Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  “Miscreant!” a wheedling voice decreed. “Imbecile! How dare you treat Lord John like this?”

  Binx was still trying to catch his breath. He doubted he’d prevail again, should the stranger mount a second offensive.

  “What lord would climb someone else’s ladder?” He challenged the speaker, hoping to steer their contest toward a debate. “What lord that you know of?”

  “Someone else’s ladder?”

  Laced with indignity, the voice became even more shrill. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, this Lord John circled the stiles to draw within poking distance. Much to Binx’s surprise, they nearly stood eye-to-eye. Apart from his father, he’d never faced a man of comparable height. Furthermore, Lord John was endowed with an equally robust beard, though his was as white as birch bark. It was there that the similarities ended, Binx’s opposite wearing a burlap tunic, a shapeless hat, and boots that laced as high as his knees.

  “I say,” Lord John stuck a finger in his face, “my land, my ladder. My right. My dominion. Only a fool or a knave would suggest otherwise. So which one is it, lad? Be ye a fool or a knave?”

  Before Binx could speak, a word echoed from the back of his mind: Rübezahl. From Harald’s folktales, he recognized the creature as king of the mountain (Rübezahl being a derisive term, from the German word for turnip), equally disposed toward charity or trickery, depending on the people he encountered. Of course, this was all a genial fiction, conceived of for children. But here he stood, his tunic barely long enough to conceal his manhood.

  “Your land?” Binx said. “I was under the impression it belonged to my father.”

  “My dominion,” Lord John repeated, throwing his arms open wide, to encompass the meadow and beyond. “No rational man would refute me. Were I to climb up that ladder of yours, I might see how far it reached. Will you let me pass? Or will you hinder me again?”

  “My ladder—so you admit it belongs to me?”

  For a contemplative moment, Lord John simply stared at him. Then, grumbling, he asked, “Where shall I sit?”

  “What?”

  “Sit, boy, sit! Where shall I sit? My legs are tired, and I don’t fancy lying on the ground.”

  Binx indicated a tree stump on the opposite side of the campfire. It was where Gordy often reclined when he wanted to rest his feet. Thus positioned so low to the ground, Lord John resembled nothing so much as a porcupine—all elbows and knees, jutting out at sharp angles.

  “Better,” he said, running his hands through his beard. “Now, do you truly claim to own it?”

  “Own what?”

  “That ladder? Would you really claim it as your own?”

  With a great show of looking around the meadow, Binx chuffed. “I don’t see anyone else here. Do you?”

  “Is that not Froelich up the rungs?” Lord John inquired, raising a finger toward the heavens. “Or don’t you count him, for the purposes of our conversation?”

  Binx was stunned. Opening and closing his mouth, he could think of no coherent reply.

  “So you do count him,” the Rübezahl confirmed, seemingly pleased by his agitation. “How generous. I’m sure Froelich would appreciate it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “About Froelich? My dominion, my leasehold—every rock, every blade of grass. Nor have I forgotten about you, from our previous encounter. Be ye not Harald?”

  This question affected Binx like a punch to the gut; had it not been for the ladder, he might’ve sat down, too. Meanwhile, Lord John continued to stare at him—thoughtfully stroking his beard, while combing out the occasional tangle.

  “Not Harald,” Binx finally replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “His son.”

  Squinting, Lord John leaned forward. “Yes, I see it now. Foolish of me to make that mistake.”

  “But you knew him? My father?”

  “I met him once, years ago, when he first arrived—before he and your uncle discovered the Very Big Tree. Did you know, by your age Harald had already traveled halfway around the world? And what have you done? Where have you gone? If you traveled twenty feet, it would be an accomplishment! Froelich left his ancestral land, and what did Harald do? Like any gooD Brother, he followed after him. Gordy climbs straight up into the air, and what do you do? Sit around all day, waiting. Like always.”

  Whether as a result of hunger or shame, Binx was starting to feel light-headed. He pressed his palms to his temples and said, “But—how do you know Gordy?”

  “My land!” Lord John bellowed. “My dominion! I know every tenant. Every doe and fern, every thistle and berry. I know where the blue herons roost and the still water pools. You think I don’t know Gordy? I was there to see him whelped. When he visits Miss Sarah, I occasionally walk along beside him. Believe me, if I could converse with him right now instead of you, I’d do it in a heartbeat!”

  “Did you know Lotsee?”

  Smiling, Lord John rested his elbows upon his knees, his tunic shifting uncomfortably high. “A clever girl,” he said. “Mad, too, but that can’t be helped. When she signed her lease, she negotiated a shorter term. Five years—good for a woodland rodent, perhaps, but unheard of for a person. Did you know, it was your mother who taught me how to sew? If not for her, I’d be walking around naked! I was saddened to hear of her passing—but aren’t you responsible for that, too? Good grief, man, is there anything you’ve not defiled?”

  Despite the seemingly rhetorical nature of the question, Lord John awaited a reply. When Binx neglected to answer (truly, what could he say in his defense?), Lord John stood up and stretched. Then, lifting his nose to the breeze, he sniffed.

  So fast that it defied comprehension, he’d crossed the meadow and thrust his hand amid the shrubbery. There was a general commotion while he rooted around, and when he extracted his fist it contained a bird—the head and feet poking out, squirming and bobbing like a windup toy.

  “Sparrow,” he said, then asking Binx, “Are you hungry?”

  Binx was famished. But the thought of roasting the bird and how long it would take, plus what little, greasy meat it would produce, made him feel even more ravenous, not less so. Thus, with a dejected sigh, he shook his head.

  “Suit yourself.” Still holding the sparrow in one hand, the Rübezahl chomped its head off. The sound of bones crunching between teeth was more terrible than Binx could’ve imagined, the blood on his chin like the juice of some foul berry. Though Binx was sickened by the sight, his stomach also growled.

  “You know TAP?” Lord John asked, through a mouthful of feathers.

  “Of course,” Binx muttered, lowering his eyes.

  Gesticulating with the bird’s corpse, the Rübezahl said, “Relay this message, then. ‘My dear friend Froelich. Greetings! It’s been too long since we last communicated. I trust you are well, and all is jolly up the ladder. As the anniversary of your leasehold approaches, let us renew our friendship and speak of matters great and small. Please descend to the lower rungs, where I’d be happy to see your face. If not, I can climb to you. However you are disposed, do me the favor of a timely reply. Yours in perpetuity, Lord John.’”

  Only devoting a portion of his attention to the words, Binx continued to stare at the ground—specifically, at where his commode had been recently spilled. Much to his surprise, the soil there betrayed no discoloration. In fact, the commode was resting where it should be—empty and clean, like it had never known a day’s use.

  “I say, did you get all that?”

  He looked up at Lord John. The bird was gone, the Rübezahl noisily licking his fingers.

  “No,” Binx stammered. “But it wouldn’t make any difference. Froelich—”

  “Ach! Never mind—you’re as worthless as you are stupid! I’ll relay the message myself.”

  Stomping his feet against the ground some meters away, he began to produce a series of vibrations, these vibrations forming words and phrases. The experience of having them pass through him, rather than origina
te at his own hand, was deeply discomfiting to Binx, like being turned into a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “Stop it! He’s not there—he can’t hear you!”

  “What do you mean, not there?”

  “Since yesterday,” Binx insisted. “Froelich’s missing.”

  This revelation stopped Lord John in mid-stomp, his deerskin boot poised above the ground. As the Rübezahl lowered his foot, Binx looked for any sign of recognition, whether he might appear shocked, scared, or even content. But Lord John was impassive—listless, even.

  “Did you hear me?” he said again. “Froelich is missing!”

  Though the Rübezahl’s expression remained placid, something was amiss; there was a strange energy in the air, a stirring among the low-limbed trees. A breeze buffeted Lord John’s tunic, filling it like a mainsail. With a dry swallow, Binx swiped his palms against his thighs and realized that his hands were shaking.

  Gently, as if to himself, Lord John commented, “Froelich is up the rungs.”

  “No,” Binx insisted, “he’s not.” But he didn’t have time to elaborate: a flash of lightning blanched the sky.

  Somehow, inexplicably, Lord John was the source of this disturbance. Binx could feel a current coming off him, the dry air charged with electricity. Could Froelich feel it, too, he absently wondered, high above the ground and clinging to the stiles? But, no, Froelich wasn’t there.

  “Froelich is up the rungs!” Lord John roared. All at once, his face had become animated and he was in motion, rampaging toward Binx with his arms outstretched. “Without Froelich, there can be no ladder!” the Rübezahl bellowed. “Without the ladder, there can be no meaning! Froelich is up the rungs! Froelich is up the rungs!”

  When he’d come close enough, Binx expected to feel those hands close around his throat. He readied himself to withstand such an assault, to the extent that he was able. But instead of causing him any harm, Lord John grabbed the stiles. Binx could see marrow stuck in the Rübezahl’s teeth, and smell the rank odor of blood on his breath.

  Thunder crashed. It seemed as if the whole universe would come toppling down. And, oh, how the ladder shook. The stiles warped at the very highest levels, a strange warbling effect that sent reverberations down Binx’s spine. In Lord John’s eyes, he could see madness, chaos. Binx recognized his own face reflected there, and understood an elemental truth: without Froelich there could be nothing—but without Binx there could be no Froelich.

  Binx was at the center of it all, he suddenly realized, not Froelich.

  The ladder trembled and the storm raged.

  Chapter 10

  Throughout the morning, Josie wandered down the beach without seeing another soul. On the bluffs high above, trees stood gnarled and slanted, a consequence of the easterly winds. In all likelihood, she was walking parallel to the Reservation, but how would she know? The sight of a solitary tepee, perhaps, or else a puff of smoke? The previous summer in Edinburgh, she’d been placed in charge of the Cowboys & Injuns sale at Jenner’s Department Store. Frequenting the library for research, she’d crafted a chieftain and a squaw for the window display. The gent she’d adorned with a feather headdress, while his missus she’d provided a woolen blanket. Of course, Mae had made a mockery of Josie’s work––sticking a feather in her own hair, and fluting a palm over her mouth. But how could Josie remain cross, especially to hear her laugh?

  Ah, Mae Canby: what a ruckus they’d made, if only for the pleasure of each other’s company. Josie had had friends before, but never like Mae. Always at each other’s side, a voice in each other’s ear, they’d shared clothes, shared a bed, even shared infections—first when Mae had contracted chicken pox, and later when Josie had caught the mumps. Their mothers had tolerated their kinship, distributing the burden equally—meals at each other’s houses, holidays in Argyllshire.

  As they’d grown to womanhood, their exploits had become more mature. The Saint Andrew’s dance, for instance—hadn’t that been their finest hour? Disinclined to bring a date, but determined to kiss the saltire at midnight, they’d each decided to escort the other. But how would that work, they’d wondered? One could imagine the looks on the Sisters’ faces. The solution, Josie and Mae had decided, was Danny Foye: a single date for them to share, and not even a proper date at that.

  “Say, Danny,” Josie had said, sidling up next to him while he loafed home from school. “Why don’tcha ask me to the Saint Andrew’s dance? I’ve already got my dress picked out. It’s kelly green, with a modern bustle. Have you got a hat, Danny, or can you borrow one from your da?”

  “No, Danny!” Mae had stomped her foot, materializing on the other side of him and passing her arm through his. “You told me we’d go! I’ve got my dress picked out, too—off the shoulder, to go with my gloves. Oh, but do ask your da for his ascot to wear.”

  “Oh, yes, do!” Josie had assented, barely keeping herself from laughing. “And a stickpin to match.”

  Poor Danny Foye, with his weak chin and his sweaty palms. Content to do as he was told (his eyes as wide as saucers), he’d played the part and worn his father’s ill-fitting suit. Together, all three had entered the parish house—everyone’s eyes trained on this scandalous trio, no less so with Mae’s shoulders exposed. When she’d handed Danny her stole, the other partygoers had gasped at the sight of her collarbone. Or perhaps it had been Josie’s shortness of breath, and nobody else’s.

  The night had been mad, and would get madder still. Saint Andrew’s cross had been fixed to the mantel, to prevent any witches from coming down the chimney. The Sisters in their habits stayed up well past their bedtimes, stifling yawns so wide they could’ve swallowed a dove. And whenever Mae danced close, she buried her hands in Josie’s bustle, goosing and poking her until they were both cackling like jackdaws.

  There’d been something else, too—a challenge issued under the laughter. Here, among these dancing, sweating, swarming bodies, and under the Sisters’ drowsy gaze, who’d dare to risk the greater infraction? Whose lips might accidentally graze a cheek or an earlobe? Whose arms, raised in mirth, would come to rest around another one’s neck? Had anyone acknowledged what transpired between them? Or had Josie herself imagined it? The smell of incense, and the sweat drying on her scalp, made it all seem like a dream.

  Finally, when the clock struck midnight, but before they’d all braved the November cold, Josie had to rest her feet. Danny found her sitting in the nave, and offered her a drink of water. She hadn’t seen him since they’d first arrived, or hadn’t noticed him. He’d been disinclined to dance; rather, Danny had stood against the wall and tapped his toes. Maybe it passed for a good time. Or maybe not, and he tapped his toes nonetheless.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he said, like he could read her mind.

  “Indeed,” Josie answered, still a bit winded. And then, because she would’ve willed it so, “And yourself?”

  “Oh, aye. Me and the lads found a bag of marbles. I won a cat’s eye at ringer.”

  “Sounds like a grand ol’ time. Shame I didn’t bring me jacks.”

  Instantly, his countenance turned stormy. “You think I’m daft,” he said, “but I’m not.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “It’s all right—I don’t care what you think. But tell me something else, since you’re the one to ask? When’s Mae’s birthday?”

  “Sorry, Danny, but it’s come and gone. If you’re looking to win her a steely, you’ll just have to wait.”

  Again, he narrowed his eyes. Addressing Josie precisely, as if he were speaking to a halfwit, he said, “Her gloves are new—I doubt she’s worn them before. She says they’re a gift, so either her birthday’s just passed or else she’s been saving them. I’d like to know her kind, our Mae—does she virtue patience, or can’t she wait? If you tell me her birthday, I’ll sort it out for myself.”

  “February the fourteenth,” Josie mumbled, feeling appropriately stricken. “Saint Valentine’s Day.”

  Danny nodded, and began to w
alk away; but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, deny himself the opportunity to say, “D’you know what your kind is? The kind with a smart word—always something clever to say. Except, there’s never a straight answer with you, is there, Josie? How is it you’re so clever, when a person knows less for having talked to you? No, don’t answer—I might swallow a marble on accident.”

  And to think, he’d called her clever. It was fair to say she’d misjudged him—Danny’s wherewithal and the depth of his feelings. Josie would do well to take a lesson, and to find herself a feckless suitor at the Logging Camp. Rather that it was Danny walking down this beach, she mused—a penitent amid the looming sea stacks. In her head, he’d be forever confined to that stuffy nave. But he could have Mae pregnant by now, renting a flat over Charlotte Square, neither of them giving her a second thought.

  Her tiff with Mae had occurred shortly after the dance. Prior to that, they’d been seeing less and less of each other, like she (Josie) had been contagious with something. Tiff was the word her da had used, and why not? Nothing in her own vocabulary had corresponded. Their row had been too significant for a misunderstanding, and too hurtful for a lark.

  They’d been the last two at Jenner’s Department Store one evening—dismantling the Nativity display, as chance would have it. “I’ve not seen you much,” Josie said in an offhand manner, while ridding the manger of its motley tenants. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, grand,” Mae replied.

  “Me, too—grand. So … you’ve been around?”

  Shrugging, she gathered drifts of cotton snow, to be used again for the Easter display. “Here and there. With people.”

  “What people?”

  “You know something?” Mae said, squinting at Josie. “It would be all right to find your own friends—other friends, besides myself. It would be healthy.”

  “Oh, I’ve got gobs of friends,” Josie fibbed. In fact, they’d used to mock the girls who’d tallied acquaintances like charms on a bracelet; Josie had been proud to enumerate only one. Now, sorting the Magi, she tugged so hard on Balthazar that he sacrificed a limb.