The Interrupted Tale (16 page)

Despair lapped against her heart like a tide rising against a bulkhead. “Perhaps if I gaze through the telescope, things will come into focus,” she thought, and put her eye to the eyepiece. But the sun had already dipped below the horizon. In the valley, night fell all at once. The rosy glow faded before her eyes, and soon it was too dark to see anything but shadows.

She let the telescope go and sank to the floor. A deep fatigue washed over her. “Tonight could well be the last night of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females,” she thought, curling into a ball. “Tomorrow my alma mater will become the School for Miserable Girls, and there will be no singing of the school song, ever again. I expect Baroness Hoover will make a rule against dancing chickens, once she discovers that they exist. Edward Ashton is up to no good, and I have failed to stop him. . . . It is all . . . my . . . fault. . . .”

Exhausted by self-pity, and swaddled tightly in her cloak like an infant, Penelope fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. By the time she awoke it was night. Was it ten o'clock? Midnight? Two in the morning? She had no way of knowing.

Certainly, the Incorrigible children had long since been put to bed. She knew she ought to return to their room at once and relieve poor Mrs. Apple of the children's care. Instead she stood, shivering, and peered out the narrow windows of the observatory. Now she could see quite easily, for the moon was only one night shy of full, and the sky was crisp and clear, an expanse of black velvet pinpricked by stars. It was nothing short of magical, and restored her spirits even more than sleep could.

“Here is a fresh perspective, indeed,” she whispered to the night. Once more she looked through the telescope. “What a remarkable device this is! A long tube, some simple glass lenses, and a basic understanding of optics, and voilà: faraway things come impossibly near, and without the inconvenience of a long train ride, either.”

She swiveled the telescope this way and that. “I wonder what has become of Cassiopeia's sheep. No doubt it is out there somewhere, chewing away. It must have a marvelously strong jaw, stronger even than Demosthenes! That sheep would make a fine orator, if it had anything of interest to say, that is.” She heaved a deep sigh of understanding. “For memorizing all the great speeches of history is of little value if one cannot find words to speak the truth of one's own heart.”

Hindsight, indeed! Why was it all so obvious, now that it was too late? Clearly, the bird's-eye view was having its desired effect. “It is too bad, really, the way things have turned out. Now I feel I could have given quite a wonderful speech in praise of Swanburne, and without much preparation at all, for I know the subject well, and it is quite dear to me, too. My, my! It is not easy to wipe away tears of regret while one's eye is pressed to a telescope!” she thought as she attempted to do just that with the edge of her sleeve.

She swiveled the telescope elsewhere; anywhere would do. She surveyed the empty fields and tried to peek into the shadowy folds of the forest. She looked at the craters of the moon and watched falling stars streak through the skies.

She tried to get a glimpse of the chickens—were they still in the rafters, or had they returned to their roosts for the night?—but the windows of the chicken coop were at the wrong angle to catch the moonlight. Instead she peeked into a large, high window on the near side of the cow barn. There, with a few quick turns of the focus knob, she was able to bring the tender, moonlit eye of a calf into close-up view.

“What a fine chocolaty-brown eye that is,” she said aloud, though there was no one there to hear her. “And so intelligent looking, for a cow. It sparkles with the promise of wit, and at the same time seems to shine with a steadfast, loyal glow. Why, that eye positively gleams; there is no other word for it. One might nearly call it a gleam of genius— Wait!”

Frantically, she adjusted the knob once more, to get a broader view. There it was: the delicately arched eyebrow, the waves of brown hair cascading poetically over that intelligent forehead. . . . No doubt he was busy thinking up plot twists even now. . . .

“That is no cow!” she cried. “It is Simon! Simon Harley-Dickinson!”

 

H
E COULD NOT HEAR HER
, but “Simon!” she yelled nevertheless. She raced down the stairs and through empty halls until she was outside once more. Her cloak billowed after her like a wind-filled sail.

The earth was muddy with dew, the stone paths slippery and wet. Still she ran, and did not pause until she reached the barn. She undid the rough iron latch with trembling fingers. With her full strength, she pushed the doors open.

“Moooooo,”
the startled cows objected, for it was much too early for milking.

“Simon, where are you?” she called. Then she realized: he must be in the hayloft! For that was the only high window through which her telescope could have spied. She made her way past the sleepy cows and shed her cloak at the base of the ladder so she might scurry up without getting tangled.

A moment later she peeked over the top of ladder. The loft was empty! Had she dreamed it? But no; among the tied bales nearest the window, there was one particular pile of hay that seemed to be breathing. A lock of wavy hair poked through.

She stepped off the ladder and into the loft. “I may be searching for a playwright in a haystack, but I think I have found him, nevertheless. Simon! Simon Harley-Dickinson!”

Her words were met with a poetic snore.

“Simon!” She pushed the hay aside until a boot-clad human foot emerged. “You were only just awake. I saw you looking out at the stars.”

“Harr!” he moaned, dreaming. “Avast, ye hearties! Who's there? Have we been boarded?”

She kicked the bottom of his boot to rouse him. “You are not at sea, but on dry land, or dry hay, at least. Improbable as it may be, you are in the hayloft of the cow barn at the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females.”

He turned over and grunted. “Females! Careful, they're bad luck aboard ship.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Nonsense; that is mere superstition. There have been many competent lady sailors, and even notorious lady pirates. Not that being a pirate is anything to brag about.”

Simon flipped onto his back. “I was dreaming I was in the crow's nest . . . my turn as lookout,” he mumbled. “Thought I saw an enemy ship in the moonlight, a glint of light off the starboard bow. . . .” He sat up abruptly and gave his head a shake, like a dog coming in from the rain. Then he spat a piece of hay out of his mouth and looked around. “Penelope!” he exclaimed, awake at last. “I mean, Miss Lumley! I mean— Well! This is unexpected, to say the least.”

“I am rather surprised to find you here as well,” she replied. That it was a happy surprise to them both was clear enough by the looks on their faces, and did not need saying.

Simon rubbed his head. “You're just the person I came to see, but it seems you found me first. Have you acquired skills of prognostication, like our friend Madame Ionesco?”

“I did make use of a telescope,” she confessed. “And how did
you
know to find me at Swanburne? Surely there was a crystal ball involved.”

He smiled. “Sure, there was. One named Old Timothy.”

Old Timothy, again! But there was no time to wonder about that now, for her mind flooded with questions. “Simon, I am eager to hear of your adventures, but first I must ask: Did you ever make it to Brighton to see Great-Uncle Pudge? And, if you did, was he really the cabin boy who wrote the diary of that doomed voyage to Ahwoo-Ahwoo? And, if he was, did you find out what happened on the island? For I have reason to think something did happen there—something terribly important—”

His face darkened. “I did, and he was, and I've got plenty to say about the rest, never you fear. But perhaps it's best if I start at the beginning and tell you all that's happened since last we saw each other.”

Simon arranged some hay bales in the shape of a seat for her and tucked loose hay all around her legs, too, so that she might sit near him and listen in warmth and comfort. He spoke quietly, for he did not want to disturb the cows. Even so, Penelope could only marvel at his incredible tale, which started shortly after she had last seen him, when the two friends parted at the Ashton train station. . . .

 

“I
COULD TELL YOU ABOUT
the trip to Brighton, and all the interesting people I met on the train, and what the weather was like, and what we had for lunch,” he began, “but the gist of it is that I got to Brighton on schedule and made my way to the old sailor's home where Great-Uncle Pudge is spending his golden years. The Home for Ancient Mariners, it's called. Not a bad place, really. The residents are always swabbing the floors and keeping things shipshape out of habit, so it's clean as a whistle. On Sundays they serve hardtack and moldy potatoes for dinner, as a bit of a treat.”

Penelope made a face, and he explained, “It reminds the fellows of their days aboard ship. Anyway, old Pudge was glad to see me, and we passed the time as we usually do: him teaching me to sing old sea chanteys, me emptying his rum bottles into the drain. After lunch I suggested a stroll on the boardwalk. That's where I planned to ask him about the diary.”

“Yes, the diary!” Penelope could barely contain herself. “Did you find out what it says?”

“I'm getting to that part. Well, the boardwalk at Brighton goes on for miles. I pushed Uncle Pudge in a wheeled invalid chair, as it'd be much too far for him to walk, his legs being just as old as the rest of him. Along the way I broach the subject. ‘Pudge,' I said—I call him Pudge, and he calls me Pip, ever since I was a pipsqueak—‘Pudge, when you were just a boy-o, and first aboard ship, did you ever land on a place called Ahwoo-Ahwoo?'

“Oh, you should have seen his face! ‘I did, Pip, I did!' he answers, turning pale as a ghost. ‘I rue the day I set foot on that curséd isle!' Then he starts to tell me the tale. But just as we reach the end of the boardwalk, we were accosted! A gang of salty hooligans jumped us from behind. Miss Lumley—I mean, Penelope—you'll never guess. I was kidnapped by pirates!”

“Pirates! Oh, no!” she cried, for truly, she could think of nothing worse, plus it interrupted the part about the cannibal book, which she was desperate to hear. “How dreadful it must have been!”

He shrugged. “It was a bit rough in the beginning. There was talk of ransom, until I explained that I was a playwright. Even a bunch of pirates knew the life of a bard is scarcely worth the cost of a half-price ticket to a children's matinee. But then a storm kicked up, and we were blown off course. We were lost at sea!”

 

“Penelope—you'll never guess. I was kidnapped by pirates!”

 

By now Penelope was perched on the edge of her hay bale. What a storyteller he was! Although she did wish he would get back to the cannibal book soon. “Please, go on,” she begged.

“Well, not to boast, but we Harley-Dickinsons have a knack for navigation. But I was locked in the brig! Night and day I told them, ‘Let me out, and I'll steer us safe to shore.' They thought my offer was a trick. The days passed. We grew short of food, then drink. At last they had no choice. They let me out on one condition: that I be sworn into the crew by taking the pirates' oath, which is as solemn and unbreakable as an oath can be.”

“You mean you became a pirate?” she said, astonished.

“I did.” He looked bashful. “I sent you a message in a bottle every day, until we ran out of bottles. You didn't get them, by any chance?”

She shook her head. “I am afraid we are rather landlocked at Ashton Place.”

“Huh. Didn't think of that.” He frowned. “You must have been worried, not hearing from me for so long. You must have thought I'd forgotten you. Did you?”

“No,” she said firmly, realizing it was true. “I never truly believed that. Not deep down.” Now it was her turn to feel bashful, and she tried to steer him back to his tale. “Imagine, you being a pirate! I hope they did not force you to be too . . . piratical. Although it would hardly be your fault if they did.”

“You know the old saying: ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.' But a man has to have his principles. I learned more than I'd care to know about being a knave and a rascal and committing roguery of all sorts, but minding our longitude and latitude was enough to keep me busy. Still, what plots I have now! I could write a hundred pirate stories without breaking a sweat. Don't worry, I'll finish telling this one first.” He grinned. “After what seemed like an eternity at sea, we sighted a fishing boat bound for Manchester. The
Wise Flounder
was its name. I took the chance to escape. Oath or no oath, I had a previous engagement on land that I fully intended to keep.”

“With whom?”

“Why, with you! I set a course as the crow flies to Ashton Place. When I arrived, I discovered that you and the children had left the day before to visit your alma mater. I was penniless, mind you—I'd left my share of pirate treasure behind when I jumped ship; it seemed only fair. But that curious old coachman, Timothy, gave me cash for a train ticket out of his own pocket, and said to come straight to Swanburne and no delays. ‘But, Old Tim,' I said, ‘what sort of welcome do you think I'll get at a girls' school?' ‘Never mind,' he said. ‘When you arrive, go see the vet. Tell him I sent you. He'll know what to do.'