Fortune's Magic Farm (8 page)

“Nothing.” Isabelle wiped her eyes.

“That ain’t nothing. Whatever it is, give it over.”

“No.” Isabelle’s knees started to tremble.

“Give it, I say. It’s my house. Them’s my rules.”

Isabelle felt so scared she thought she might fall over. “No. You can’t have it.”

“Ya little brat!” Mama Lu tried to grab a clump of Isabelle’s hair but she wasn’t quick enough. “Ya’ll do what I say or ya won’t be living here no more.”

“I don’t want to live here anymore,” Isabelle cried, backing toward the door. “I’ll go live with Gwen.”

“No ya won’t. Gertrude won’t take ya ’cause I won’t let her. Ya owe me too much money.”

“Then I’ll live somewhere else. I’ll go to another town, far, far away.” Nothing was keeping her in Runny Cove. She couldn’t work enough hours to satisfy Mr. Supreme, Gertrude,
and
Mama Lu. And without her grandmother, no one needed her.

Mama Lu reached into the bedside drawer again and found some buttons. “There’s nothing out there fer ya. Yer just a stupid factory worker.”

The seed hummed louder. Isabelle tried to look brave. She held up her chin. “I’m going to find out where I came from.”

“Where ya came from?” Mama Lu snorted. She pulled the drawer free and shook it over the bed. She had taken everything. “Ya came from noplace. Now, give me whatever’s in yer boot.”

All that had been beautiful about the room on the fourth floor was gone—the happy stories of Sunny Cove, the peaceful little creatures, the warm mossy carpet and the glistening vines. But one little thing remained—one creature that had eluded Mama Lu’s stomping foot.

“Give me yer boot!” Mama Lu lunged at Isabelle. At that moment, Isabelle felt a bolt of courage. She ducked beneath Mama Lu’s swinging arm and grabbed the pickle jar aquarium.

“I hate you,” she cried. “You’re mean and you smell like stinky cheese. And I hate this place. I came from Nowhere and I’m going to find it.” She rushed into the hallway.

“Stop her!” Mama Lu screamed. “Thief! That’s my pickle jar.”

“It’s mine. You threw it away.” The aquarium water sloshed as Isabelle stumbled down the stairs. The tenants huddled on the third-floor landing, their gloomy faces gloomier than ever.

“Good luck,” Mrs. Wormbottom said, a tear in her eye.

“Take care of yourself,” Mr. Limewig said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Isabelle wanted to hug and kiss each one of them but there was no time. Mama Lu’s footsteps thundered close behind.

“Nothing leaves this house without my permission. She’s a thief! Someone call Mr. Hench!”

“You’ll get arrested if you take that,” Boris said, pointing at the aquarium.

“I won’t let her kill my barnacle. Grandma taught me all about barnacles.”

“Then we’ll try to slow her down,” Bert said. “Hurry.”

“Thank you. Goodbye,” Isabelle called as she flew down the last two flights.

“Stop! Ya’ll go to jail, ya moldy little thief! Get out of my way!” Mama Lu screamed. “Ya stupid dunderheads is blocking the stairs!”

Rain poured as Isabelle leapt off the front porch. Oh, how she wanted to tell Gwen that she was leaving, but she couldn’t risk slowing down. “Goodbye, Gwen!” she yelled as
she passed Gertrude’s Boardinghouse, hoping her friend might hear. “I’ll send word as soon as I get there.”

Water splashed into her boots as she ran up Boggy Lane. Kitchen lights reflected in the ankle-deep water. Mama Lu would soon ring Mr. Hench and he’d come looking for her. “Goodbye, Leonard,” she called as she passed his boardinghouse.

At the edge of town she stopped running. Out of breath and coughing, she set down the aquarium and rested her hands on her knees. Which way should she go? The gravel road stretched before her, its right fork leading to the factory, its left fork winding through miles of dangerous bogs and swamps. Only the heavy-duty headlights of Mr. Supreme’s delivery trucks could cut through the bog’s thick fog. The older villagers often said that the few who had tried to leave Runny Cove on foot either drowned in swamp mud or got eaten alive by swamp frogs.

Isabelle looked over her shoulder. No one had followed. Not yet. She tried not to think about her grandmother. She tried to focus on her escape. But again and again the words repeated:
She’s dead. Ya hear me? Dead.

Suddenly, Isabelle ached to see her grandmother one last time. But the cemetery would be an obvious place to search for Mama Lu’s thief. Grandma Maxine wouldn’t be able to hear the goodbye anyway. All that remained was her body.

“A body is just a container,” Mrs. Wormbottom had once told Isabelle. “When we die, our body is left behind but our soul goes on a journey to a wonderful place.”

If Grandma Maxine’s soul had gone on a journey to a
wonderful place,
then it would certainly have gone as far away from Runny Cove as possible.

Isabelle took a deep, decisive breath. Hugging the pickle jar, she started across the dunes. The factory’s yellow lights cast an eerie haze upon the sand. The rain poured as she negotiated the slippery driftwood, but both she and the barnacle reached the beach without injury.

The wind stung with needles of icy seawater as Isabelle scurried down the beach. With each step the factory’s lamplight faded and the abandoned fishing boats took on eerie shapes. She had never walked beyond the cove and when she reached its edge, fear crept over her. She rounded the rocky bluff and stared into total darkness. Not even Runny Cove eyes can cut through total darkness. She’d have to wait for morning light.

A boat lay up the beach, half-buried in the sand. The cabin door had long fallen free. With an outstretched hand she found a corner bunk, its wooden slats still strong enough to hold her. Suddenly, sadness weighed down every part of her body. She set the aquarium onto the sandy floor, then lay on the bunk and tucked her knees to her chest. She tried to keep the bad thoughts away, tried not to think of Mama Lu, or the undertaker, or holes in the ground where dead bodies are buried. She shivered as dampness seeped into her clothing. She trembled as grief took hold. For the first time in her memory, Isabelle had no one.

No one to answer her questions. No one to tell her stories of the old days. No one to say, “Good night, Isabelle.”

And that’s when the apple seed began to hum again. Not like a trapped insect, but a sort of melody, as if it were making up its own little song. She picked the seed out of her sock. The melody traveled up her arm. It spread over her chest and down her other arm until it had covered her entire body like a blanket. The song continued, soft and comforting, like a grandmother’s sweet humming. As Isabelle held the seed between her palms, her eyelids grew heavy and the bad thoughts drifted away.

Many hours later, Isabelle opened her eyes. She thought at first that she was dreaming because she saw the following things: a small fire flickering in the center of the boat’s cabin, an orange cat lounging beside the fire, and a black bird nibbling on a piece of bread.

And last but not least, a figure wearing a hooded cape, stirring a cup of something that smelled wonderful.

T
he stranger sat so close
that Isabelle could hear the liquid swirling inside his mug. She clamped her eyes shut and pretended to still be asleep, then slowed her breathing and snored a few times, for good measure. She had hoped to see him again, to ask him if he had come from Nowhere, but now that he sat nearby she felt a bit afraid. Grandma Maxine had told her never to trust a stranger. “Sometimes,” she had said, “strangers are dangerous.”

The bird squawked.

“I know,” the stranger said, not in a deep, scary voice as one might imagine would come from a cloaked person, but in a youngish, soft voice. Who was he talking to?

The bird squawked again.

“I heard you,” the stranger replied. “I know Isabelle’s awake. She’ll speak to us when she’s ready.”

Isabelle opened her eyes and sat up. The stranger kept his back to her. If he tried to hurt her, the cabin entrance was just a quick dash away. Only the cat lay in her path, stretched out as limp as an orange scarf. Isabelle slid to the edge of the bunk. The black bird squawked again and flew across the cabin, landing beside her leg. It cocked its head and pecked at her hand. “Hey,” she cried as it tried to snatch the seed from her palm. The bird pecked again, this time pinching her skin. “Stop it.”

The stranger turned. “Leave the seed, Rolo.” Then he pushed off his hood.

Isabelle gasped. “You’re just a kid.”

“A kid?” He glared at her, clearly insulted. “I’m twelve. I’m not a
kid.
”

“Oh. I’m not a kid either.” She tried to sound tough.

“Well, you look like a kid. Look how short you are.” He, on the other hand, wasn’t one bit short. And his skin wasn’t translucent, but as brown as wet driftwood. His hair wasn’t normal either, for it hung in long tangled ropes and was black rather than gray.

“Were you talking to that bird?” Isabelle asked.

“Yep. We talk to each other all the time.”

“That’s kind of weird.”

“Not as weird as carrying a barnacle around in a pickle jar.” He offered the mug to her. “You can have some of this.”

“What is it?”

“Cinnamon tea. Go on. It’ll help you wake up. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

How did he know about her journey? Isabelle’s mouth felt dry. Too bad she hadn’t grabbed a water bottle just before her escape from Mama Lu’s. But maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to drink tea from a stranger. “I don’t want any tea. I mean, no thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He tucked one of the tangled ropes behind his ear, then took a long sip from the mug. “I don’t really like tea that much. But it’s easy to travel with.”

The seed started vibrating so fast that it stung Isabelle’s hand. She winced. The bird stared intently, clicking its beak.

“Your apple seed is ready for planting,” the boy said. He reached into a green satchel and removed a small fabric bag. “If you put it into this light-proof bag it will sleep.”

Isabelle cautiously accepted the bag and dropped the seed inside. Sure enough, it stopped vibrating. She tied the string and tucked the bag into her slicker’s pocket.

Birds can talk and seeds can sleep. How very
interesting.

“How did you know I had an apple seed?”

“Because I delivered the apples.” The boy took another sip.

“No you didn’t.” Aha! She had caught him in a lie and liars shouldn’t be trusted. She folded her arms, waiting for his explanation.

“Okay, well, technically an elephant seal delivered your apple. But I’m the one who told the seal to deliver it.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out some bread. Isabelle’s stomach growled at the sight of the golden loaf. He tore the bread in half. The inside looked soft and fluffy. The bird flew onto the boy’s shoulder and accepted a morsel of crust.

Isabelle had never tasted fluffy bread. She tried to ignore her moaning stomach. “An elephant seal? Is that what the sea monster is called?”

“Actually, his name is Neptune.”

“He has a name?”

The boy stared, bewildered. “Everyone has a name. Don’t you know that? My name is Sage. The raven’s name is Rolo and the cat’s name is Eve.”

At the sound of her name, the cat began to purr. She raised her head and winked lazily at Isabelle.

Sage held out one of the halves, offering it to Isabelle. “It’s not poisoned or anything. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to collect you. Go on, eat this. You’ll need food in your belly.” He took a bite. “See. It’s good.”

Her willpower dissolved. She grabbed the bread and sank her teeth into its airy center. She took another bite and another.

Sage smiled. “Don’t they ever feed you in that boardinghouse?”

“Not enough,” she replied with a full mouth. A crumb fell to her feet and was quickly pilfered by the raven.

“I suppose you have a lot of questions,” Sage said, adding a piece of driftwood to the fire. The smoke trailed out the open doorway.

Isabelle nodded, her stuffed cheeks bulging like two apples, but the questions could wait for just a few more bites, surely. She stuffed, chewed, and swallowed, eating as ravenously as Mama Lu and Gertrude after one of their failed diets.