Mr. Wicker's Window

by Carley Dawson

  CHAPTER 35

  Chris had always known, tucked away somewhere out of sight at the backof his heart and his mind, that he loved his country and his city. Buthe had never given it much thought; it had been something as taken forgranted as the air he breathed. So that he found himself overwhelmedby the gust of emotion sweeping through him when he stood besideCaptain Blizzard as the _Mirabelle_ sailed slowly up the Potomac.

  Chris stood there with Amos on his other side, looking at the shoresthat were both familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar when he saw MountVernon on its imposing bluff; unfamiliar because no domes or obeliskswere to be seen; no airfield, and no Pentagon. But the sweet greenland itself was there, holding out its welcoming and individual scentof fields and rich American soil.

  However, the Georgetown Ned Cilley and Amos remembered, the littletown from which they had all sailed in secrecy and haste so manymonths before, was there awaiting them. The noon sun was bright overthe few slate roofs and red brick chimneys, and Chris felt a choke ofhappiness binding his throat like a scarf too tightly drawn, and aconstriction at his heart as if it were too firmly held in a welcominghand.

  An excited happiness shook him as the _Mirabelle_ was eased to thewharfside, and at last, after dangers and adventures beyond hisimagining, Chris not only knew that he was home again, but saw afamiliar black-dressed figure and a plump woman in a monstrous hat,waiting for him to disembark.

  What a day that was! The greetings and handshakings; the envelopinghug for Chris and Amos from Becky Boozer, her eyes filled with happytears and her bonnet trembling with agitation. Her roguish glances andcoy giggles flew out like a flock of doves at the sight of swaggeringNed Cilley, who came down the gangplank carrying a macaw in a cage for"Mistress Boozer," and hustled her behind some bales to kiss herwarmly. But most of all and best of the day, that first look from Mr.Wicker that spoke more than any gesture or carefully chosen wordscould have done. He had no need to speak. Chris could see the prideand pleasure shining in his face, and Mr. Wicker, so solitary all hislife, could see in the boy's eyes an affection his own son might haveshown him.

  In due time a well-crated object was carefully hauled by cart to Mr.Wicker's back door and taken inside. The ship's carpenter had made acase to measurements given him without knowing what it was to hold,and when Chris saw it at last set in a corner of Mr. Wicker'swell-remembered study, he knew a lightness of mind he had not hadsince first he had been told of the Jewel Tree and his long journey.

  There were long hours of talk with Mr. Wicker before the fire,telling him of every detail. Mr. Wicker's fine dark head nodded fromtime to time, interspersing Chris's account with an occasional "Quiteso--you did perfectly right," or, "Indeed? I did not see that tooclearly, and so I was not sure." At last all was told; every taleunfolded.

  Then Mr. Wicker rose, smiling at Chris. "Go have your supper lad, andcome back. I have some other things to say."

  The candlelit kitchen, the blazing hearth, the hissing spit on whichwood pigeons roasted; the steaming pots where savory things werecooking; Amos laughing and chattering and swinging his legs from thecane-bottomed chair; Becky Boozer alternating between bursts of happysong and jokes directed at Amos or Ned Cilley, everything seemedbeautiful to Chris and the room the gayest he had ever known. Yet hewas conscious of a heavy feeling inside himself in spite of thelaughter and the talk, and sat quietly staring at the rosy firelightthat flowed up Becky's white apron and starched fichu to her hot,flushed face and kind blue eyes. The reflection of the sparks wenteven higher to gild the twenty-four roses and twelve waving blackplumes, and when they passed on, found a kindred spark in the largecontented eyes of his friend Amos. Ned Cilley was going through theusual formula of pretending that he should not stay to supper, andthat even if he did, he had no appetite at all.

  "Ah now, Master Cilley," coaxed Becky, her hands on her hips and thesoup ladle she still held standing out at right angles, "you will fadeaway into a wraith, my good man, so you will! Do you not eat a morselnor a mouthful, and die in the night, how shall I bear to live with myconscience thereafter, tell me that?"

  Ned Cilley, seated at the table near the Water Street windows, hislegs sprawled out and his rough hands folded over his round littlepaunch, twiddled his thumbs and wagged his head in a doleful manner,drawing the corners of his mouth down, though it was plain that thiswas an effort.

  "Eh, lack-a-day!" he sighed. "The life of a sailor, 'tis thathard--is't not, me boys?" He wagged his head again. "The vittles ishard on a stummick as delikit nor what mine be--"

  Amos put his hand over his mouth to stifle some sound that brokethrough in spite of him. Ned gave him a reproving glance. "Or else, meinnards is ruint by that galley cook of ours." He sighed and nodded inreminiscent sorrow. "Ah, sweet Boozer, were you to sample but aspoonful of what us pore sailors must face week after week, and monthafter month, and us on the high seas--you bein' such a delikit cook,so to speak--your heart's blood would curdle on the instant, that itwould, by my cap and buttons!"

  Tears of pity streamed down Becky Boozer's face, and pulling out abandanna handkerchief from her apron pocket she blew her nose with ahonk that would have blown a less sturdy man than Ned Cilley off hischair.

  "Deary me, the saints preserve and defend us!" she cried. "I must doall in my poor weak woman's power to tempt you as best I may. Draw up,lads, for here it comes!" she announced without ceremony, and thethree watching her needed no second invitation.

  Then such a feast as was heaped upon their plates and crowded on thetable. Steaming vegetable soup, roast pigeons, roasted ducks, severalboiled fowl with wild rice, a cold beef pie, several kinds of cheese,tarts and pies, jams and preserves. A blissful silence fell over thecheerful room and Becky Boozer stood back to survey the two busy boysand engrossed silent man. Silent if one can call Ned Cilley's champingjaws, smacking lips, great sighs after a draught of ale, or loudappreciative belches a silent meal.

  When everyone had finished at last and they had pushed back theirchairs and looked about them again with dozy smiles, Chris rememberedMr. Wicker's request. He rose, not without difficulty.

  "Mr. Wicker asked me to see him for a moment." He moved to thepassageway. "That was a superb supper, Becky. I'm stuffed."

  Becky looked around genuinely surprised. "Why--a mere mouthful, ataste, a tidbit, was all any of you had. See--there's a pigeon or twoleft, and half a duck, and part of the beef pie--why, you do but peckat your food, all of you, like poor birds!" she insisted.

  Chris laughed. Ned Cilley, picking his teeth with his habitual ship'snail, was already falling asleep, and Amos, his head on one hand,propped himself up amid a jumble of empty plates. Peacefulness andcontent lay everywhere in the room, warm as the firelight and aspervasive.

  Chris turned. "Anyhow, thanks again. I'll be back," and he went alongto knock at Mr. Wicker's door.

  Inside, the ruby damask curtains were drawn close across the windows,for it was nearly dark, and the fire here too was as red as the rosethat was the joy of a princess of China. Chris closed the door behindhim, looking around with a smile at the familiar walls and objects hehad missed and dreamed of, many a time, the table with its flowers ina fine China bowl, the desk between the windows with thelong-feathered quill pens and the papers marked by Mr. Wicker'smeticulous hand, the carved cupboard at the end of the room, and theIndian rug of many colors under his feet. Last of all he brought hislook back to Mr. Wicker, sitting in the winged leather chair.

  Mr. Wicker had a strange expression on his face. He was smiling but atthe same time he looked sad. And for the first time Chris saw somecurious-looking garments folded neatly on a stool before the fire. Mr.Wicker, watching him as he gazed about, saw the question in his eyes."Do you not recognise these things, Christopher?" he asked.

  Chris looked more closely, touching nothing. His voice was bewildered."Well--it seems to me I may have seen them before--they sort of lookfamiliar, but--I couldn't be sure."

  His master's voice was gentle. "They are your twentieth-centu
ryclothes, my lad. The ones you wear in your own time. And deeply as ithurts me to say it, the moment has come for you to put them on."

  Chris raised startled worried eyes to the dark penetrating oneswatching him so quietly from the high-backed chair. "Not _yet_? Idon't have to go _now_, do I, sir?" And as he saw insistence in Mr.Wicker's face he began to expostulate as a child does when it wants toretard its bedtime.

  "But I've scarcely got back--I mean, here. And we've only had onetalk--I'm sure there'll be other things I've forgotten to say that youshould know--"

  He threw out his hands as if to grasp at something that might hold himthere.

  "And--and--I didn't say good-bye to Captain Blizzard or Mr. Finney.They were wonderful to me, really they were! And"--his voice suddenlybecame very small and high, disappearing to a whisper at the end--"andBecky and Ned and dear Amos--"

  He stood there against the door, swallowing hard with his head down,his stomach and his throat a mass of hateful knots and the whole ofhim swamped with unhappiness. Mr. Wicker had never moved, his elbowson the arms of his chair, and his folded hands just touching his chin.At last Chris whispered: "Does it have to be?"

  "It has to be," said Mr. Wicker.

  Without a word, Chris took the folded clothes that seemed sounfamiliar off the stool and dressed behind the other leather chair,his lower lip trembling. Mechanically, as boys will, he shiftedeverything from his pockets to those of the trousers he had just puton. With careful slow gestures he folded up the knee breeches, thefull-sleeved shirt, the long white hose and silver buckled shoes, theflare-backed jacket last of all, and put them where his clothes hadbeen.

  Mr. Wicker then spoke, getting slowly to his feet and standing withhis back to the fire.

  "I am afraid I shall have to have the leather pouch, Christopher," hesaid, holding out his hand. Chris took it off and put it in the long,strong hand of the magician.

  "More than that," Mr. Wicker said, putting the pouch in his pocket, "Ishall have to take everything from you that you have gained here,Christopher." He paused. "All but one thing which you may choose andkeep--one ability." He waited. "Choose well."

  Chris looked up at the man he admired and respected and had grown tolove, and pondered deeply.

  To make a boat or eagle or dolphin out of rope? Very tempting! How thekids would envy him!

  Or change himself in other shapes? So useful. He hesitated.

  "I'd like to be able to come back, sir," he said, and his growinggrief at those he must leave prevented him from saying anything else.Mr. Wicker's face broke into a radiant smile and he held out his firmhand.

  "So you shall, Christopher, so you shall! And you shall remember itall, I promise you. That too, you can have."

  He stepped forward and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. His eyeswere deeply sad although his lips still smiled.

  "And now," said Mr. Wicker, "good soldier that you are for GeneralWashington and for your country, all that you learned must leave youand remain with me."

  Mr. Wicker put his hand briefly on Chris's head, let it slip to coverhis eyes--so lightly it was scarcely felt--and then to cover hismouth. Chris waited, but he felt no different.

  "Be a fly!" commanded the magician.

  Chris searched his mind. There were words to say, and you thoughthard. He tried once more, and a third time, and then wordlessly shookhis head.

  "Make a rope boat!" said Mr. Wicker.

  Chris took the rope and as it hung from his hands he wondered how oneset about it--he _had_ known how, once upon a time. He let the inertrope fall to the floor. Mr. Wicker put a hand on his shoulder andturned him toward the door.

  "Come, my boy," he said.