The Several Lives of Orphan Jack Page 4

  In the morning he drank coffee for the first time and decided that there was really no need for heaven at all. A line-up had already formed at his spot when he arrived, but he was so full of ham and eggs and coffee and kindness that he decided to begin the day’s commerce with free samples for children.

  I’m like a Benevolent, he said to himself. I’d better get a hat.

  For an hour or so he handed out notions and fancies. Trolls under bridges, rabbits who live on the moon, using a bag of water for a bed, houses made of candy, secret languages, the battle of the cats and the spaniels, ten excellent uses for a piece of string and kingdoms under the sea.

  The tidy, pale, polite, over-good children started to talk and laugh, and their parents didn’t even seem to mind. In fact the people of Aberbog seemed very different altogether. They were wandering around with little half-smiles on their faces, murmuring things like, “Drawer spelled backwards is reward,” and “Maybe the tide doesn’t go out. Maybe the land comes in.”

  Jack was just handing out a notion to a freckled toddler about the surprising things you can bake in a pie when a hush fell over the crowd.

  Jack looked up to see a potato-faced man coming his way.

  A whisper ran round the crowd. “The mayor, the mayor.”

  “What are you doing here? What are you selling?” said the mayor. He strode up to Jack, practically knocking over the toddler.

  “I’m selling ideas,” said Jack. “I’m an ideas peddler, but I’m not quite finished with my customer. Feel free to join the line-up.”

  But the toddler had begun to cry, and her mother picked her up and swept her away.

  “Line-up! Pwah! Where do you get these ideas?”

  “I make them,” said Jack.

  “Sounds like you make them up.” The mayor’s potato face was turning pink.

  Jack put his finger on his chin and looked out toward the hills.

  “Yes,” he said. “Up, down, sideways and through.”

  There were some giggles from the crowd. The mayor spun around and glared at them.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s have a look at one of these so-called ideas.”

  “Thought, concept, plan, opinion, impression, notion, fancy or whim?” inquired Jack.

  “Give me a whim,” said the mayor, turning pinker.

  “Normally,” said Jack, “the price for a whim is one apple. But you are one lucky man. This is free sample morning. So here’s a whim. If, on a sunny day, you hold your hand like this… ” Jack held up his hand with all the fingers together and flat, and the thumb touching the middle finger “ …you can make a shadow that looks like a duck.”

  The potato turned from pink to purple. The mayor opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

  “A duck! What good is that? What’s it for? What use are these ideas?”

  Jack spoke very quietly. “The use of them is fresh air for the brain. They make you stop and smile and say to yourself, Gee whillikers, I never thought of that before.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said the mayor.

  “Not actually,” replied Jack. “I don’t sell nonsense. That’s for the nonsense peddler. He’s got all kinds of nonsense — absurdity, folly, trash, moonshine, twaddle, drivel, claptrap, bosh, balderdash, gobbledygook —”

  “Quiet,” roared the mayor. “Aberbog will not stand for this insolence. You will hear from me tomorrow.” And he turned on his heel and stamped off.

  Everyone stared at Jack in silence. The children looked scared and pale again. Jack just shrugged.

  “I don’t think he really liked his whim, do you? Maybe he would have liked the one about jumping frogs instead. What? You don’t know about leapfrog? Leapfrog is a very good idea when you’re waiting in line. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Jack organized the small children into a leapfrog line, all the while thinking of Edwin. The mayor was another Edwin. A bully, a basher a…tyrant.

  The ways of the world and the ways of school. Not so different after all.

  He noticed a timid girl hesitating at the leapfrog line. “Hunker down, everybody. Small one coming.”

  Leaping to the top of the line successfully, the girl shyly handed Jack a piece of toffee.

  Toffee and tyrants, said Jack to himself. That’s the life of an ideas peddler.

  Chapter Thirteen

  IN THE AFTERNOON business was brisk. Towns-people and peddlers alike could not get enough of Jack’s ideas. Some of the wealthier people bought one of each kind, so Jack had to add new types of merchandise such as intuitions and hunches.

  In addition to the things stuffed into his pack and a whole basket of food, Jack had promises. Promise of a day’s fishing, promise of a visit to new puppies, promise of a haircut.

  He had just closed up shop to take his first juggling lesson, when loud Lou appeared.

  “Emergency,” she said. “Come with me. You’ve got a problem.”

  “But I’m just getting the hang of juggling two oranges. Look.”

  Lou tugged at his sleeve, making Jack drop both oranges. “Come on. This is important.”

  Lou led Jack down a road that skirted the top of the town. At the end of the road was a big building with unfriendly windows. Lou led Jack to some bushes that hugged the back of the building.

  “Lucky for us it’s so hot. They’ve left one window open. There’s a spot there through those bushes where we can spy.”

  The spot up against the building was dim and dusty and carpeted in dry dead leaves. Both Jack and Lou had to twist their bodies into a half crouch to peek over the windowsill.

  Jack peered in and saw a round table ringed by men. He recognized several of his customers. There was the redhead who had bought an opinion on whether sunrise was better than sunset. There was the stuttering man who had purchased a fancy about sneezing.

  And there was the potato-faced mayor. He was roaring.

  “We have to do something about that ideas peddler down at the market. He is dangerous.”

  “But… ” said a bald man, holding up one finger.

  “Yes?” roared the mayor, now a potato of a purple color. “Do you have something to say?”

  “Er, no,” said the man.

  “So, what do we think about these so-called ideas? Eh? Eh? Speak up, everybody. Speak up.”

  Silence.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The mayor’s voice grew suddenly quiet. “Silent councillors are not useful. Silent councillors are apt to find themselves out of a job.”

  So one by one they spoke, at first slowly, and then in a chorus.

  “New ideas are hazardous and untidy.”

  “Ideas are noisy.”

  “They don’t match.”

  “They collect dust.”

  “They shed.”

  “They hurt your brain.”

  “They cause allergies.”

  The mayor smiled, and his face turned from purple to mauve. “So what should we do with the ideas peddler?”

  “Throw him in jail,” yelled the councillors in chorus.

  “That’s it,” said the mayor. “And throw away the key. Get the policeman!”

  Jack sank back on his heels.

  “Come on,” hissed Lou. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Lou knew a back route to the market. Over walls, under fences, through a cow field, across a stream on stepping stones. Lou ran like the wind. Jack slipped and stumbled and almost lost his words.

  By the time Jack and Lou arrived back at the market, everyone was talking. Ideas were blowing around like soap bubbles.

  “We’ll dunk the policeman,” said Perkins.

  “In the fountain,” said Snik.

  “Headfirst,” said Perkins.

  “We’ll help,
” squealed all the formerly well-behaved Aberbog children.

  Jack stopped dead in his tracks. It was a hubbub.

  His side. Everyone was on his side. His side had always been a small place for one. Now it was big and crowded and noisy.

  One of Jack’s customers, a wealthy cogitations man, stepped forward and grabbed Jack by the shoulder.

  “Gideon. Miller. Pleased to meet you. Now look smart, young fellow. The law is upon us.”

  He picked up the timid little leapfrog girl. “Hold tight, Christabel.”

  He set off in a heavy-footed run, Christabel bouncing in his arms and Jack sticking tight. Past the edge of the market and up the hill they came to a large, sturdy wagon. In a flash Jack was heaved into the back, covered with flour sacks and off they went.

  After a few minutes Jack felt a weight settle in beside him. A small foot in a clean, soft leather boot wiggled its way under the sack.

  “Hold my foot if you’re scared,” came a whisper.

  Jack wasn’t exactly scared. He recognized in Gideon a man who knew how to stay out of trouble. But Christabel’s invitation was too kind to refuse. So, joined hand to foot, they wheeled smoothly along the road as the hubbub of the market retreated.

  For a time there was only silence and the soft clop of horses on dust. Then there was a rushing sound that got louder and louder. Then the voice of Gideon.

  “Home. Safe and sound. Out you come.”

  Jack popped out from under the sacks and found himself staring at a huge waterwheel turning slowly as rushing water spilled over it. Of course — flour sacks, a waterwheel. Miller was a job, not just a name. Jack jumped down.

  The waterwheel was on the side of a big stone building. The building did not have windows, and it looked like a tidy mountain. Next to the mountain was a white-painted house with a wide porch, two cats asleep on the front step — one black, one ginger — and roses growing over the door.

  The door opened and out came one of Jack’s notions customers — a plump, smiley woman with hair braided on the top of her head.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Master of Ideas,” she said.

  “On the lam,” said Gideon. “Fugitive from justice. I’ve offered succor.”

  Lam. Succor. Jack thought of his dictionary sitting in his pack in the market.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Master of Ideas.”

  All of a sudden he felt bereft. Like lonely, but more so. Safe but lost to himself. The sound of the rushing water filled his ears.

  Lost and lonely, he said to himself. That’s the life of a fugitive from justice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AS JACK stood in the miller’s yard fighting off tears and panic, he felt a little hand slide into his.

  “Come on,” said Christabel. “I’ll show you everything.”

  “Don’t be long,” said her mother. “I’m almost serving up.”

  A quick tour of mill and riverbank and house was accompanied by the ginger cat and continuous description from Christabel. Ginger’s kittens. The fairies who live under the rhubarb leaves. The mean village girls who wouldn’t play with her.

  “All because Mama and Papa came from Fnibble, not Aberbog. They say that people from Fnibble aren’t proper.”

  Jack was amazed at the machinery of the mill. Waterwheel to axel, axel to big gear, big gear to small gear, small gear to stone spindle, stone spindle to millstone.

  Wood and stone. Every piece working. Every piece fitting.

  Upstream in the millpond there was a small dock. “Come fishing,” it whispered.

  In the house there were jugs of flowers. Jack had never seen flowers brought inside. What were they for? Just for beauty. The panic in him began to dissolve.

  The tour was followed by a meal for which the word dinner did not do justice. Repast, more like it, or feast.

  Steaming bowls and jugs and platters made their way around the table in a slow parade of deliciousness. Roast pork, spicy red cabbage, a mashed potato mountain, gravy, chutney, bread and butter. Gradually, food filled in the places where the loneliness had been.

  Then the visitors began. At the first knock Gideon hid Jack away. But it was only the spice peddler and Lou with Jack’s pack. They were invited to stay for a sip and a bite.

  Then a stream of visitors appeared. Townspeople and peddlers, merchants and fishermen.

  Over the course of the evening the house filled up. At first the travelers sat on one side of the room and the townspeople on the other — the shy and the stand-offish. But then the pickled-onion peddler took out her fiddle, and the dancing began. What with reels and polkas and the grand chain, everyone got pretty well mixed together. Christabel stuck to Jack’s side like glue.

  When they rested for cider, there were stories and songs and lots of ideas. The most popular idea, launched by the baker, was that the town should get rid of the mayor.

  “Who needs a mayor? We can manage quite well without one.”

  “Let’s persuade him to move along to Sogville.”

  “Or Bigwick. They would love him in Bigwick.”

  “Or Mudge-upon-Muddle.”

  Everybody burst into peals of laughter.

  “Serve them right, those stick-in-the-muds.”

  Jack turned to Lou. “What are they talking about?”

  “Oh, those are the towns up and down the coast. Strung out like seawrack, they are.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Like Aberbog, full of house-dwellers. But all different, too. All with their own ways. In Bigwick the women go out fishing. In Mudge there’s a house made out of bottles. It makes music on windy nights. It’s like… ah, you can’t know till you go.”

  Lou finished the last of her cider. “Grand house this, isn’t it?”

  “It is that,” said Jack.

  Lou gave him a hard stare. “I’ve got something for you, Jack.” She leaned over and slipped off one of her shoes. She took from it three small sword-shaped leaves and handed them to Jack.

  “What’s this?”

  “Mugwort. Traveler’s herb. Put it in your shoe and you will never tire of walking.”

  “But what about you?”

  Lou grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I know where it grows.”

  When the party finally ended and the last guests dribbled out the door, Mrs. Miller gave Jack a nightshirt and tucked him into a bed by the fire. She put a glass of milk by his bed.

  “A little nightcap,” she said.

  Gideon came to say goodnight. “Could always use a smart lad like you in the mill, apprentice-like,” he said. “Think about it. Sleep tight.”

  Jack lay in the clean warmth.

  Food at bedtime, special clothes to wear to bed, someone wishing you goodnight. Those must be family things.

  Nightshirts and nightcaps, he said to himself as he dozed off. That’s the life of a family man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  JACK WOKE UP to the merest hint of a gray dawn. He was melting. A nightshirt, a bed with three covers, a cat purring on his chest and a fire at his head, the embers still glowing. He kicked off the covers and gave himself an airing.

  Birds were twittering at the window. The kinds of birds that go with roses around the door and a glass of milk at bedtime.

  Suddenly their little choir was interrupted by a harsh, screeching cry.

  Jack slid out of bed and over to the window just in time to see the departing beat of a seagull. Rude and free and full of opinions.

  Jack pushed open the window. A breeze cooled his sweaty curls. The millwheel was at rest.

  Turn and grind. Rest. Turn and grind. Rest.

  He imagined a splash of water starting in the millpond, dawdling by the fishing dock, then sliding over the milldam, rushing through th
e millrace, skedaddling through the sluiceway, spilling onto the

  waterwheel, a fast ride down and then falling back into the river, slowly meandering its way to the sea, its work done.

  My work is done, said Jack to himself. They’ve got their own ideas now. All those plans, hiding and dunking and ditching the mayor. First-class premium ideas. They won’t be able to stop now.

  I DON’T LIKE WHAT YOU’RE THINKING.

  Here’s what I’m thinking, said Jack. I’m thinking of Sogville and Bigwick and Mudge-upon-Muddle. Fisherwomen and houses that sing. So many places to see. So many roads. I won’t know till I go, will I?

  Jack pulled his nightshirt over his head, folded it carefully and laid it on the bed. He got dressed and packed his pack.

  He opened his old dictionary. “Succor: help in time of need. Seawrack: seaweed and driftwood cast up on the shore by the tide.” A settling word and a traveling word. Two bits of Aberbog to take with him on the road.

  He left behind the umbrella, most of the food and the medicine for what ails you, because nothing did. He also left behind his new dictionary. His old friend would do fine. He had no need for aggravation and ague or boils and bombardment.

  He found a bit of paper on which he wrote, in his best writing, “Thank you. I’ll come and visit again. A traveler.” He tucked it in under the empty milk glass and let himself quietly out the door.

  NOT EVEN STAYING FOR BREAKFAST?

  Jack grinned as he walked down the road toward the sunrise. Down through the forest, through the town. Down past the empty market, down to the sea. Standing on the beach, he settled his pack more comfortably on his shoulders and looked in both directions. A bright mist was rising from the water.

  South, he decided. Birds migrate south for the winter.

  At the end of the beach, beyond the last fishing boat, another screaming seagull flew low over the pausing boy.

  Plop. Jack groaned and took off his cap, crowned with a sloppy white farewell. Shaking his head, he rinsed out his cap in the sea.