Penelope March Is Melting

by Jeffrey Michael Ruby

  Still, Penelope looked forward to Coral’s visits. The girl could be wickedly funny, her tongue the lit fuse of a firecracker that she threw at any number of targets, including school (“Of course I hate it. Don’t you?”), boys in their class (“bunch of sweaty tundra bozos”), Glacier Cove (“a rock of sludgy misery”), and Stingleberry (“a flopsweat freak show with the backbone of a marshmallow pie”).

  Today, though, Penelope’s only company was Wolfknuckle. The dog’s slurpy interest in her backpack strap increased in volume until Penelope could take it no longer. “Stop,” she said, shooing Wolfknuckle away. The dog sauntered off in search of something else to chew.

  There wasn’t much to choose from. Outside the Cold Room, the Ice House was disappearing before their eyes, its once-thick walls and roof thinning dangerously. Several staircases had vanished. Far worse, many of Buzzardstock’s sculptures had melted into grotesque lumps. The smaller ones were now watery pools.

  When Penelope opened the door of the Cold Room to let the dog out, she found Buzzardstock soaking up a puddle in the hallway with a towel. “I knew this day would come,” he said. “I prepared myself for it, but I had no idea how terrible it would feel.”

  “Is it possible that no one notices we’re living on a giant iceberg?” Penelope asked later as they worked on the block of ice together. “How do they not see it?”

  “Oh, they know we’re on an iceberg,” Buzzardstock said. “They just don’t care. Hand me that angle grinder, would you, my dear? Look. In Glacier Cove, people see what’s easiest to see. They accept things as they are and don’t ask questions. You, on the other hand, are curious. Try the ice pick for that edge there. You want to chip it away. No, like this.” He took the pick from her hands and stabbed the ice, spraying icy sparks. “Try again.”

  “Maybe it would help if I knew what we were making.”

  “You want to know what we are making? We are making an education: yours. Now back to work.”

  One rainy afternoon, as Penelope was trying to smooth out a rough corner of the ice, the chisel slipped. A giant chunk of ice crumbled away.

  “Stupid ice!” she screamed, and threw the chisel to the ground.

  Buzzardstock exploded. “That is no way to treat my tools, you churlish little urchin!”

  “I don’t have to be here!” Penelope howled.

  “So why are you here? If you find this all so distasteful?”

  “I thought I was here to find the Shard! To help save this town!”

  “No! You are here because you are lonely. Pour that emotion into the ice.”

  “It’s just a bunch of frozen water.”

  Buzzardstock took a deep breath and smoothed out his eyebrows. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Sit.”

  Penelope sat.

  “My mother died when I was six,” Buzzardstock began. “My father was so focused on his sculpture that he didn’t notice me. When he spoke, it was usually to remind me how much of a distraction I was from his art. And he was an amazing artist. The way he treated the ice, with such tenderness—he certainly loved ice more than he loved people. Which is great if you’re an art collector, but not great if you’re related to the man.

  “I learned the only way to get my father’s attention was to follow in his footsteps. I found that ice sculpture fit my personality. The precision. The attention to detail. The endless possibilities. All locked in a simple, cold block. No matter how talented I got, though, nothing was enough for my father. There was no pride. No happiness. No nothing. Just work. The less he said, the harder I worked. By sixteen, I had given up any kind of social life.”

  “So why did you do it?”

  “One day, I finished a complicated piece and it was the best work I had ever done. As I was standing there admiring it, I felt a hand on my back. It was my father. He squeezed my shoulder and nodded. Then he walked away. That was it: a squeeze and a nod. The only two compliments he ever paid me.

  “It was the proudest moment of my life. The saddest too. Because I knew that although he was a great artist, he was a worthless parent. And if I wanted to follow in his footsteps as an artist, I would only end up doing the same as a father. Make a mistake with a block of ice? There is always another. But a child? So. I put my faith, my love—my everything—into the ice. Ice is enough for me. You have more in your life, and that gives you the potential to achieve so much more than I ever have. You’re destined for bigger things.”

  Penelope wiped her eyes. “My mother died too. I wasn’t even two.”

  Buzzardstock lowered his head. “I remember when it happened.”

  Penelope perked up. “What do you remember?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I didn’t know her well. I can tell you that she was a lovely lady and everyone liked her. Even me, and I didn’t much care for anyone at the time.”

  Penelope felt tears coming.

  “I’m putting too much pressure on you.” Buzzardstock passed her a handkerchief. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. If you’re going to do this, you’ve got to commit. Even in the face of difficult situations. If you want to succeed, you have to be willing to walk through fire. And you have to believe. If you can do that…the answer is in your hands.”

  “I feel like we’re wasting time. Makara Nyx could be anywhere by now.”

  “Do you know the difference between a flat chisel and a V chisel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you operate a die grinder without hurting yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re not wasting time. You’re learning. Sweet Penelope! You don’t need to know why right now. You just need to know how.”

  “But why do you do it? You gave up everything.”

  “Do I do it to chase my father’s ghost? Perhaps. But I also do it because I look at a block of ice and I see things: Tattered flags! Rotting fruit! Jealous duchesses spying on scoundrel dukes! Love and hate and angles and noise—entire universes of possibilities. Most people just see a block of ice.”

  Penelope gestured toward her block of ice, which still looked like a giant humpbacked pickle with a tail. “What do you see here?”

  “I see a chance for a strong girl to prove herself, if she works hard enough.”

  Russell March leaned on the steel ice chopper, exhausted. He’d been working the field for so long that the cold sweat on his neck had dried and reemerged at least a dozen times already. He squinted into his bucket, but he already knew what was in there.

  Nine turnips. Nine lousy turnips.

  That was all he had to show for eight hours of backbreaking work. Such was the life of a turnip icer. Despite the slow thaw of Glacier Cove, the town’s ever-stubborn turnips managed to grow only under the thickest, roughest ice patches. “I know you little buggers are under there,” he grunted.

  “See, that right there is your problem, mate,” said Hank Wimberley, his cheery work partner. “They can hear you.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “Sure. You’ve got to flatter a turnip. Sing to it. Compliment it.” Hank gestured to his own bucket, which overflowed with gorgeous leafy greens and swollen purple-white bulbs. “Treat it like a woman you love, and it will repay you every time.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Marge you’re treating her the same way you treat a turnip.”

  “Oh, Marge is far more bitter. Then again, she doesn’t need to be scrubbed with a vegetable brush.”

  Both men grinned and went back to work. Russell began to think of how good a shower and a quiet evening at home would feel. Maybe a drink. He glanced in the bucket again. Still nine turnips.

  “Oh, by the way,” Hank said. “I hope Penelope is feeling better.”

  Russell stopped. “Penelope? What are you talking about?”

  “My lovely daughter told me she wasn’t at school again yesterday.”

  “Penelope went to school yesterday.”

  “Lilith said Penelope has missed a bunch of school. Just assumed she was sick.” />
  Russell tried to smile, but he looked more like a man who had stubbed his toe. No, his entire foot. “Well, now, Hank, that’s news to me.”

  “Oh.” Hank grimaced. “I suppose I’m happy that she’s well, but…Oh, Marge is right, I should just keep my big mouth shut. I’m sorry.”

  Unsure whether to be angry or worried or something else, Russell dug into the frozen ground again. But this time, he swung the chopper with such reckless fury that Hank, if he hadn’t known better, would have assumed that his partner had some personal vendetta against the ice.

  —

  Coral sprawled on a blanket in the Cold Room, using Wolfknuckle as a pillow. She had grown bored with watching Penelope work and was reading the thick Nicola Torland book that Penelope had lent her.

  Soon she got bored with that, too, and turned her attention to Penelope, who was lost in the scrape-scrape-scrape of the ice pick. “You getting along better with Ore9n?” she asked Penelope.

  “We’re good.” Penelope enjoyed the company and was happy to make small talk. “He told me that Wolfknuckle ate an entire shoe when he was a puppy. Laces and everything.”

  Coral shot a look at Wolfknuckle, who pretended to be asleep.

  Penelope gestured to the book. “You like it?”

  “Björg Baardsson is interesting. If the angry horde hadn’t killed her auntie Elin and kidnapped Henrik, her whole life would have been different.” Coral yawned and glanced at Penelope’s block of ice. “Oh, it’s a submarine,” she said, as casually as someone might announce that today was Tuesday.

  Penelope stopped.

  When she took off her goggles, she saw Coral gaping at the rounded hunk of ice that had been her focus for the past three weeks. Penelope took a good look.

  The long, tubelike body.

  The hump on top.

  The smooth, angular tail.

  Now she saw it: The tube was the hull. The hump a conning tower and periscope. The tail? Rudder and propeller.

  “Well done, my child,” said Buzzardstock, who suddenly materialized.

  Penelope rubbed her eyes. “How could I not have seen it?”

  “Sometimes we’re too close to see things as they really are. Other times, we’re too stubborn. All told, a very reasonable facsimile. Here, take a look.” He unrolled a scroll. “I sketched out a design beforehand.”

  Penelope compared the drawing to the sculpture in front of her. To her amazement, they were nearly identical. “You couldn’t have shown me this sketch three weeks ago?”

  “Now, where, my young pupil, is the fun in that?”

  Coral gestured at a pair of small wings toward the rear of the sculpture. “What are these?”

  “Hydroplanes,” Buzzardstock said. “That’s what makes the submarine move up and down. Otherwise, what use is a submarine?”

  Penelope felt a prickle of excitement. But she knew by now not to ask questions.

  “You’ve done great work here,” said Buzzardstock. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

  “He’s right—it’s pretty amazing,” said Coral.

  “Woof,” Wolfknuckle agreed.

  “Now,” Buzzardstock said, “we go to work on the interior.”

  Without warning, Penelope threw her arms around Buzzardstock, who giggled like a child. Then she grabbed Wolfknuckle’s rough paws and the two of them danced a short but jubilant jig. She even hugged Coral Wanamaker, which felt a lot like dancing with a telephone pole and about as rewarding.

  —

  “Because I don’t appreciate being lied to, that’s why!”

  “But—”

  “No.” Penelope’s father stopped stomping around the kitchen long enough to scowl at his daughter. “I don’t want to hear it. The only thing you get to say is where you went when you should’ve been at school. That’s it.”

  Penelope looked at Miles, sitting at the table right in the middle of the cross fire, picking at his turnip casserole.

  “Dad,” Penelope said. “It’s no big deal—”

  “Stop.” Their father, who had never punished his children before, seemed flummoxed by the whole conversation. “So you’re not going to tell me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Fine. You’re grounded.”

  “You can’t ground me! I have to—”

  “For the next week, you may not leave this house for any reason.”

  “You’re punishing her for ditching school by keeping her home from school?” Miles said. “Will you punish me too?”

  Penelope stifled a laugh.

  “You, shut it,” Russell said. “Oh, she’s going to school, all right. Both of you are. I’m going to walk you to school every morning. All week.” He turned back to Penelope. “I’m your father, and I demand to know where you were.”

  “If I tell you, will I still be grounded?”

  “You’re getting grounded no matter what.”

  “Then why should I tell you?”

  His face turned crimson with helpless rage as he stormed from the room in search of a pillow to punch. Though she knew she was in trouble, Penelope burst into laughter.

  Miles didn’t laugh. “I know where you were. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from that weirdo?”

  She patted her brother’s hand. “Miles, you’re my little brother. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Penelope explained how she had spent the past three weeks sculpting a submarine, of all things, and now they needed to hurry because Makara Nyx had escaped into the ocean and they were running out of time.

  “A submarine?”

  “I know. It’s crazy.”

  Miles rubbed the purple bags that had taken up residence under his blue eyes. A submarine? Why did that sound familiar? He had never been on one, nor had he even seen one personally…and yet somehow the word rattled something deep in his brain. Submarine.

  As he was squeezing the last toothpaste from a tube of Extra-Strength Turnip Brite later that night, it hit him. Miles had seen a submarine—in his own head. While standing over a bowl of melted candles at Wanamaker’s Fortune-Telling Emporium.

  He marched straight to the bedroom, where he found Penelope reading in her hammock. “Don’t fall asleep,” he said through a mouthful of toothpaste. “We’re going to see your friend Ore9n with the silent nine.”

  By the time the usual thud came from the kitchen that night, Penelope and Miles were ready. It was after midnight, and they’d been listening to the careless clinking of a glass against a bottle for hours. Miles disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned. “In his usual position,” he reported.

  “Drunk?”

  “Smashed.”

  “Drool?”

  “Lots.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Buzzardstock didn’t answer the door when they arrived, so Penelope and Miles crawled in through the doggy door, dodging Wolfknuckle’s enthusiastic tongue on the other side.

  As they wandered through the soggy wasteland the house had become, Miles was shocked at how it had changed. The eyeball chandelier—gone. The vampire birthday party with the coffin cake—gone. A deranged trumpet screaming on an anthill clung to its shifting pedestal like a castaway on a lifeboat. Buzzardstock must have been partial to the bowling scene between the penguins and rhinoceroses, because he had pointed a high-powered fan at it to keep it intact. Both teams looked strangely appreciative of his efforts.

  They found Buzzardstock lying on his back inside the submarine, chip, chip, chipping away at a panel on the wall. He’d been working nonstop and didn’t notice his visitors until they were right beside him.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, like a kid who couldn’t wait to show a new toy to anyone willing to look at it. “Right now I’m working on the engine room. See, here I’ve carved radio equipment out of the ice! Throttles, steering equipment, gauges, valves. The works. Oh! Let me show you the torpedo tube.” The ceiling was so low that the three of them had to bend their knees
and hunch their backs to fit in the passageway. “Here. Isn’t that great? And over there are the ballast tanks. Follow me. Here’s a series of semiprivate bunk beds, and beyond that the airlocked escape trunk. Look! I even made an ice cream machine!”

  “This is incredible,” Penelope said. “Have you slept?”

  “I take a twenty-minute nap every four hours,” Buzzardstock said, his eyes glazed. “I feel great! Let’s have a cup of tea in the living room. Or shall I say the dying room.”

  When they got there, they understood what he meant. Most of his furniture was now puddles of water. The couch had shrunk into a love seat, so they found a dry spot on the floor where Buzzardstock laid out a blanket. “Well, now,” he said, taking in Miles at last. “You certainly look…ragged.”

  Miles smiled thinly. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t concentrate. And I saw that submarine a month ago—in my head. Your cookie did this to me, old man!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Buzzardstock. “Your sister told me you were struggling, but I didn’t realize the extent of it. Yes, in some cases a dream cookie launches a chemical reaction in the brain that causes the neurons to fire improperly, altering the neural coding in your temporal cortex. It’s like…well, the alphabet, but the letters are scrambled in the wrong order.”

  “What’s in these stupid cookies?”

  “Oh, you know, two and three-quarter cups of flour, one and a half cups of white sugar, a little baking soda, some nutmeg. I’ll show you the recipe if you like—”

  “I don’t want the recipe. I want my life back!”

  “Well,” Buzzardstock murmured. “There is one thing. In rare cases, dream cookies essentially act as a poison. And there’s only one antidote.”

  “Which is?”

  “Another cookie.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Nor does a straitjacket full of spiders, my boy.”

  Five minutes later, a pair of plates sat on the blanket. In the center of each was a cookie.

  Penelope eyed hers. Once Miles finally agreed that life could not continue as it had and agreed to a cookie, Penelope persuaded him he didn’t want to go through this alone. She also understood that this was the next step in her journey. There would be no turning back from here.