The Wonderling

by Mira Bartók

  “Well done, Arthur, well done!”

  A cool wind blew, and the two friends pulled the blanket tight around them.

  “Your turn,” said Arthur.

  Trinket searched the sky and quickly found her star. It wasn’t the first time she had wished upon it. It was twinkling in the tail of Cygnus, the Swan. She closed her eyes, chirped softly, then was silent.

  “Well?” asked Arthur.

  “Well what?” asked Trinket.

  “Did you do it? Did you make a wish?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “And?”

  “And, Arthur . . .” She looked up at him, her bright eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “The wish I made was for you.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Arthur awoke with a start. A delicate-looking child with elfin ears was standing over him, pointing a makeshift wooden sword at his face.

  The boy had a small turned-up nose, green eyes, and black curly hair tangled with leaves and twigs. His shirt and pants were patched together from scraps of patterned fabrics in various shades of green, with buttons fashioned from acorn tops, each painted a different color. One of his front teeth was missing.

  “Hullo!” the boy said brightly. Then, trying to sound stern, said, “Tinkerer, trader, forager, foe? If you’re a foe, I’ll fight you to the death!”

  Arthur stared up at the boy while Trinket popped up from under the blanket. The boy jumped back in alarm. He looked from one to the other. “What are you? I need to know so — so I can report back to the Captain. And . . . and the Captain, she’s killed ten thousand men!”

  Arthur’s eyes grew wide. He nervously patted his ear, which was starting to shake. The boy didn’t look dangerous, but one never knew. . . .

  “Don’t be scared!” insisted the boy, frowning. He held out a hand to help Arthur up. The elf-boy (for he didn’t quite look like other humans) was the same height as Arthur.

  “T-to answer your question,” said Arthur, “we are . . .” He looked at Trinket.

  “We’re travelers!” she said. “Adventurers, if you really want to know. But I’m somewhat of a tinkerer myself — well, more of an inventor — at least I hope to be someday. In fact, I recently invented —”

  “I like adventurers!” the child interrupted. He cocked his head, his face quizzical. “What exactly does one do?”

  “A bit of this and that,” said Trinket. “We travel here and there and do noble deeds and sail to unknown countries and explore them, you know, that sort of thing. But you see,” she added, “adventuring requires a lot of food, and, well, we’ve quite run out of that.”

  The raven-haired boy’s mouth dropped open so wide, a bird could have flown in. “I see now. You’re like Robin Hood or . . . or . . . the Knights of the Round Table! In that case, brave adventurers, I’ll find you something to eat!”

  Arthur’s face lit up at the mention of food.

  The boy told the travelers not to worry about “the Captain.” “She’s really my nana,” he said, blushing. “She’s in charge at the moment. Everyone else went on a foraging trip yesterday and won’t be back till tomorrow. I couldn’t go, of course. I’m not big enough yet, so I have to stay here and guard the tree. Not much of a noble task, is it?” he said, sighing.

  “Sounds like a noble task to me,” said Trinket. “The woods can be a dangerous place.”

  The boy’s face brightened. “My name’s Pinecone, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “P-Pinecone?” said Arthur.

  “I know. It’s a stupid name.” He shook his head, and bits of moss fell out of his hair onto the ground. “We’re all named like that — Chestnut, Barkley, Ash, Hazel, Buckthorn — I call him Bucky — and Pinecone, that’s me. You get the picture.”

  “She’s T-Trinket and I’m — I’m Arthur.”

  “Arthur? Like the famous king? Blimey! Pleased to meet you both! Get your things. Home’s right here.”

  Arthur looked up at the oak Pinecone had pointed to and its magnificent umbrella of leaves. The tree seemed to go on forever into the sky. Birds flitted here and there while squirrels chased one another from branch to branch. Now that he was really paying attention, he could even hear the sap flowing like a river in the tree’s heart’s core. This marvel of a thing was someone’s home.

  While Arthur and Trinket gathered their belongings, Pinecone pulled up some pale-orange mushrooms and stuffed them into his pocket. “My grandma — I mean the Captain — she’s going to like these! You ready?” He reached up and touched the tree, sliding his hand behind a thick jumble of ivy until he found what he was looking for. Then he whispered, “Nana says, ‘Always thank the tree.’” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if in prayer, and pressed on an acorn carved into the bark. And a heavy arched door, far taller than they were, creaked open.

  Pinecone gestured for them to come in. “Welcome!” he said proudly. Then, to someone inside, “Nana! We got visitors! Come and see!”

  They stepped into a round, spacious room that had been hollowed out of the huge trunk to make a cozy home. The tree, which was massive to begin with, appeared to be even larger inside. It smelled of things Arthur had never smelled before: pine wreaths, cedar chests, rosemary, and mushrooms from deep within the woods. There was a feeling, though, of that strange sensation people call déjà vu — as if he had been there, or a place just like it, before. It felt safe and familiar and simply marvelous.

  Despite its hollowed-out base, the tree was very much alive. Arthur could hear the branches groaning in the wind. He stepped into the center of the room. So this is what a home really is. He stood, speechless, while Trinket bounced about the place, exploring.

  There were several cubbyholes for sleeping, with curtains sewn from the same green patches of cloth that made up Pinecone’s clothes. Along the wall that curved around the room were several pictures painted on bark, some of different kinds of trees, some of children wearing green patchwork clothes. There was one of Pinecone when he was a baby, sucking on a small birch burl as a pacifier. In the center of the room was a large round table with polished tree stumps for chairs.

  Pinecone noticed Arthur looking at the picture of him and said, “Mum’s the artist in the family. Pa’s a bit of this and that — forager, peddler, carpenter. Bit of a tinkerer too.”

  Although they were standing inside a tree, the house wasn’t dark at all. There were small luminaries in the shape of squirrels and birds scattered throughout the room. Near the ceiling and along the curved bark wall, several holes had been cut to let the light in. There were bark awnings on the outside to keep the rain at bay.

  Opposite the entrance was a large fireplace, with various tools fashioned from wood and tin hanging above the mantel. An iron pot hung from a chain over the fire. Pinecone lifted the top and stirred what was inside. The room suddenly filled with the enticing smells of leeks, potatoes, mushrooms, and cheese.

  A plump little person with frizzy white hair who was wearing a patchwork apron walked out from one of the cubbyholes. “Don’t you touch that soup, Pinecone! That’s for supper, that is.”

  “Nana, these are my new friends and . . . and they’re adventurers!” Then, under his breath, he said to the visitors, “That’s the Captain. She’s never really killed anyone, though — at least I don’t think she has.”

  “Oh,” said Arthur, relieved. He made a little bow before Nana, who seemed quite pleased by this.

  Pinecone tugged at his grandmother’s apron and begged, “Can they stay for breakfast, please, oh please?”

  Nana tousled Pinecone’s hair and nodded to Arthur and Trinket. “Of course they can, you silly little pine nut.”

  Pinecone jumped up and down with excitement. “You heard the Captain! You can stay for breakfast and elevenses too and lunch and . . . and teatime and dinner and bedtime snacks, and tomorrow we can go on an adventure, because I’m an adventurer too. . . . I just haven’t been anywhere yet, but I will go on an adventure really soon — but now we can just play. What do you like to p
lay? I mean, will I need my sword or should we play Find the Acorn, Tree Tag, Catch the Squirrel, or Stick and Toss?” All of a sudden, he stopped jumping and frowned. “I only know tree games,” he said, and sighed. But his face brightened once again. “I bet you know lots, though. What’s your favorite?”

  Arthur could only stammer out, “It’s . . . it’s lovely! Your house, I mean.”

  The boy beamed and looked at his grandmother, who said, “’Tis a humble place but ’tis our place, and that’s all right by me. Now, sit yourselves down, you three.”

  Nana set out a large mushroom tart, a pitcher of fresh cold milk, and a bowl of pumpkin seeds on the large round table. “Soup’s not ready yet, littl’uns. Have to make do with this. Now, tuck in; there you go.”

  Trinket perched on the edge of the table, since the chairs were too big for her. She became very excited about the seeds and proceeded to stuff herself with them. While they ate, Nana bustled about at the hearth, and Pinecone chattered on and on about his life in the forest — the animals, foraging, his brothers and sisters.

  After breakfast, Trinket, who had been unusually quiet, asked Nana, “Do you know the best way to the Great White City — to Lumentown? Arthur’s going to seek his destiny there, and I’m going west to find my uncle.” She glanced at her friend reassuringly. “But then we’re going to meet up after that. Right after that.”

  “Pinecone, go get that old map,” said Nana. “Mind you,” she said, turning to Arthur, “it’s so old; it mightn’t be up to date.”

  The boy rummaged around in a big cedar chest and returned with a long scroll tied with a leather cord. He pushed their dishes aside and spread the map out on the table. It was made of very old parchment and tattered around the edges. Arthur, Trinket, and Pinecone leaned over the map, studying it carefully. Arthur had never seen a map before but found it surprisingly easy to figure out. Trinket pointed her beak at a spot in the north.

  “That’s where we’re going,” she said. “Looks like the road splits off there.” She tapped her beak on another spot. “One road to the sea, the other to the City.”

  “B-but the City —” said Arthur. “It looks — it’s so far. Isn’t there a sh-shorter way?”

  The road that led to Lumentown was indeed a long one, much longer than he and Trinket had first thought. The road curved around the edge of a great forest. He could tell by the map’s legend that it was definitely not a two- to three-day journey. It would take at least another week to get there on foot, maybe more. “I won’t make it,” he said, sitting down. He buried his head in his hands. He felt like crying.

  Nana put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a kindly squeeze. “There, there, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  “You can come with me, then,” said Trinket. “We can look for my uncle together! Then we’ll go to the City after that. Together, Arthur. I can help you look for Tintagel Road.”

  “What’s that?” asked Pinecone.

  “It’s where I . . . I think I was born,” said Arthur.

  “Oh,” said Pinecone. “I was born inside this tree!”

  Arthur looked at Pinecone, then at Trinket. What if he did go with her? What then? He was quiet for a while, the thought churning through his head. If he went with her, then they wouldn’t have to split up at all. But then — he felt a strange sense of urgency. All these years he had had no idea where he was from, and now that he did, he wanted to go there right away. He wanted to say with certainty, like Pinecone just had, I am from this house, this street, this town. This is who I am.

  And maybe if he understood that, he’d understand his destiny.

  Finally, he said, “I have to go, Trinket. I just do.” He ruffled the feathers on top of her little brown head. She had been such a good friend to him. He hoped with all his heart that she was right — that they would see each other very, very soon.

  “Wait a minute,” said Pinecone, still thinking about Arthur’s problem. “I know what to do! See that big forest on the map? You can cut through it! It’s called the Wild Wood, but not to worry. Pa used to go that way all the time when he did his peddling in the City. Always came home in one piece.”

  “That’s right,” said Nana. “He did at that.”

  Trinket poked Arthur in his armpit. He cracked a smile. She said, “There you go, Arthur. You see? Things always work out in the end. You’ll probably get to town even before I reach my uncle’s.”

  Pinecone took out a piece of birch bark, made a rough copy of the map for the travelers, then rolled up the old map and placed it back in the chest. “Here you go,” he said, handing the bark map to Arthur, who tucked it safely in his bindle.

  Pinecone’s face was scrunched up in thought. “I remember now,” he said. “My pa said something to a traveler who came here a couple years ago. The traveler, he was . . .” He glanced at Arthur. “A bit like you.”

  “A groundling?” asked Arthur.

  Pinecone shrugged. “I guess. Anyway, Pa told him that if he always wore a hat and kept his head down, he’d be right as rain. There was some other bit too, that I can’t remember.”

  Arthur’s ear quivered. “Thanks for the advice,” he said. “But I’ll have to do without. I don’t have a hat.”

  Arthur looked longingly at the pot of soup over the fire, wishing they could stay for a while. Trinket caught his eye. He could tell she thought they should get on the road now too. Just because Miss Carbunkle and Company hadn’t followed them after Sneezeweed toppled down into the valley, it didn’t mean they were out of harm’s way. Who knew what the Wig still had up her sleeve?

  “I’m sorry, Pinecone, but we really must go,” said Arthur, picking up his bindle. The boy looked crestfallen.

  “Don’t be sad! We’ll see you again!” said Trinket. “I mean — you being an adventurer yourself and all. Adventurers always run into each other when they’re out . . . adventuring.”

  That seemed to cheer Pinecone up just fine.

  Nana gathered food for the travelers, enough to last a couple days or more — nuts, berries, seeds, chestnut bread, and some fresh goat cheese. “Now, keep your wits about you,” she said.

  “Wait a second,” said Pinecone, touching Arthur’s sleeve as he and Trinket were heading out the door. “Take this, just in case.”

  He pulled a red woolen cap from a hook in the wall and handed it to Arthur. “It’ll fit right over your . . . Well, you know what my pa said: Keep your head down and you’ll be right as rain! Bye!”

  Arthur thanked him and the Captain and tucked the hat into his bindle. Then he and Trinket started off.

  They made their way through the woods, following the Xs Arthur had marked in the dirt. In no time at all, they were back on the road that would lead one of them north to the Great White City and the other west to the sea.

  THE TRAVELERS said very little that day as they made their way northward past farms and fields. They passed a few donkey carts going to market, a handful of horse-drawn carriages, and one large white-and-gold stagecoach pulled by six white horses. If Trinket and Arthur saw someone approaching, they quickly hid behind hay bales or hedges or anything they could find, for they still had no idea how the world on the Outside looked upon groundlings.

  The land began to slope upward. When the two came to a quaint village of thatched-roof houses and small shops, they wished they could stop but kept out of sight and hurried on. The last thing they wanted was to be sent back to Miss Carbunkle’s Home.

  It was late in the afternoon when they finally arrived at the dreaded fork in the road. Arthur helped Trinket put on her flying suit and began dividing what was left of their food.

  “Just the seeds, Arthur,” she said. “They’re all I want.” He picked her up, and she sat in the palms of his hands the way she had that first time they met in Kestrel Courtyard. She looked up at his tired, anxious face. “Oh, Arthur, please don’t worry! It will all turn out fine. You’ll see.”

  Arthur looked away for a moment, afraid he might cry.
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br />   “You sure you don’t want to come with me first? You don’t have to go alone, you know.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s just . . . I feel like I have to go to the City to find out who I am before I do anything else. I can’t explain it. But I’m just afraid . . . that we . . .” The rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat, but Trinket knew what he was going to say.

  “We will see each other again, Arthur. I promise it won’t take that long to get to my uncle’s, and I’ll send word as soon as I can. Then we’ll make a plan for me to join you in the City.”

  “But how, Trinket? How will you find me in such a big place?”

  “After all we’ve been through together, you think I can’t figure out something as simple as that?”

  Arthur tried to smile but couldn’t.

  “No sad faces allowed,” said Trinket. “I want to see you smile when I’m airborne. That’s the picture I want to take with me into the west.”

  He smiled, but felt as if his heart would break in two.

  After they said their good-byes, Arthur watched his friend, in full armor, hop a little, then rise clumsily into the air, her propeller whirring, stirring up the leaves and dirt around him.

  “Arthur,” she called down to him, “be brave! And don’t forget: Never, ever lose hope! I’ll see you soon, I promise!”

  Arthur waved good-bye and stared up at Trinket until she was a speck in the sky, just a bird flying west to the limitless sea.

  Without Trinket, the rest of the day felt unbearably quiet. He missed her terribly. And yet something kept him going.

  He couldn’t explain it, but it was always there — the song he had heard when he came into the world, the one that floated among the stars. He carried it with him as he walked the long road that day alone, and when his mind grew dark and wandered back to the Home and Miss Carbunkle, and Sneezeweed, Bonegrubber, Bunmuncher, and Wire.

  He felt it rise to the surface when he noticed, despite his sorrow, a thing of exquisite beauty: a bird, a tree, or a simple flower beside the road.