The Serendipity of Flightless Things

by Fiadhnait Moser

  “Nothin’,” I assured her. “He means nothin’, and he’s just about going anyway.”

  “I mean,” said the boy, swiveling around me and curling over Darcy like a tarantula over its prey, “you can keep a lookout for your daddy at the top of that willow all you want, but he en’t never comin’ home.”

  A sputter much like that of a broken pipe escaped Darcy’s throat, and she let go of my sweater. She staggered back, and I reached for her. “Darcy! Darcy, it en’t true.” But she had already started running. I shot a glare at the boy, then darted after her, calling, “Darcy, wait—”

  But she was already down the hill and halfway through her garden. Sean and Mary—her teenage neighbors—stumbled out of their house at the sound of Darcy’s wailing, and I could see even from far away their confused expressions.

  I whirled around to face the boy. His cheeks were scrunched into a sickeningly pleased expression. “Now you’ve done it,” I said.

  The boy shrugged innocently. “All I’m saying is, if I was you, Finnuala O’Dálaigh-Sé … I would hop to it.”

  I hadn’t told him my name. This time as I spoke, my voice trembled. “Hop to what?”

  The boy leaned in close, and his eyes fell to my locket. “You can’t let stories suffocate you. Sometimes, the trick is plain and simple as breathing underwater.”

  The trouble was, though, that there was nothing plain and simple about … But then I knew. How could I possibly have been so dense? It was obvious. The boy must have realized my understanding, because he gave a last crooked smile and swished off through the trees.

  “Hey,” I called, and I called thrice more, but it wasn’t until I said, “What’s your name?” that he paused and turned on his heel.

  Something flitted about his eyes, something bright, something haunted—a will-o’-the-wisp, perhaps. The boy tipped up his chin and said, “Never mind my name.”

  But I did mind his name. Everything, big and small, sweet and foul, deserved a name. And so I named him. And I hadn’t a clue whether he heard me or not, but once he was out of eyesight, I hollered, “I’ll call you Sojourn.” And that was that.

  Chapter 4

  MY MIND WAS ABUZZ. Getting to Inis Eala was easy; all I needed were the proper tools. I was about to take off through the forest, when I remembered the weight in my pocket. From within it, I pulled out the sliver of hawthorn wood and turned it twice in my hand, then once more. Something was written on the wood. The ink was red and dripping, and in splotchy, childlike handwriting, the wood read:

  Meet me at the bleeding tree.

  “Curious,” I whispered, half to myself, half to the willows. The image of the blood-drop-berried hawthorn hanging off the edge of Inis Eala stuck in my mind. Sojourn was right—I hadn’t time to spare. Someone had left me a message … someone needed me to find them. Nuala’s voice rang in my ears, “You may go when you are needed there.”

  So back through the willow glades I flew. Wind tearing at my hair, blisters ripping at my feet, I slowed my pace only upon catching sight of the scarlet door. Nuala said our home was like twilight—half of it drenched in sunlight, and the other half, darkness. This was because whoever built our cottage built it on the threshold of the willow glades, so everything west of the door was perpetually shadowed by a willow named Seamus.

  “Lucky,” Nuala called it many a time. She said so because this way, we always had a sunny spot to hang our laundry (and indeed, a line of jeans and patchwork sweaters hung like Christmas ornaments on the sunlit side), and a shady spot to tell stories and let the sheep sleep. But I knew the truth—I knew all halfway places were faery territory.

  Panting, I traipsed through the wildflower garden (saying hello to the sheep, Maisie and Jack, along the way) and pulled open the door, bits of scarlet paint flying off from it and settling on the doorstep like autumn leaves. The door, too, was in a halfway place, rotting and weary, yet still strong enough to stay standing.

  The kitchen was dark still, which meant Nuala wasn’t home yet—perfect. I crossed the room, pots clinking and clanking with my big-footed steps, then whizzed up the narrow wooden staircase and into my room. I flicked on the glass lamp by my bed, wiped the dust from the window with my sleeve, and peered out to make sure Nuala wasn’t toddling down the lane just yet. All was clear.

  I had to find it. But where had I left it? I yanked shut my curtains and flung open the closet door. A thicket of odds and ends, baubles and knickknacks cluttered the top shelf. A swan-shaped pin Da had given me sparkled from the shelf. He never believed my stories, but he pretended to most days anyway. I reached up and loosened a yo-yo from beneath a stack of precariously piled books, and—

  “Aargh!” I shielded my head as the trinkets came toppling down on me, clattering against the floorboards, a snow globe shattering into a thousand pieces.

  I closed my eyes, held my breath—one, two, three, four …

  Silence.

  I gave a sigh of relief; Nuala still wasn’t back. I knelt down and mopped up the snow globe (along with a smattering of dried-up spiders) with an old first-grade choir sweater. Then I surveyed the rest of the trinkets: three paper airplanes, a box of seashells, a pair of Cinderella dress-up shoes, a ratty umbrella, and a blue marker–faced Barbie doll. So really, nothing.

  I strained my memory. The last time I had it was five summers ago on holiday with Da. If I were me five years ago, where would I put it? I ran my hand along the top shelf, struggling to reach the back. My wee toe muscles strained to lift me higher, but it was simply too tall for me to—

  Of course! I was hardly seven when I last used it; I would never have put it somewhere high. And with my aversion to packing and unpacking, I probably wouldn’t have even put it away …

  I slammed shut my closet and dove under the bed. There.

  “Finn?”

  My head snapped up, bopping against a metal rod of my bed frame. “Ouch!” I squealed.

  “Are you in there?” The doorknob creaked.

  “I’m naked!” was the only thing I could think to keep Nuala from bursting in. I cringed as Nuala simpered, “Oh?”

  “Yes—hang on.”

  I shimmied out from under my bed, dust bunnies and cat hair clinging to my damp sweater, and lunged for my bathrobe. My big toe stubbed on the bedpost, and I rabbit-hopped about on one foot, fumbling for the edge of my bed before finally grabbing the bathrobe from my pillow. I flung it over myself, tied it at my waist, then bolted for the door as Nuala’s voice rang, “Is everything all right in there?”

  “Perfect!” and I threw open the door, hair flying.

  Nuala scanned me up and down. A shooting star flecked across Nuala’s dark eye, and I made a wish. Please don’t let her know. Please, please, please. “Is the hot water running again?” she asked.

  “Oh—” I glanced down to my bathrobe, and said, “Yes, yes, water’s great. Stellar, really. Felt a tad muddy after visiting ol’ Oliver, so I took a shower. That’s why I’m wet.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Nuala.

  I admit, my stories were better than my lies.

  “And,” added Nuala, “you took the liberty of showering in your jeans and sweater to save a load of laundry?”

  “Er—yes?” I answered, though it sounded more like a question.

  Nuala beamed a mouthful of crooked teeth and plump gums. “My, how you outdo yourself, Finn,” she said. And then her expression fell into a matter-of-fact one as she said, “You did get the berries? From Mrs. McLean?”

  Crumbs. “They were fresh out.” I crossed my fingers behind my back; I hated lying to Nuala—mostly because she could see straight through me.

  “Oh. Oh, well, it’s a good thing they, ah—restocked since you came back,” and Nuala pulled a sack of blackberries from her overlarge sweater pocket.

  My cheeks flushed, and my mouth waggled up and down in search of sorries, but Nuala spoke before I had a chance—and when she did, I was surprised to find her mouth was catching sorries too. “I’m sor
ry ’bout the swans, lass,” she said, squeezing my hand and leading me over to my bed. There was something about her voice—the milk and honey of it—that put a stopper in any anger I felt.

  We sunk into the patchwork quilt Nuala had sown with scraps from all the sorrows we knew. The corner was for Da, made from a piece of his first soldier uniform, greenish-brown and scuffed white with gunpowder. Beside Da’s patch was Ma’s—a handkerchief, yellow-blotted, and smelling the way sea salt and tears do. Grandpa Oliver’s patch was the only one I’d ever tasted, and my goodness did I regret it. I had thought it was flecked with cinnamon, but had the misfortune of discovering the flavor of cayenne pepper, which, apparently, Grandpa Oliver had rather enjoyed with his eggs Benedict on Sunday mornings.

  The patch beneath Grandpa Oliver’s was what had once been a flowery patch, but now was only a pathetic smudge of charcoal, which Nuala said was for nothing, but she wasn’t the only one clever at reading lies. The rest were for my friends and for Nuala’s friends, people who had come and gone, but mostly gone. People didn’t stick around too much in our village, Carroway. It was more the sort of place you went through to get somewhere else. It was a halfway place, and faery or not, my heart didn’t take too kindly to that.

  Nuala trilled her nails along Grandpa Oliver’s cayenne patch like she was playing his old grand piano—the one now rotting in the cellar. Then, with nimble fingers, she untied the sack of blackberries and offered them to me. I took a berry, the sweet and sour stinging but soothing my tongue, which had shriveled dry from my story to Darcy and my argument with Sojourn.

  “Let’s do something fun,” said Nuala unexpectedly. “Get both our minds off the swans.”

  I looked up to Nuala. I knew her wrinkles by heart, and so I also knew an extra one had appeared above her brow—that was her worry wrinkle. I didn’t want to worry Nuala, but I also didn’t want to keep my mind off the swans, and now I certainly had no intention of going anywhere but Inis Eala tonight. So, I said, “That’s okay, Nuala—really, I’m fine. I’ll see the swans another year. It’s no big deal.”

  Nuala sighed and popped a blackberry into her mouth. She gulped it down, and breathed, “You’ll be a brave one, lass? For me?”

  I looped my ankles around each other and muttered, “Not much bravery about stayin’ out of trouble’s way, if that’s what you mean.”

  “There is a difference between being brave and being rash, my love.” That was the same thing she told Da before he’d run off to the riots in Belfast, even though to me, Da was the bravest person I knew. Nuala brushed the blackberry juice off her hands and adopted a tone of more finality than I really cared for. “Well, then,” she said, “come on down when you’re ready. We’re going to McCann’s for supper tonight. My treat.”

  “Er—no thanks. I actually—I thought I might visit Darcy. You know, Mr. Brannon’s little girl. I’ll sleep over there. Her nanny won’t mind, and I can cook myself some toast or something simple. ’Sides—I—I may’ve finally got a friend, and she’s really quite n—”

  “That wasn’t a question, Finn. I said we’re going to McCann’s, now dry up.” Nuala stood and turned for the door as I stammered, “But—but—”

  “Not a word, Finn,” said Nuala sternly, and her gaze was hemlock-laced enough for me to know to hush up.

  I nodded, and Nuala cracked open the door. But before stepping out, she swiveled around and added delicately, “Oh—and Finn?”

  “Mm?”

  Nuala’s eyes sparkled like fireworks. “Always hide your evidence.”

  I followed Nuala’s gaze to my snow-globe-soaked sweater and felt my heart spin to sheep’s wool. My mouth played hopscotch with my brain, but Nuala left before I could explain—not that I had reason to. Nuala knew precisely what I was up to. Not a single explanation was needed. Just a better plan.

  THE MINUTE NUALA LEFT, I dove beneath my bed. A snorkel the color of marigolds—very dusty, very spidery marigolds—sat wedged inside a pair of mud-caked sneakers four sizes too small. The snorkel, too, looked four sizes too small, but it would have to do.

  Nuala would surely have her ears perked for my footsteps and one eye open for my shadow all night long if need be. Nonetheless, I snatched the snorkel and wriggled out from under my bed, coughing up a puff of dust like Mr. McCann did when he smoked, leaning foot-crossed against his pub.

  I grabbed my periwinkle knitted pouch from my bedpost, the dulcet lilt of seashells chinking from inside. When I pulled the drawstrings open, the smell of seaweed filled my nostrils, and I stuffed the snorkel inside. I yanked open my bedside table drawer, the glass lamp atop it teetering hazardously. I rummaged through a hodgepodge of mismatched buttons and old gum wrappers until I found it.

  The leather ran soft on the cover and ragged on the spine, splotched with ink and sap and even a spot of marmalade. On the front were the words, scribbled in my wobbly six-year-old handwriting:

  A field journal of folk,

  faery, and other findings:

  Property of finnuala rose o’dálaigh-sé

  And then in the bottom right-hand corner:

  No peeking—that means YOU!

  Except for me, of course. I flipped it open, the cover crackling like embers, and leafed through the iris-wrinkly pages to a section labeled “My Swans.” The words were tapestries of fact and fiction, threads sewn together to create something that made sense and didn’t make sense all in one. The swans section was the fattest in the whole book and was cluttered with bookmarks. I pulled out each bookmark, leaving only the one with the dragonfly key chain marking the swan section, so I could find it easily. When I finished, I crammed the book into my pouch with the snorkel. Operation Story-Hunting was underway.

  Chapter 5

  AFTER QUICKLY CHANGING FROM MY JEANS into my one-and-only skirt and tying up my hair with my scarlet ribbon, I slung the pouch over my shoulder and met Nuala under Willow Seamus.

  “All right, Finn?” she said.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said, trying hard as possible to sound defeated despite the determination burning in my chest like a Beltane bonfire.

  “Chin up, lass,” piped Nuala, tapping up my chin. “Mr. McCann’s got a hot cider with your name on it,” and we sauntered out of the willow glades and down the path to the village. The term village was used loosely; all it meant was that it was more populated with people than sheep.

  A twisty dirt road wound through a garden of shops and houses popping up in random spaces like buttercups. The entire town was but one strip of colored buildings winding through a field of the greenest grass one could possibly fathom. Nuala’s you’re-lucky-if-it’s-open quilt shop sprouted like a primrose, pink and cozy things peeking out from the windows. Rain-washed flowers drooped from windowsills and the scent of Mrs. Pilkin’s scones wafted through the air. But what I loved most about Carroway were the doors, which, on sunny days, were more open than not.

  That, and McCann’s. McCann’s Pub was like my favorite pair of sneakers—ragged and weathered and all together wonderful. A stark-white ramshackle place it was, thatched roof, cracked windows threatening to shatter any minute, and the red of the door splintering to the under-brown. Clearly, Mr. McCann cared not for finery, but coziness. And so did I.

  Music bled through the chips in the windows, and the tap of dance shoes against walnut wood thundered my heart. As Nuala and I crossed the threshold, a burly man raised a glass in our direction. “Ah, our storytellers,” he bellowed, taking a swig of Guinness.

  “Nuala, Finn!” chirped Mr. McCann from behind the bar. A crooked smile broke his dry and scabby face. “Hot cider and a Baileys comin’ right up,” and he swished a rag across a place for two at the bar.

  We sat on the bar stools, feet dangling, as Mr. McCann sloshed our drinks across the counter. The fiddler sped up his tune as Nuala’s fingers tapped in time against her glass, and the dancers quickened their feet. Though the thick crowd blocked my view of them, I could tell their speed by the clack-click-a-clacking
of their shoes, triple time now. A last warble trilled from the fiddle around the tavern, and the dancers stomped to a finish.

  The pub erupted into cheers, clinking glasses and clapping shoulders. A small figure weaseled through the throng. Her black curls clung to her face with sweat, and her dance shoes weighed down her bony legs like plump apples sprouted from twigs.

  “Ah, Darcy, my love, that’s a smashing show you give,” applauded Mr. McCann to the dancer, dusting out a glass. “How ’bout a cider for you, on me?”

  “Thanks, Mr. McCann,” said Darcy, hopping up to a bar stool beside me.

  I turned to her and said, “Cheered up a bit?”

  Darcy nodded; she never stayed upset for long. Then I added, “I didn’t know you were dancin’ tonight.”

  “Bridget’s got the summer flu,” replied Darcy, “so Miss Eileen asked me to step in.” She took a gulp of cider, then sleeve-wiped away the golden mustache brimming her mouth. “What’re you an’ Nuala doing here? What’s that pouch for an’ why’s it smell like seaweed? You know, I really did want to hear the rest o’ that story you were tellin’, but you look like you’re about to leave for some—”

  Nuala had raised her eyebrows, and I swiftly lifted my glass and hollered, “Who’s up for a story?”

  To my relief, a roar of “Mes” and “Absolutelys” and “Yes pleases” muffled Darcy’s questions. No one could resist a story told by Nuala, as if she were a silver-tongued faery, lips spilling rubies and gold. And then, silence settled upon the pub like fresh fallen snow. The weight of two dozen ears compressed my bones, and my neck began to shrink into my shoulders. Tortoises, I decided, were very lucky creatures indeed.

  I cleared my throat, turned from Darcy, and babbled, “Fantastic. Er—Nuala—why don’t you tell that one about the ravine?” Storytelling for Darcy or Grandpa Oliver or even Mr. McCann was one thing, but a whole pub—I left that to Nuala, thank you very much.