by Temre Beltz
And she knew right then and there she simply couldn’t bear to put the book down.
Of course, Birdie would have stowed the book someplace other than beneath her gown had she known Mistress Octavia Foulweather would conduct a surprise inspection that very morning, but such was the life of a Tragical. Nothing ever seemed to go their way.
Mistress Octavia loomed at the front of the dining hall.
With her arms crossed, she drummed her fingernails along the sharp curve of her elbow. Everything about her was pointy.
She smiled.8
And even the walls of the manor shuddered.
“I suppose you all assumed I summoned you for breakfast.” She paused as the Tragicals looked over her shoulder to the impressively long dining table,9 where eighteen bowls of cold blueberry mush10 grew colder still. “Indeed, you are such greedy little things! No matter how many days in a row I feed you, you still expect me to do it again. What a burden you are for Wanderly! With not a single thing to offer but your deaths, you take, take, take!” Mistress Octavia’s gray eyes flashed, and she bellowed with a force loud enough to make the flatware rattle, “THIEVES!”
Let us pause for a moment, because the children were not thieves in the way you might be thinking. For one, there was not much available to steal. The manor was frightfully sparse. The furniture was aged and breaking. Everything was dim, dark, and dreary. But even among the shadows, not all was lost. Whether it was a stray button the perfect shape for rolling across the dusty floor, or an exceptionally long thread to twist and wind about one’s fingers, the Tragicals still found things to treasure. Small tokens of joy in an otherwise miserable existence. Tokens that Mistress Octavia gleefully confiscated and, more often than not, destroyed right before their eyes.
Mistress Octavia drew to a stop in front of a little girl named Cricket. The Tragicals were forbidden to speak with one another, so Birdie never said Cricket’s name aloud, but she made it a point to recite it in her head as often as she could. Birdie did this for all the Tragicals. She couldn’t say why, except that if she knew the names of such objects as desks, chairs, and coatracks, it seemed, to some degree, important.
Mistress Octavia clicked the heels of her pointy boots together in smug satisfaction. “Caroline,” she said. But ever so slightly, ever so subtly, the little girl—Cricket—shook her head. Mistress Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “What?” she barked. “What is it?”
With her lower lip trembling, Cricket whispered, “That’s not my name, ma’am.”
Mistress Octavia tossed off two words that no Tragical had a single reason to doubt: “Who cares?” And then, “Empty your gown, Caroline.”
Cricket did as she was told. She plunged her hands deep into the pockets of the black gown that swam about her small frame and turned them inside out. An explosion of paper burst forth! Not whole sheets, of course, but tiny snippets and odd-shaped scraps. Tiny snippets and odd-shaped scraps that must have slipped free from the butler’s wastebasket and taken Cricket weeks to collect.
It took Mistress Octavia, however, less than a moment to shove Cricket out of the way, stab the sharp prick of her heel into the pile, and grind the paper bits into dust. She leaned in so close to Cricket the brass buttons on her cardigan nearly scraped the little girl’s nose.
“Paper, is it?” she said. “And what was a child like you planning to do with such a precious and restricted item?”
Birdie could scarcely imagine what Cricket would say. In a kingdom that lived “by the book,” there was perhaps nothing so valuable, nothing so powerful, nothing that held so much possibility as a sheet of blank paper. Though Wanderly’s official storytellers—known as scribes—were allotted an unlimited supply of paper, every other citizen in Wanderly operated under various restrictions. Not surprisingly, a Tragical’s annual distribution of paper amounted to a big, fat zero. Yes, zero, because allowing a Tragical to imagine anything other than their own bad ending was considered nothing short of catastrophic.
The Chancellor’s reasoning was twofold: (1) Bad endings were a harsh reality that simply couldn’t be written off. And (2) if bad endings couldn’t be avoided entirely, they ought to happen to those without anything to lose; to those who would not be missed; to those for whom nothing much was expected anyways. Consequently, the happy endings would be safely preserved for Wanderly’s best and brightest, those whom the Chancellor called “Triumphants.” After all, what hope could a storybook kingdom ever have if the heroes couldn’t be counted on to prevail every single time?
Here, you may be shifting a bit uncomfortably in your seat, for how does one fall into such an awful category as having nothing to lose, no one to miss them, and not a single expectation? Does it have something to do with egregiously naughty behavior? Perhaps that offense your parents have told you ten (ahem, thirty) times not to repeat?
The answer is no.
The Tragicals were doomed for one reason and one reason only. A reason they hadn’t a single ounce of control over: the Tragicals didn’t have parents. The Tragicals were orphans.
Birdie winced as Mistress Octavia dashed her foot across Cricket’s pile of dust, scattering it to the shadows. Loss was a way of life for the Tragicals, but it never seemed to get any easier.
“I am still waiting for your explanation, Caroline!” Mistress Octavia said.
Cricket’s eyes were glued to the floor. As if her treasure was still there, just invisible. Her voice was a whisper. “I was saving those scraps for a ball. I was going to roll them up into a nice, round ball.”
Mistress Octavia swirled her finger in Cricket’s direction with the sort of panache that never failed to make Birdie cringe.11 “Tragical children do not use balls! Tragical children do not play! What Tragical children do, Caroline, is they read. They read so they will never forget their roles, which is why you will be assigned to three consecutive nights of . . . library detention!”
Faced with the proposition of dark, sleepless nights, cradled by only the dragons12 that prowled through Mistress Octavia’s books, Cricket burst into loud, messy tears. Despite the presence of the seventeen other children beside her, no one moved an inch. They remained stiff as a board. They kept their eyes facing forward. They acted as if nothing at all was happening. There wasn’t a single exchange of a sympathetic whisper, pat, or even a sideways glance.
Because of all the difficulties and trials the Tragicals faced, this was the very saddest: after years of being forbidden to speak with one another, the Tragicals had become extraordinarily good at ignoring one another. It began first as a means of self-preservation and then deepened to something much more troubling. Because day after day, hour after hour, Mistress Octavia’s words chipped away at them. The Tragicals did not know how to unhear her; the Tragicals did not know how to avoid believing her. Whether they meant to or not, they began acting as if Mistress Octavia’s words were true; as if they really were useless; as if they didn’t have a single thing to offer. And so, they simply never tried.
Birdie was typically as guilty as the rest. But on that morning, a book was pressing against her heart. A book containing a new word: “friendship.” From what she could tell, friendship didn’t have much to do with being alone. Friendship was about being together.
But how?
Mistress Octavia whirled away from Cricket and on to the next child. Unfortunately, the next child was none other than Francesca Prickleboo. Francesca Prickleboo had perfectly plaited orange braids; a smattering of equidistant freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose; and shoes that managed to stay shiny despite the manor’s abundance of dirt, dust, and cobwebs.
Francesca Prickleboo was the sort of girl who was bound, set, and determined to be better. Surely you have come across children like this in your world. You might recognize them as wanting to “have the farthest soccer kick” or “score one hundred percent on every mathematics test” or “turn at least ten somersaults underwater while holding a single breath.” Unfortunately for Francesca, living a
t Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical, there was not a single thing she could take ownership of other than her status as a Tragical. And so, Francesca dedicated her every waking breath to being just that: the most fabulous Tragical that Wanderly had ever known.
Without even a word from Mistress Octavia, Francesca stood with her pockets already turned out. Save for the sharpened pencil each Tragical was required to carry,13 her pockets were predictably empty. Absolutely perfectly spotless. A Tragical who was content with nothing.
Francesca beamed. But then quickly corrected her expression to one of solemn despair because, above all else, Tragicals were never supposed to look H-A-P-P-Y.14 She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. She tried desperately to catch Mistress Octavia’s eye. But Mistress Octavia had already moved on. Mistress Octavia was merely one child away from Birdie. Birdie had to do something fast—something egregious enough to make Mistress Octavia forget all about her surprise inspection; something that would prevent Mistress Octavia from destroying her book.
Birdie scanned the dining room for ideas. But everything looked as terrified as she was! The candlelit chandeliers swayed overhead and flickered anxiously. The dreadfully thick black curtains that covered every window wrung their frayed hems together in what could only be described as distress. Even the eighteen bowls of blueberry mush that lined the dining table jiggled in unison and emitted hefty puffs of frost like smoke signals begging for rescue.
And that was when Birdie had an idea.
An idea that made her toes curl because it was so mutinous Mistress Octavia would not only have to punish her, she would have to punish her immediately. And though what that punishment might be made Birdie’s spine tingle, it would have to be done. The book Birdie had found was too precious. The book was quite possibly the best thing she would ever stumble across. She didn’t harbor any ridiculous ideas she could somehow manage to keep it forever, but even a few more days would be worth it.
Birdie set her jaw. She carefully secured her book with her left arm, keeping her right arm free for the business of mischief.
Then she sprang into action!
The mere sight of Birdie breaking free from the impeccably straight line of Tragicals was enough to make Mistress Octavia snarl and whirl about. Her snarl deepened, however, to a more sinister expression as Birdie sprinted toward the dining room table, swooped up a bowl full of blueberry mush, and launched it at Mistress Octavia’s perfectly smooth, perfectly taut, hairdo.
Plop!
Dribble-dribble!
Squuuuish!
The blueberry mush slid down Mistress Octavia’s face. It crawled across her eyebrows and raced down the bridge of her nose. It dipped into her ears and splashed with delight across the once-spotless collar of her blouse. It was, in short, the most ambitious bowl of blueberry mush Birdie had ever encountered.
Mistress Octavia’s chest heaved. Mistress Octavia’s fingers curled upward as if they were claws. But when Mistress Octavia lunged in Birdie’s direction, the force of her motion caused gooey globs of the blueberry mush to take flight once again. This time the globs soared off Mistress Octavia’s head and splattered the line of Tragicals standing just behind her.
“Ah!” a little boy cried out when a hearty dollop landed on his nose and nearly left him cross-eyed as he tried to reach it with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh!” one of the teenage girls burst out when a spray of goo splashed like confetti across her black gown.
“Hey!” the boy named Ralph shouted when a thin streak of mush landed above his upper lip, creating a very smart, very crafty-looking mustache.
And that’s when it happened.
Apparently, the blueberry mustache was one hilarity too many.
At least when you happened to be an eight-year-old whose sense of humor had not yet been entirely snuffed out by the cruel reality of life as a Tragical.
It tumbled out. It tumbled free. Cricket giggled.
The sound was so foreign that everybody froze.
Cricket slammed her lips together. She scrunched her eyes shut so as to avoid catching another glimpse of Ralph and his ridiculous mustache. But giggles are rarely a solo event. They prefer, instead, to cluster together. It is a phenomenon as predictable yet mysterious as thunder following lightning. And so, it seemed, Cricket was helpless to stop it.
She giggled again.
And Mistress Octavia collapsed onto the ground in a fit of sneezing, hacking, writhing convulsions. The areas of her complexion that were not coated in blueberry mush erupted into great, big, itchy red hives. Without at all meaning to, Birdie and Cricket had perhaps discovered Mistress Octavia’s one and only weakness: Mistress Octavia was gravely allergic to . . . laughter.
Mistress Octavia still, however, had a wee bit of breath left in her. Enough to say the only word she needed to say while gesturing wildly at Birdie and Cricket. “D-D-D-D—AHCHOO!—DUNGEON!!”
The butler, Sir Ichabod Grim, appeared almost immediately. The children never knew from whence he came; merely that he preferred to stay carefully tucked into the shadows and only stepped forward to do Mistress Octavia’s bidding.
Sir Ichabod’s life was nearly as dreary as the Tragicals’. He spent his days slogging up and down Tragic Mountain in search of blueberries; he spent his evenings boiling and mashing the blueberries; and in the time in between, he did nothing more interesting than folding a bit of laundry. Still, his right hand was marked by several mysterious calluses. The sort of calluses not accounted for by his activities at Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical. The sort of calluses that shape a man whether or not he chooses to speak of it.
Sir Ichabod Grim never spoke much of anything.
Which meant he was either dreadfully boring or kept many, many secrets.
Birdie hadn’t given much thought to which was preferable.
Though Sir Ichabod’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of Mistress Octavia rolling about on the ground, he did precisely as he was told. He wordlessly plodded toward Birdie and Cricket. He did not bother to ask what they had done or inquire as to whether they deserved such a punishment. He merely wrapped his hands around a clump of black fabric near the base of each of their necks. He steered them toward the deep, dark belly of the manor while the heavy bronze medallion he was never without thumped hard against his chest.
Thump, thump, thump in almost the precise same rhythm as Birdie’s pounding heart.
When one is used to absolutely everything going wrong, it is a monumental event when something actually goes right. But Birdie had done it! The book was safe beneath her gown. It would cost her a trip to the dungeon, but even that was made better by the fact that she wouldn’t be alone. Cricket would be with her. Not in the same itty-bitty closet-size cell, but close. Perhaps even near enough to talk. And from what Birdie could tell, that was maybe the first step to becoming friends. Talking.
Of course, at that moment, Birdie hadn’t a clue about what was zipping toward her in the dungeon. If she had, she might never have had the courage to enter, and then this would be an entirely different story if it even existed at all.
Three
Something’s Buzzing
Birdie Bloom was having difficulty breathing.15
It wasn’t the dungeon’s fault. Certainly the dungeon was dark, dank, and drippy. It was fairly crowded with dog-size rats, shiny bulbous spiders, and assorted towers of junk draped in heavy white sheets that shivered like ghosts. It was outfitted with an entire row of round, open-air, iron-barred windows, which would have been lovely (as every other window in the manor was heavily curtained and even more heavily locked) except it allowed for the bucking, barking, banging racket of the Drowning Bucket to echo throughout.16
Indeed, any one of the dungeon’s atrocities on its own was enough to cause difficulty breathing, but for Birdie, all of them combined paled in comparison to the gripping fear of trying to talk to Cricket.
Because what was she supposed to say?
Please don’t
furrow your eyebrows. I assure you, this was a very real problem. This wasn’t the sort of problem that’s resolved by tapping the shoulder of the person who sits in front of you and asking to borrow a pencil. The Tragicals spent their whole lives not talking to one another. But if Birdie was going to learn anything about friendship—if friendship was all about being together—this was the very thing she must do. Birdie jiggled a loose brick in the wall that separated her tiny cell from Cricket’s until it slipped onto Cricket’s side with a loud crash.17
She dropped down to her belly (as the loose brick was positioned rather low) and squished the side of her face up against the hole. Her heart pounded. She swallowed at least ten times to be sure she could squeak out “Hello,” because that’s what she had determined she should say. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t exciting, but it was merely one word. Certainly Birdie could handle one word.
Birdie didn’t expect to find Cricket’s cell empty.
Empty?
Birdie blinked. She had walked alongside Cricket the entire way. Sir Ichabod had locked Birdie away first, but she had heard Cricket’s footsteps shuffle into the cell beside her, and Sir Ichabod had slammed her door shut too. How does an eight-year-old girl up and disappear out of a dungeon cell?
Birdie pressed her face even closer to the hole, but it wasn’t very large, and she simply couldn’t see into every corner. She thrust her arm through the hole and grasped about with her fingers. To her horror, something grabbed her back.
“AH!” Birdie screamed at the top of her lungs.
“AH!!” another scream answered her.
Birdie flung her captured arm wildly to and fro, and Cricket came swinging into view. Her hands were gripped tight around Birdie’s arm, and she was kicking her feet in every which direction.
When Cricket saw it was none other than Birdie, however, she exhaled a small puff of air and let go. She shuffled away from Birdie and settled into the middle of the cell. Birdie watched as Cricket carefully pinned the long fabric of her gown against her knees, presumably so it wouldn’t drape along the ground and provide a convenient highway for the spiders.