Fortune's Magic Farm (6 page)

Isabelle scanned the street, hoping to see the stranger so she could find out who he was. If he came from far away he might know about Nowhere. But alas, no sign of him.

Gwen waited outside Gertrude’s Boardinghouse like she usually did. She and Isabelle walked behind the other workers so they wouldn’t be overheard. “You won’t believe what happened to me yesterday,” she said, hooking her arm through Isabelle’s. They pressed close, whispering beneath the rain’s clatter.

“I know all about it. Gertrude brought your apple to Mama Lu’s last night.”

“She did?” Curls of gray hair fell across Gwen’s sad eyes. She wiped her runny nose. “I hate Gertrude. I didn’t get any breakfast because she said that I stole the apple. I didn’t steal it.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “I feel even sadder than I usually feel.”

“I know you didn’t steal the apple. But don’t be sad. It turned black when Gertrude tried to eat it.”

“Really? It turned black?” Gwen’s mouth fell open.

“Yep. It exploded right in her face.” Both girls giggled, a
rare sound in Runny Cove. “But there’s more good news. Look.” Isabelle reached beneath her slicker, into her shirt pocket, then handed Gwen a chunk. “I got an apple too, but mine didn’t explode.”

Gwen didn’t bother asking questions. She eagerly popped the chunk into her mouth. “It’s sooooo good.”

As they walked, and as Gwen chewed, Isabelle told her about the sea monster with the dangly nose and about Leonard’s cat.

“That’s so weird,” Gwen said.

“It’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened.”

“Except for you being left on a doorstep.”

“Yeah. Except for that.” Isabelle wiped rain from her eyes. “We need to talk to Leonard. Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

They turned off Soaked Street and started up the steep gravel road that led to the factory. Suddenly, an eerie sensation crept over Isabelle, tickling the back of her neck, but not in a nice way. Why did she feel as if someone was watching her?

“Gwen?”

“Yeah?” Gwen wiped a slug from her sleeve.

“There was this man wearing a cape, standing on Gertrude’s porch last night. Does she have a new tenant?”

“No. Maybe she has a new
boyfriend.
” Gwen rolled her eyes and pretended to upchuck. Isabelle giggled again. They loved making fun of Gertrude’s boyfriend, Mr. Hench.
Whenever he kissed Gertrude, the slurping sound was so loud it seemed as if he might suck her face right off.

BEEP, BEEP.

Startled, Isabelle and Gwen scampered to the roadside, expecting a delivery truck to pass by. Trucks delivered supplies to the factory store, the only place in Runny Cove to buy food and sundries. Trucks hauled boxed umbrellas from the factory, taking them to towns that the workers had never seen.

BEEP, BEEP.

But it wasn’t a truck. Mr. Supreme’s sleek black roadster sped up the road. The license plate read:
IMRICH
. Mr. Supreme occasionally visited Runny Cove to inspect his factory. He didn’t live in the village. He didn’t have to.

BAROOO!

The factory’s horn sounded the five-minute warning. Mr. Supreme’s roadster churned up mud, splattering the fronts of the girls’ rain slickers. He neither stopped to apologize nor offered the girls a ride. He didn’t care about manners. He didn’t need to.

“We’d better hurry,” Isabelle said, coughing from the thick exhaust fumes.

The girls ran toward the factory.

And as they ran, the seed, still tucked inside Isabelle’s sock, began to vibrate.

A
fter hanging up their slickers
and tying their grimy aprons around their waists, the girls lined up with the other workers along the wall of a huge cement room. The apple seed continued to vibrate, just enough to make Isabelle want to scratch her leg. Mr. Hench stood on his security balcony. A metal badge shone on his gray uniform. Isabelle tapped her boot on the water-stained floor, trying to shake the seed into a less itchy position. Leonard stood at the far end of the line.
I can hardly wait to tell him,
she thought. He waved but there wasn’t time to give him the apple chunk. Mr. Supreme had sauntered into the room. Everyone froze.

Mr. Supreme handed his black umbrella to one of his many sniveling assistants—a nameless cluster of men who wore long white coats and stuck to the boss like barnacles. Mr. Supreme plunked a yellow hard hat on his head, then dropped a cigar stump onto the floor. His glossy black trench coat crunched as he walked up and down the line, twirling his driving gloves as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps having lots of money made it possible to live a life without worry.

Isabelle didn’t like Mr. Supreme, not because he sprayed mud on girls without apologizing, but because he was stingy. As owner of the Magnificently Supreme Umbrella factory, he controlled the paychecks of almost every person
in Runny Cove and he barely paid them enough to survive. As owner of the only store in Runny Cove, he supplied life’s necessities—except for umbrellas. Never, ever did Mr. Supreme’s Factory store sell umbrellas. Therefore, the people who actually made the umbrellas never got to use them, and that made no sense to Isabelle.

With Gwen and Leonard’s help, Isabelle had made up a little song about Mr. Supreme. As he sneered at his employees, the song ran through her head.

The Mr. Supreme Song

We work in your factory all day,

in exchange for our pitiful pay.

But what would we do if we didn’t have you?

Three jeers for Mr. Supreme

(he’s a stinker),

three jeers for Mr. Supreme.

You seem like a mean sort of fella,

standing under your big black umbrella.

But what would we do if we didn’t have you?

Three jeers for Mr. Supreme

(he’s a pooper),

three jeers for Mr. Supreme.

Mr. Supreme, Mr. Supreme,

I bet your life is just like a dream.

With your boots and cigars and your big fancy cars,

you’re a stinker, Mr. Supreme.

Gwen gave Isabelle a sharp poke with her elbow. “You’re humming too loud,” she whispered.

Up and down the line the boss strode, smiling smugly at the quivering workers. “Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” His voice rolled across the cement room like a tsunami.

“Good morning, Mr. Supreme, sir,” the workers chanted.

Isabelle shook her leg. That seed was driving her nuts.

He halted, resting his hands behind his back, and cleared his throat disapprovingly. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“GOOD MORNING, MR. SUPREME, SIR!”

“That’s better, but not good enough.” He stuck out his cleft chin. “So, let’s try that again. Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” He put his hand to his ear.

The workers screamed, “GOOD MORNING, MAGNIFICENTLY SUPREME FACTORY EMPLOYEES!” Then they put their hands to their ears.

Mr. Supreme frowned. “Stupidest bunch of workers I’ve got,” he murmured to one of his assistants.

“Stupidest,” the assistant agreed.

The boss stuffed his driving gloves into his pocket. “I have something glorious to show you,” he announced to the workers. “Something that will insure my factory’s future and thus,
your
futures.” He clapped his hands together.

A smallish assistant scurried in, carrying a closed umbrella. Before taking the umbrella, Mr. Supreme whipped a canister from his pocket. It didn’t read:
SALT
, like Mama Lu’s canister. Rather, it read:
ANTIBACTERIAL WIPES.
He proceeded to wipe down the umbrella’s handle. “Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees, behold the future.”

Mr. Supreme held the closed umbrella above his head. Isabelle and Gwen exchanged shrugs. It looked like the same black metal-framed umbrella the factory had produced for as long as they could remember. What could possibly be glorious about a black umbrella?

Mr. Supreme pulled off the umbrella’s black sheath and pushed a little lever. The umbrella swooshed open. Transfixed, no one moved. No one breathed. Then a chorus of “Ahhhh,” and “Ooooh,” echoed off the cement walls. For what had appeared to be an ordinary black umbrella was neither ordinary nor black. Radiant red, brighter than the mysterious apples, shone above Mr. Supreme’s head.

A trio of assistants hurried around the room, handing umbrellas to the workers. “These are the prototypes. Open them!” Mr. Supreme exclaimed.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

Isabelle removed her umbrella’s cover and pressed the lever. Royal purple erupted above her head. Silver beads dangled from the umbrella’s edges, tinkling magically. Gwen basked beneath gold, Mr. Wormbottom beneath amber. Mrs. Wormbottom twirled a turquoise number with yellow tassels. Lime, silver, chocolate, and vanilla danced in the air.
The usually colorless faces of the factory’s workers reflected the umbrella colors in a way that was both awesome and terrifying. Everyone started talking at once.

Isabelle closed her umbrella and darted between the excited workers. Sure, she felt as amazed as they did, but she had something more important on her mind.

“Leonard,” she called. Leonard’s entire face, including his birthmark, glowed as pink as the umbrella he stood beneath. Some people called him ugly, but Isabelle was so used to the birthmark she barely noticed it. “Here.” She pulled the apple chunk from her shirt pocket. “Don’t let anyone see. It’s from an apple. It’s for you.”

Like Gwen, Leonard popped the chunk into his mouth.

“Tell me about your apple,” she said.

He swallowed. “Huh? How did you know about it?”

“Mr. Hench told Gertrude.” Isabelle bounced on her toes, as much from excitement as from that pesky seed. “I don’t have time to explain. Just tell me, did you really find it under a cat?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his umbrella, sheltering them beneath its rosy glow. “A big orange cat. Hench called me a thief and took the apple. But when he tried to eat it, the apple turned black.”

“Really?”

“Back in line, everyone!” Mr. Supreme called.

Darn it. Isabelle had so many questions. “We’ll talk at lunch,” she told Leonard.

“Okay,” he said. He raised the umbrella and Isabelle scurried to her place.

Mr. Supreme climbed the stairs to the security guard’s balcony and looked down upon the glowing faces of his workers. “Black umbrellas are no longer in fashion,” he declared. “Black umbrellas are outdated. No one wants a black umbrella anymore.”

Every worker in Runny Cove would have loved to own a black umbrella.

“My clients, people of the highest caliber and breeding who live far, far from this revolting place, want umbrellas to match their shoes and umbrellas to match their traveling cases. Umbrellas to match their frocks and umbrellas to match their dog’s frocks. Some want a different color umbrella for each day of the week.”

Isabelle furrowed her brow. Why would a person need so many umbrellas? What did it matter what an umbrella looked like, as long as it kept the rain off?

“Of course,” Mr. Supreme said, “this will mean extra work for everyone.” A low groan rolled across the room as workers reacted to his announcement. Mr. Supreme pulled a wipe from his canister and dabbed his forehead. “Extra work to begin immediately.”

This was terrible news. Impossible news. How could she work extra hours when she was already working extra hours? She couldn’t. She’d have to tell him. What choice did she have? “Excuse me, sir,” Isabelle said, timidly raising her hand.

“What’s that?” Mr. Supreme asked, adjusting his hard hat.

“It appears to be a little girl, sir,” replied an assistant.

“A little girl?” He leaned over the balcony. “What do you want, little girl?”

Isabelle had never spoken directly to Mr. Supreme. But no one else could excuse her from extra, extra hours. Though she shook like a windowpane in a windstorm, Isabelle stepped forward. “I’m already working extra hours to pay my rent because my Grandma Maxine is sick. And I have to do dish duty at Gertrude’s house for the next month because she thinks I burnt her apple. If I work even more hours then I’ll get home too late to feed my grandmother. I don’t think…” She paused. What she was about to say had never been said. “I don’t think…”

“What don’t you think?”

The seed’s vibrations increased, matching her own trembling. “I don’t think I can work more hours.”

The workers let the umbrellas fall to their sides. Isabelle’s heart thumped wildly in her chest as Mr. Supreme eyed her in the same way that a crow might eye a wiggling worm. He tapped his boot irritably. “I will overlook your insolence, little girl, because you are too young to understand the significance of the Magnificently Supreme Umbrella Factory. But the older workers understand.” A few workers nodded. “They remember that after all the fish had died and all the ships had rotted from disuse, they were starving and near death. But my grandfather, Mr. Supreme Senior, built this factory and gave them jobs despite their feeble constitutions
and below-average intellects.” The sleeves of his coat crunched as he folded his arms. “So, little girl, when I tell you that you must work extra hours, I expect gratitude. Of course, you are always free to look elsewhere for work. Perhaps everyone would like to look elsewhere for work?” He shared a chuckle with his assistants, because, after all, there was no place else to work in Runny Cove.