”
“Aren’t they like the ones Nula had in her trunk? The ones from the secret admirer?”
“Naomi, what are you talking about?”
“The crows—the ones in Nula’s trunk—”
We both glanced at Mr. Farley, who was still studying his slippers.
Mrs. Mudkin scolded me and Lizzie for whispering. “Girls, if you have something to say, say it so we can all hear.”
I inched toward Mr. Farley. “Mr. Farley, those things in the cabinet, did you say they belonged to Mrs. Broadley?”
“What cabinet?”
“That one, over there.”
“Not my stuff.”
“None of it?”
“None of it.”
“Not even those two crows?”
“No.”
“So those crows belong to Mrs. Broadley?”
“No.”
“But you said—if they don’t belong to you and they don’t belong to Mrs. Broadley, then who—”
“Raynee, please stop pestering Mr. Farley. It isn’t polite.”
“Naomi. My name is Nay-oh-me, and I wasn’t pestering him. I was making conversation.”
“It sounds a lot like pestering, Naymee.”
“Mary,” Mr. Farley said.
“What?”
“Mary-Mary.”
I felt as if I’d been flung into a busy market square in the middle of a foreign city and all around me people were spouting unintelligible words: “Zucchopeno! Mitzolaka! Radeetska!”
“Mary-Mary,” Mr. Farley repeated. “Mary-Mary-Mary-Mary-Mary-Mary.” And then louder, “MARY-MARY-MARY-MARY! MARY-MARY-MARY-MARY! LISTEN TO ME!”
“Come, girls, out, out,” Mrs. Mudkin ordered. “Out, out.” She ushered us into the hall and closed the door. “I will speak with Mrs. Broadley. I’m terribly afraid that Mr. Farley needs more help than we can give. We seem only to agitate the poor man.”
CHAPTER 38
THE WIND BLOWS
Joe could tell the direction of the wind just by inhaling the air. “Smell that cedar? That’s a southern wind blowin’.” If he smelled grass, it was a western wind; the smell of the riverbank meant a northern wind; and the smell of sand and ocean told of the eastern wind.
On the way home from Mr. Farley’s the wind was strong, pushing bits of paper into the air like so many little white birds fluttering. “Sand, ocean,” I said. “Eastern wind blowing.”
“How do you know that?” Lizzie asked. “I couldn’t tell you east from west, I never could, I get so mixed up and turned around. Lar-de-dar! That wind!” She turned her back to it and grabbed ahold of my arm. “Naomi, I’m so scared. Why don’t the Cupwrights want me? Honestly, Naomi, if I didn’t have you, I’d be all alone in this world, completely and totally alone, do you know what that means? I’ve got to go home now but I don’t really even have a home anymore, do I? I have to go back there to that place and wonder when they will get rid of me. Will it be today? Or tomorrow? The next day?”
I almost told her to stop asking me questions, but instantly I thought of Joe saying that Lizzie could talk the ears off a cornfield, and it made me laugh, and I wrapped an arm around Lizzie.
“I won’t let you be homeless, you crawdad.”
“I know it,” she said. “After all, my mother probably saved your life. See you later! Ooh, that wind!”
The wind barreled down the street, swirling grit along the edges of the road and up over the curbs and into our faces. The wind whipped against shutters and slammed screen doors.
I knew I would see Finn after I left Lizzie, and I did. I knew he would be just beyond Tebop’s store, and he was. I knew we would walk along the creek with the eastern wind blowing, and we did.
Against the shelter of a big oak tree, we were protected from the wind as it whirled around us and snapped through the tall grass. When I pressed Finn about where he was from, he told me Duffayn.
“‘Duffayn’?” I said. “Have I heard of that before?”
He leaned his forehead against mine. “You’re asking me?”
“I was trying to place where it was—”
“Ireland.”
Two thoughts popped into my head. One was that Finn might leave as suddenly as he had arrived. The other was that I wanted to go beyond Blackbird Tree and its cocoon of protection and its people rooted to that small patch of earth.
When I left Finn, I returned to Mr. Farley’s.
“Mr. Farley, I’m sorry to bother you again—”
“Everybody bothers me.”
“I’m sorry about that, but may I ask you one question?”
“Everybody asks me questions.”
“Yes. Well.” I was standing beside the china cabinet. “Were you trying to tell us that these crows belonged to Mary-Mary?”
“Mary-Mary!” His fingers fluttered toward me. “Mary-Mary!”
“May I see the crows? May I hold them?”
With less effort than I expected, Mr. Farley pulled himself from his chair, retrieved a key from a desk drawer, opened the cabinet, and handed me the crows.
Mr. Farley returned to the desk and rummaged through a deep bottom drawer. From it, he pulled a blue box, and from the stack of papers inside, he withdrew a white envelope and offered it to me.
It was a note addressed to Mary (not Mary-Mary).
I do not know who sent them to me. I do not know why anyone would send me crows. Crows! Knowing how much you love birds, though, I thought you might like to have them.
I glanced at the signature, too flowery to decipher, and reread the note. I was about to replace the note in the envelope when I felt a tiny jolt, as if there were an electrical charge to the letter. I looked more closely at the signature. I made out the first name: Margaret. The last name began with an S.
“Margaret?” I said to Mr. Farley. “Did you know this Margaret?”
“No.”
I studied the signature again. S. Se. Or Sc. It looked a little like Strawberry or Sheltering.
The wind was behind me as I raced for home; I felt as if it might lift me into the air and send me halfway to the moon. I had big thoughts to match the big wind. I wondered if things that might seem frightening could lose their hold over you. I wondered if we find the people we need when we need them. I wondered if we attract our future by some sort of invisible force, or if we are drawn to it by a similar force. I felt I was turning a corner and that change was afoot.
CHAPTER 39
SIDE TRIPS
I had intended to go straight home, but my feet took me on two side trips. The first was to Witch Wiggins’s house, a narrow, tall, gray clapboard house with a wide front porch. If you had to guess which house a witch lived in, this would be it. The house tilted to one side, as if eavesdropping on its neighbor. Sunburned patches of paint peeled in limp layers. The upper-story black shutters were closed, blocking daylight from entering; the lower shutters banged in the wind. There was but a small front yard, its grass brown. Guarding the base of the house were various stone elves, toads, and mushrooms.
She did not answer my knocks at the door right away. From within came tiny thumps and bumps, as if bats were knocking into walls and windows. Something thudded closed from within. A coffin? At last, latches clicked and the door inched open, held in suspension by a thick brass chain.
She was dressed in purple from head to toe: purple beret, purple sweater, long purple skirt, purple slippers. Her wiry gray hair reached halfway down her back and her face bore a thousand wrinkles. She unlatched the chain and invited me in.
“I won’t bite,” she said, and then added, “probably.”
The wind blew me into the darkened parlor. Heavy crimson curtains hung at the windows, lending a bloodstained glow to the sofa and chairs. The pendulum of a tall grandfather clock beat steadily. No coffins. Into the room flew two yellow birds, followed quickly by a green one and a blue one. They circled me. I may have ducked.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Witch Wiggins said. “Sweet little parakeets.” She clicked her tongue and one landed on her arm, another on the top of her head. I felt one alight on my own head. The fourth strutted across the top of the sofa.
“Do you have any crows?” I asked.
“Crows? Of course. Lots.”
“Could I see them?”
“See them? Of course you can see them. Anyone can see them.” She motioned to the window. “Open your eyes, girl.”
“I didn’t mean real crows, or at least not outside crows. I meant pet crows, or, no, what I really meant was not live crows—”
“Dead crows? You think I have dead crows here?” She cupped one of the parakeets in her hand, stroking its feathers with her thumb.
“No, no, carved ones. Figurines.”
Witch Wiggins stroked the bird in her hand. “Hm, no, I don’t believe I do. Are you looking for some? Do you collect them?”
“No.” I had been sneaking glances around the room, but apparently I was more obvious than I thought.
“You think I’m really a witch, don’t you?”
“No, no. Are you?”
“Aren’t we all?” She laughed, a perfect witch cackle. “It’s lovely for people to think I’m a witch. I’m quite happy for that because they steer clear of me and they don’t dare cross me.” The wind banged the shutters against the house. “There—that wind—my doing, of course.” She smiled. “Tell me about the crows.”
And so I told her about the crows in Nula’s trunk, and when I finished, she said, “Ah, those crows. Those crows certainly were a bad itch for Joe. He hated those crows, hated not knowing who had sent them.”
“Do you know who sent them?”
The shutters banged fiercely against the house.
“I’ve had enough of that wind. I’ll stop it soon.” She wiggled her fingers at the window. “Takes about ten minutes.” She clicked her tongue. “Won’t Nula be wondering where you are?” Witch Wiggins ushered me to the door.
“But—”
“Don’t worry, you’ll know soon, bye-bye.” She eased me through the doorway and closed and latched the door behind me.
The wind pushed me along, this way and that, right up to Crazy Cora’s house, and as soon as I’d climbed the porch steps, the wind calmed.
I knocked at the door and waited. Soon there came a tap-tapping and I could see, behind the lace curtain on the door window, a hunched figure making its way down the hall toward me. Her face pressed against the curtain.
Crazy Cora shouted, “WHAT YOU WANT?”
“Uh—”
“IS THAT LADY WITH YOU?”
“No, I’m all alone.” This was maybe not a good thing to admit to a crazy person.
Crazy Cora fumbled with the lock and tugged at the door. “YOU’LL HAVE TO PUSH A LITTLE. IT GETS STUCK.”
Even as I was pushing my way in, I wondered what I would say, not at all sure why I was there.
Crazy Cora wore a shapeless and faded yellow-flowered dress partly covered by a stained blue apron. Her feet were clad in pale blue bunny slippers. She was short and hunched and our eyes were nearly level.
“What do you want, girl? What are you selling? I ain’t buying any. I don’t want any. I don’t need any.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Are you checking up on me? If you are, I don’t have any. I haven’t had a dog since Joe stole mine.”
“I’m not—I didn’t—did Joe really steal your dog?”
“Course he did. You think I’m lying?”
“No, I just can’t be
lieve he would do that.”
Crazy Cora pulled a pair of glasses from her apron pocket, settled them on her face, and peered at me. “Well, he did. He stole Raven in the dead of night.”
“Raven? Like the black bird? Like a crow?”
“Girl, what’s the matter with you? Look, you don’t need to apologize for Joe. He was out of his mind with worry and he had to do something. I was mad as a bull that’s stepped on a nail, but I understood. Eventually.”
I hadn’t come there to apologize for Joe, but I didn’t think I should say so.
A buzzer went off somewhere down the hallway.
“Got biscuits in the oven. Good-bye. Go on, now, go—” She stood there as I crossed the porch. “Maybe someday we can have dogs in this here place again.”
CHAPTER 40
ACROSS THE OCEAN: A PROWLER
MRS. KAVANAGH
“Pilpenny, quick, get me the gun! We’ve got a prowler.” Mrs. Kavanagh was in her wheelchair in the front courtyard. “Get the holler tube, too.”
She had been alerted to the prowler by the dogs, now baying near the wee cottage, and she had seen the flap of the man’s jacket as he ducked behind the water barrels.
“I know exactly who it is,” she told Pilpenny as she took the gun and the megaphone. “That fool McCoul.”
“Again? Persistent fellow, that one.”
Mrs. Kavanagh shouted through the megaphone. “PADDY McCOUL! I’LL SET THE DOGS ON YE IF YE DON’T COME OUT AND SHOW YOUR FACE.”
Silence.
“OR MAYBE I’LL SHOOT YE FIRST.” She fired two shots into the treetops, alarming a pair of rooks and sending them flapping across the cloudy sky.
A piece of cloth waved from behind the barrels. “Truce! I call truce!”
“LET ME SEE YOUR DIRTY FACE.”
“Aw, Sybil—’tis but me, Finn—”
“LET ME SEE THAT FACE, AND I’M NOT SYBIL TO YOU ANYMORE, AND YOU ARE NOT FINN TO ME ANYMORE.”
“Aw, Syb—aw—” Paddy McCoul limped out into the open, pushed by Sadie and Maddie.
“Wheel me closer, Pilpenny, if you please, but not too close.”
Paddy McCoul hung his shaggy head and scuffed his shoes in the dirt.
The Great Unexpected Page 10