The Book of Story Beginnings

by Kladstrup, Kristin

  “Sit still, you!” cried a voice, startlingly near. Lucy couldn’t see where it came from, for the throne room, like every other room, was filled with bird cages. “Sit still, please!” said the voice. “I’ll never manage to paint you if you dart about so. Get back here, Delilah!”

  Just then, a clucking white hen came hurtling down a narrow passageway between the cages, heading straight toward Captain Mack and Millie. Lucy tried to dash away but crashed into the side of her cage.

  “Stop, Delilah!” the voice ordered, and a woman wearing a paint-spattered smock appeared in the passageway between the cages. “You there!” said the woman. “Keep her from getting out of the room!”

  Millie planted herself in the doorway, keeping tight hold of Phoebe, and Captain Mack shifted positions between two other potential escape routes while the woman dashed this way and that after the hen. At last she pulled off her smock and threw it over the frantic bird. “Got her!” she shouted triumphantly. “There, there, Delilah,” she added, gathering the smock up firmly but tenderly. “There’s no reason to be so very upset. I only want to paint your portrait, and I’ve lots more grain if you’ll only be patient.”

  “Oh, Auntie! It’s the Queen!” said Millie.

  Queen! thought Lucy. Queen, palace, Father. She watched as the Queen bent her head over the smock. She stared, fascinated, at the tiara holding back the Queen’s golden hair. Her sharp eyes noticed that some of the rubies and emeralds in the tiara were missing. The embroidered flowers and hummingbirds on the Queen’s dress looked worn and faded. Lucy could see dangling threads where some of the stitches had pulled out. Then the Queen looked up, and Lucy saw pink cheeks and lips, sky blue eyes, and a paint-smudged nose.

  “Your Majesty,” said Captain Mack, bowing. “We’re here to conduct a bit of business.”

  Just then something — many things — exploded from the vicinity of Millie. Lucy, not realizing that Phoebe had broken Millie’s necklace, thought of seeds bursting from a pod. Phoebe stared at the limp string in her hand, then erupted in wails.

  “A baby!” cried the Queen. “A real baby! Oh, look at the poor thing. May I hold her?”

  She put her smock down and the hen rushed away, clucking madly.

  “Now then,” the Queen said, lifting Phoebe from Millie’s arms. “There’s no need to cry. . . .” she began, and then her speech became unintelligible to Lucy, who found herself unable to interpret baby talk. Apparently Phoebe could, however, because she stopped crying, smiled at the Queen, and pointed her finger at Lucy’s cage. “Bird!” she said.

  Bird! Lucy felt proud for understanding something without having to think very hard.

  “Yes, it is a bird! Aren’t you a clever girl!” said the Queen. “What’s your name, you sweet thing?”

  “It’s Phoebe, Your Majesty,” said Millie, wincing as Phoebe grabbed for the Queen’s tiara.

  “Do you like pretty things, Phoebe?” said the Queen, untangling the crown and handing it to her. “Phoebe! Such a plain little bird name for such an enchanting creature,” she remarked to Millie. “If she were mine, I should call her Robin or Meadowlark. Something happy and light.”

  Captain Mack cleared her throat. “Your Majesty — about our business . . .”

  “Business?” The Queen was scrunching her eyes shut, then opening them in mock surprise. Phoebe chortled.

  “We got a bird here to show you, Your Majesty.”

  “A bird?” murmured the Queen, smiling at Phoebe.

  “Quite an exotic bird, Your Majesty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one to compare for looks and temperament. Never seen one like it in these parts, that’s for sure.”

  “Good heavens! A pigeon!” said the Queen. “I haven’t seen one since I was a girl.”

  Pigeon. Lucy was racking her memory, trying to remember what a pigeon was.

  “We was thinkin’ that Your Majesty might like to acquire this fine pigeon for your collection,” said Captain Mack.

  “You’re giving me a pigeon?”

  “Not exactly givin’, Your Majesty. We was hopin’ to transact a business deal.”

  “Oh, you want to sell me your pigeon.”

  Just then Phoebe dropped the tiara. Millie snatched it before it hit the floor. Looking pale, she handed it to the Queen, who promptly returned it to Phoebe. Then the Queen began to walk through a passageway in the cages. Captain Mack and Millie followed behind, Millie leaping again for the tiara when Phoebe dropped it over the Queen’s shoulder.

  “See what I have here, Phoebe,” said the Queen.

  See what? Lucy wondered. The Queen was standing in an open area among the cages, pointing at what looked like a window with clouds in it. But the window was propped up at an angle in the middle of the air.

  “I’m painting, Phoebe,” said the Queen. “This is my canvas. I’m making a picture. These are my paints and brushes.”

  After carefully analyzing the table, which was littered with jars, rags, and brushes, Lucy realized that what she had thought was a window was a painter’s canvas set up on an easel. She saw white paint splashed against a background of dark blue and purple.

  “See the pretty hens?” The Queen gestured toward the canvas, and Lucy could see that the blobs of white paint did look rather like the three bossy hens that were strutting about on the floor, snapping up bits of cracked corn. “I just can’t seem to get the tail feathers right,” said the Queen, frowning.

  Captain Mack cleared her throat again. “About our bird, Your Majesty . . .”

  “Oh yes, your pigeon. I fear she would be lonely here.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Majesty. But it’s hard to see how she could be in this place. . . .”

  “But there are no other pigeons. I really don’t think that —”

  “We found the bird wanderin’ wild, Your Majesty,” said Captain Mack. “It was a wonder cats hadn’t pounced on her. If you ain’t interested, we got no choice but to set her free again.”

  “But she’ll be killed!” said the Queen.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Majesty, but I ain’t got room for a bird on board my ship!”

  The Queen wavered a moment, long enough for Lucy to worry over the meanings of the words cats and killed. Then the Queen sighed and said, “Oh, very well.” She lifted a brass bell from her table and rang it. “One more bird won’t make a difference, I suppose. Though there’s barely enough to feed the ones we’ve got already. I know I ought to let some go, but I can’t bear to think of their fate. Those dreadful cats . . .” Her voice trailed off as a girl — the birdseed girl, thought Lucy — sauntered into the room.

  “Cora, how much have we got in the treasury?” said the Queen.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  “Well — it doesn’t matter. You are to get twenty silvers and —”

  “Beggin’ Your Majesty’s pardon,” said the captain. “Twenty silvers hardly seems a fair price for such a fine pigeon.”

  “Very well — thirty silvers. Cora, fetch thirty silvers from the treasury.”

  But Cora had already reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “I just remembered, Your Majesty, that I took some money this morning to pay the grocer,” she said.

  “More likely you meant to steal it!” grumbled the Queen, and when Cora was gone, she added, “The girl is a thief, I’m certain. But what with help being so hard to find these days . . .”

  “I like to work,” said Millie.

  “Been a real pleasure, Your Majesty,” said Captain Mack. “Now, if you’ll just tell us how to get out of here, we’ll be on our way.”

  “But you can’t leave!” said the Queen, clutching Phoebe.

  “Got to, Your Majesty! Now then, I’ll take the baby.” Captain Mack had to force the Queen to let go of Phoebe.

  “We’ll find our own way out, Your Majesty,” said the captain. “Come on, Millie!”

  As they disappeared down a passageway through the cages, Lucy heard Phoeb
e’s wails fading away and Millie’s disappointed voice coming back. “Oh, Auntie . . .”

  “I do so love babies.” The Queen sighed, and Lucy saw one tear, then another, roll down her face. At last the Queen picked up a brush and began dabbing paint on the window tilted up in the air — on the canvas, Lucy reminded herself.

  It was a long time before Lucy remembered the word sold. She began the laborious process of thinking about herself. She thought about where she was, and what she should do next. And it was then that she noticed the sound of crows cawing.

  Oscar squinted in the sunlight as he watched Lucy fly up and away.

  Then his eyes fell and he saw the King. He was clutching the tree-branch wand, thrusting it forward with a trembling hand the way Oscar’s algebra teacher used to thrust his pointer at fellows when he caught them whispering in class. “You are a sorcerer!” said the King.

  Oscar shook off all thoughts of algebra class. “Put down that wand!” he told the King. He wondered if he sounded foolish. He remembered saying pretty much the same thing to Clyde Wilcox back when he was ten years old. “Put down that rock!” he had told Clyde, a bully the size of a Hereford steer, and Clyde had gone ahead and thrown the rock anyway.

  “Are you a sorcerer?” The King’s voice sounded puzzled now.

  “Yes,” said Oscar, hoping it was the right thing to say. Behind his back, his hand curled around the bottle of potion. His other hand fumbled with the stopper.

  The King tapped his wand against the lip of the stone well. “You changed the Lady Lucy into a bird! Why?”

  “You were about to change her into a cat!” Oscar slipped the bottle into his pocket.

  “We were not! We would not!” The King sounded offended. “We were in the act of changing this stone into a goblet so that the Lady Lucy would have a more suitable vessel for drinking.” He opened his fist to show Oscar a small gray rock.

  “A goblet?”

  “Naturally. We would not change a lady into a cat,” said the King.

  “But you do change people into cats — you can’t deny that!” Oscar looked down at the cats crowding around the well.

  The King looked haughty. “We will merely observe that, of occasion, necessity has called upon us to protect the authority of the royal house. After all, it is our duty and our right to command respect among our subjects.”

  “But what about Lucy?”

  “What about the Lady Lucy?”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “That seems up to you, sir. Obviously, you must change her back.”

  “I would if I could!” said Oscar. “Only just now — well, she isn’t exactly here!”

  “Most unfortunate, sir,” said the King. “Especially as it seems rather doubtful that the Lady Lucy will return. It seems more likely that she will be captured by Her Majesty. Such has been the fate of most of the birds on our island. Of course, there is also the possibility that she will be found by one of our subjects. They are fond of birds.”

  “Fond of birds!” Fear seized Oscar.

  “Quite fond. Especially when they are hungry,” said the King.

  As much as Oscar wanted to hunt for Lucy, he could not think how or where to begin. And when the King commanded him to carry water from the well over to a long stone trough buried in the ground nearby, he did not protest. He wasn’t sure it was safe to protest. What if the King decided to change him into a cat again? Where would he be then? And what would happen to Lucy? It seemed to Oscar that his only hope lay in being friendly with the King, in fostering the notion that he and the King were fellow sorcerers.

  He lugged bucket after bucket to the trough until he heard the sound of voices approaching. He saw six men striding into the clearing. They walked in pairs, carrying long wooden poles that sagged under the weight of three enormous baskets. The baskets were bulging and spilling over with silvery, smelly fish.

  “Supper here, Your Majesty!” said one of the men.

  Oscar watched as they dropped the fish into the water trough. The cats went wild, screeching and clawing and hissing as they climbed over each other to get at the fish.

  The King took a smaller basket from one of the men. He glanced inside it. “That will be all,” he said, and the men nodded and disappeared into the jungle.

  “We will have supper before dark sets in,” the King said, gesturing toward a ring of blackened stones. Inside the ring were the cold remains of a fire. Oscar watched as the King raised his makeshift wand in the air:

  “Ash and char is what you are,

  Yet what you were is our desire.

  So rise up now and turn to fire!”

  The words had the same effect as throwing kerosene and a lit match into the ring of stones. As the air puffed, then crackled with flame, the King viewed the fire with satisfaction. “Always the best bit of magic!” he confided. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  Oscar nodded. He wondered whether magic spells needed to rhyme, or whether the King simply did it for show. Was he so clever that he could make rhymes up on the spot? He watched the King raise his wand again, noticing that he had focused his gaze on a broken roof tile on the ground near the fire. His voice sounded bored:

  “Two hunger here, boy and man,

  They need a well-greased frying pan.

  “We will have fried fish,” said the King, leaning over to pick up the cast-iron frying pan that had taken the place of the roof tile. He propped the pan over a pile of glowing coals near the edge of the fire. As the fat that greased the bottom of the pan began to melt, the King pulled four plate-shaped fish out of the small basket left by the fish bearers. Oscar saw that each fish was nicely cleaned. “Flounder!” said the King, sounding pleased. He flopped a fish into the pan and it sizzled.

  “When first we found ourselves in these circumstances, we took more time for creature comforts,” said the King as he sat down on a flat rock near the fire. “A chair, a table . . .” He pointed to some rocks nearby. “But it seemed odd to us to eat alone in that fashion. Still, if you would prefer, make yourself more comfortable.” The King eyed the pocket where Oscar had put the bottle of potion.

  He thinks I’ll perform a spell, thought Oscar. “This rock suits me fine,” he said, sitting down.

  The satisfying sound and smell of fish frying occupied the space between them for a moment, and then Oscar asked, “Why don’t you use magic to make whatever food you like?”

  “Magic food! Surely you jest!” said the King.

  Oscar pretended to be interested in the fish, gently lifting it with a twig to check its progress. He wondered what was wrong with magic food, but of course he didn’t dare ask. What if the King guessed that he wasn’t a sorcerer? He had better watch out, just in case membership in the brotherhood of sorcerers really was his only defense against being turned into a cat.

  “So you like fish, sir,” said the King.

  Oscar looked up from the picked-over remains of his supper, which lay on a leaf that the King had transformed into a tin plate. All being said and done, he thought, he should have been sick of fish after feasting on it raw for so many years. But he found to his surprise that he liked the taste of pan-fried fish as much as ever. “My pa and I used to go fishing,” he told the King. “We used to cook over a fire, just like this.”

  Beyond the perimeter of light, Oscar could see the cats lurking. The fire was making them timid, he knew. Some looked sleepy and satisfied. These were the more aggressive cats who had prevailed in the battle for dinner. But other cats crouched closer, blinking at the light as they watched the humans licking their fingers. No doubt they were still hungry.

  Oscar set down his plate, and Tom, the King’s black cat — the only cat confident enough to come near the fire — began licking it clean. When several other cats pressed forward from the darkness, Tom arched his back and hissed until they slunk away.

  There was never enough food for all of them, Oscar remembered. He thought of Lucy, wondering where she was, or worse, whether she
was still alive.

  “Your father is a fisherman, then,” said the King.

  “Oh, no. He’s a farmer. We have a farm . . .” Oscar caught himself. It hurt to keep forgetting that Pa and Ma were gone, that they were dead. “We had a farm,” he said. “Fishing was just something we did sometimes, Pa and I. We’d go fishing in the Missouri — that’s a river. You can catch all sorts of fish there, even catfish sometimes.”

  “Cat fish!” said the King with genuine interest. “We have never heard of it.”

  “Oh! It’s the best thing you ever ate. Pa always says it’s food fit for a king, so I guess you would like it. Ma doesn’t care much for it.”

  “Her Majesty hates fish, too,” said the King. “From the moment we were married, fish was forbidden at the royal table. Gives her a headache, she says. Wouldn’t eat fowl either, of course, and what she would eat must be sautéed, or glazed, or fancied up with bits of fruit and such. Even with dinner she was an artist.”

  “An artist?”

  “Nothing but painting and poetry all day long for her! We ask you, sir. Did you ever know anyone to look at a canary in a cage and see a poem — or a painting?”

  “Well, I can’t say. . . .”

  “That’s how Leona is.” The King sounded half proud, half annoyed.

  “Leona?”

  “The Queen!”

  Oscar had never thought of the Queen having a name. Did the King have a name, too?

  “A crow never cawed, a turkey never gobbled, a hen never clucked but Leona must hear a poem in it,” said the King. “But let a little cat open its mouth and Leona hears nothing more than a tiresome noise.” The way the King’s eyebrows drew together in a dark cloud reminded Oscar of the first time he had met him, when a chance remark had made the King fly into a rage. He wondered how the King and Queen could possibly despise each other so — all because of a silly quarrel about cats and birds. Then he reminded himself that he was responsible for their quarrel.

  Not a very pretty situation. That was what he had written in The Book of Story Beginnings. The odd thing of it was, he could remember hearing Ada Hansen say the exact same thing to her sister Fanny only a couple of days after Pa had stormed out of the house to go live up at Uncle Ned’s. The old gnarled pair of them had been standing outside Sunderlund’s Store.