by Janeen Brian
“Why?” she whispered.
“Oh, Eloise. I can’t go into it, dear girl. It has . . . it was felt that you’d received enough education. And, with the Littlies needing more attention, that you’d be of more service to the orphanage if your schooling time was freed up.”
“To do what?”
“To . . . assist more with chores.”
Eloise gaped. “More than what I do now?”
The nun lowered her head.
“But I work hard, Sister. You know I do.” Eloise sniffed and stumbled on. “It’s something else, isn’t it, Sister? What is it, please?”
The nun rose slowly to her feet. “I will pray for you, dear. Now I believe Sister Bernard would like some assistance outside.”
Eloise waited until she was alone. She crossed her arms beneath her chest, knowing that from then on her story would remain hidden. There was no one to share it with.
Once outside, the cool air came as a shock. Eloise shivered and rubbed her eyes and then it dawned on her. Her story. Her unicorn story.
Of course.
No wonder Sister Hortense had been silent. She didn’t need to reprimand her.
All she needed to do, to triumph, was to put an end to Eloise’s lessons.
The stars were there that night, but Eloise’s courage to get out of bed had vanished. If she lay still, she saw each day beginning and ending in much the same way. No change. Nothing to look forward to. No books. No time with Sister Genevieve.
But if she wriggled, trying to get rid of her tangled thoughts, her bedcovers twisted and trapped her feet.
From somewhere came the hoot of an owl. Eloise thought it the loneliest sound. And she wondered how it was that she could be lonely too, when there were so many others around her. And she wondered too, how a heart kept on wishing and hoping in such emptiness.
“Wash time, Littlies,” announced Sister Bernard next morning. “Then best outfits on.”
Eloise dressed as if moving through a dull fog and then continued to help with the morning routine.
“Are you sick?” said Wilfred.
“No.”
“Your eyes look sick. They’re red with little lines and –”
“I’m fine. Give me your other hand.”
“Can I feel the bump on your forehead?”
“No.”
“Why have you got it?”
“I don’t know, Wilfred! It’s been there since I was . . .” Eloise ran out of steam. Had it been there since she was a baby? And what did it matter, anyway?
“Maybe,” said Wilfred, lowering his voice, “maybe you were a little unicorn. Like in your story. And that’s your baby horn!” He grinned, beaming at his special thought.
Eloise’s eyes darted about. Thank goodness Sister Bernard wasn’t within earshot. “What a wonderful idea, Wilfred,” she whispered. “Shall we keep it our secret?”
“All right,” he said. “I’ve never had a secret before.”
Before she left the bedroom, Eloise felt the underside of her pillow. The crinkling sound was good. It’d taken a lot of effort, mainly teeth-chewing, to unpick the seam of the pillow just big enough to wriggle the story scroll inside.
She’d like to have stitched the hole up again, but with what?
Being the last Friday of the month meant it was performance day in the town market square. It was called Children of Paradise Day, but Eloise called it Begging Day. And it was the last thing she wanted to do.
The Littlies were dressed in their only other set of clothes, and once their hands and faces were washed and hair brushed, Sister Bernard shuffled them into two rows in the hallway.
“Polly!” muttered the nun. “Remove that finger from your nose this instant!”
A short time later Sister Hortense sailed into the hallway, hands clasped, rosary clicking, mouth drawn into a straight line.
“Today is your day,” she said to the space above the Littlies’ heads. Her voice sounded as if she was offering the children a second helping of meat stew. “Children of Paradise Day. I will remind you, however, that you will be on show and, as usual, I expect your best behaviour. No giggling. No speaking. No fidgeting. No fainting. It is an honour for those who will dance, sing or recite. Never forget that. The rest of you will join in when appropriate. And only with Sister Bernard’s or my instructions.” The Head Sister’s eyes swivelled, glinting with purpose at each child. “Sister Bernard,” the nun continued, “if you will be kind enough to unlock the main doors.”
When the doors opened, Eloise saw the town below her. As she was positioned at the back, behind the Littlies, she tentatively allowed her fingers to trail over one of the lions’ manes as she marched past.
Birds flitted above in the fresh morning air and Sister Bernard clapped her small, chubby hands. “Heads up! Eyes ahead!” she commanded.
Eloise curled and uncurled her toes but let her gaze wander first to the tree and the wall, then to the wigmaker’s shop, the houses, the forge, the field and last of all, the town gates.
In the centre of the market square was a large wooden cross. Beyond that were dozens of stalls from which stall-owners called out their wares.
“Pickled pig trotters!” called one stall-owner from beneath a canvas canopy.
“Get your pots and pans here!”
“Fresh eels. Come and buy!”
“Salted sheep tongue. None better in Whittering!”
“Knives sharpened here!”
Mixed in with the voices came other sounds: those from yellow-beaked geese, caged ducks and chickens and braying donkeys that hauled rickety carts. Eloise breathed in the strange smells of cheeses, lemons, spices and leather that mingled with straw and plops of animal dung.
Soon they’d come to a stop outside the candlemaker’s shop. Eloise swallowed. She was to sing today to the crowds at the market. She loved to sing. It made her feel alive.
But she loathed what came afterwards. It was her job to scurry about begging for money, before the crowd dispersed. Her tongue always stuck to the roof of her mouth and her singing voice disappeared.
“Welcome, Sisters and children,” said the candlemaker in a voice twice as large as his bony body. He was as thin as the candles he sold. But he smiled widely at the crowd, because he also knew about teeth, and advertised his ability to pull them out.
More and more people gathered around the children. Sister Hortense stepped forward and in syrupy tones said, “Good morning to you all. And thanks to the Lord for the sunshine to warm our bodies. Thanks too, for these dear little children, orphans all of them, whose performances will also hopefully warm your heart.”
She gave a curt nod to Sister Bernard, who began to play the fiddle, while a group of Littlies performed a folk dance. Following that came a threesome, who recited, and then others, in larger groups, who sang and danced.
Wilfred was in that last group. Eloise couldn’t help but recall his words earlier that morning. A baby unicorn horn on her forehead, he’d said. Exactly like the one on beautiful, snowy white Dancy. Why did a shiver suddenly run up and down her spine?
“Eloise,” snapped Sister Bernard under her breath, “for goodness sake. I’ve already introduced you.”
Startled, Eloise almost tripped, making her way to the front. But she heard Sister’s Hortense’s demands all right.
“Make sure you sing well, Eloise Pail,” the nun said, the syrupy tone turning sour. “We are in need of finances. The chimneys are choked and need sweeping.”
Eloise stood, chin raised, shoulders back and sang four songs. After each song, the applause grew louder and stronger. At the end of the performance, Sister Bernard thrust the wooden bowl at her, almost jabbing her in the stomach.
“Hurry!” she said. “And smile!”
Eloise took a breath and quickly moved about the shifting crowd, holding out the bowl and asking for a coin or two. The pile built up. The bowl grew heavier. Then, just before she asked a woman in a fancy shawl for a coin, the word money sprang i
nto Eloise’s mind.
If ever she was to leave the orphanage, to run away, or whatever, she’d need money for food. And maybe to pay someone to ride in their cart. Maybe for other things too. And she’d have to find a place to stay. Far away, of course.
The new thought troubled her.
Where would she get money? Not from the nuns, that was for sure.
“Be quick, Eloise.” Sister Bernard beckoned, holding up the leather bag into which the donations were poured. “We’re leaving now.”
Eloise’s mind went blank. There was little choice. She’d paid her way, over and over and over again. And it would only be a few at a time. Her hand dipped into the wooden bowl. Feigning a cough, she scooped up some coins and slipped them into the pocket of her pinafore. She then walked in a steadfast line towards Sister Bernard. With each step, however, Eloise could’ve sworn the coins grew warmer.
Just a small number, she reminded herself. Every performance day. Then one day she’d have a pile of money. And when that day came, she’d simply disappear.
Both Sister Bernard and Sister Genevieve were organising the Littlies into lines. A bird swooped low and chirruped.
“Oh!” cried Mamie with delight.
“Hush!” said Sister Bernard.
“I think he just remarked on how much he enjoyed your singing, Mamie,” said Sister Genevieve.
Mamie’s grin stretched from ear to ear.
The distance between Eloise and Sister Bernard was closing.
“Will you get a move on, Eloise,” called the nun, shaking the bag.
Eloise felt the coins in her pocket. Three of them. No one would know. She’d find a hiding place. Maybe she could bury them beside the statues and the lions could keep guard.
For a second, the coins made her palm feel full and warm.
But Eloise’s heart fluttered. Shakily. Not like a butterfly. More like something breaking. And in the next second, the coins were out of her pocket and into the leather bag with the rest of the coins from the bowl. Her breathing came fast. As if it was trying to catch up with something that’d sped by and left her gasping.
But already she was sucked back into the orphanage. How would she ever leave without money? And why had that never occurred to her before? It was as if a star had fallen into a deep, murky pool. On the trudge back to the orphanage there was little to look forward to.
Except lunch.
Friday’s lunch was always fish. Sully never did anything to a fish except cook it. Served with half a potato, softened if you were lucky, it was never slimy, bitter, stringy, watery or chewy. It was the best meal of the week. But when Eloise cleared the dishes into the kitchen, she noted the water level in the big barrel was low and Sully was heaving a large pot onto the stove.
Please, not another trip to the pump.
She wriggled her toes. They felt dead and Eloise wondered what she’d find when she pulled off her boots at night.
“Right, now, lass,” Sully said, scratching her back with the end of a soup ladle, “I need two buckets of water and I’d like ’em this side of Christmas. I got fish heads to boil up.”
“Back again,” called Mr Jackson when Eloise approached. “What do you do with all that water you cart? Drink it or something?” He lowered his chin and chuckled into his beard. “But I’m glad you do come back. You know why?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “’Cos I found something. Now you go and give Dancy a pat and I’ll be back again before you can say Whittering-twittering.” And with that, the blacksmith disappeared out through the doorway of the forge. He returned a few minutes later bearing an old, battered-looking tin. “I found it the other day, when I do find those bits.” He gestured towards the pieces of metal strung up on the tree.
Eloise stared at the tin, barely able to conceal her disappointment. Somehow, after this morning’s disappointment, she’d hoped for something . . . brighter.
“But look,” said Mr Jackson. He wrenched the lid off the tin and there inside was a folded piece of paper. It was faintly yellowed, with crinkled, snipped edges as if a rat had chewed it.
Eloise peered a little closer.
“It do have marks on it.” Mr Jackson spread open the paper and smoothed it out. “Maybe it’s writing. That’s what I do think. But how would I know? Don’t know my letters. And only some of my numbers. But you know your letters, don’t you, young filly? See what you make of it. Had me scratching my head, I can tell you.”
Eloise let Mr Jackson ramble on.
There was writing on the paper. That was true. Some of the letters and words were either faded or missing altogether. Eloise’s eyes, however, were fixed on a small drawing at the top of the page. Her tongue found the gap in her teeth.
Of all the creatures in the world . . .
The drawing was of a unicorn.
“So,” Mr Jackson continued, “I see the marks are a bit messy and some have fled right off the page, but I’d be left wondering what they do mean. So, how’d you like to put them together for me?”
Eloise tore her gaze away from the small, horned creature at the top of the paper and nodded absent-mindedly.
“Yes, of course, Mr Jackson, but . . . ” Trying to work out what was written would take more time than she had. “I will, only –”
“I know, young filly. I know.” He smiled. At least, his beard and moustache curved upwards. They were so thick, Eloise had never seen his mouth.
Hauling the buckets back up the cobblestones was the usual drag, but once again, Eloise’s mind was full of new and different things. Now it was an ancient piece of paper. And the drawing of a unicorn. Before that it was the stories, and the hole in the wall. Each lit a light and sparked thoughts. But then what? What happened to those thoughts or discoveries? Where did they lead? They couldn’t possibly be connected. Or could they?
She was able to connect stars in the night sky. That bright star sheltering the paler, weaker one. That cluster of a family with larger and smaller stars. And stars far away, but similar.
Slip, slop, went the water in the buckets.
Eloise sighed. She raised her head and saw something white and crinkled a short distance further on. It was as if a baby cloud had fallen from the sky. It was a woman’s blouse. Somehow it’d escaped from a washing line or a bush. Eloise picked it up and turned around, searching for the owner of the lost garment. Either everyone was indoors or in the market square, and there wasn’t time to knock on doors and ask.
She could leave the blouse exactly where she’d found it. Or she could take it to Sister Genevieve and ask what she thought she should do. Or . . . ?
Secretively, Eloise held the blouse up against her. It was too big. Yet, when it came time to run away, she’d need something other than her tunic and pinafore. The blouse would fit right over them. It would give her some sort of disguise.
Eloise stood scratching at a torn fingernail for another moment. Then she bent down and placed the blouse at the edge of the cobblestones. Next she put a small rock on it, so it wouldn’t escape again. It was there to be found. Yet, if it wasn’t . . .
Eloise walked away.
The memory of the blouse and what it could’ve meant stayed with her that night.
Next morning, she dressed faster than usual. She’d found another thin shred of sheeting in the laundry and used that to tie her story scroll around her waist. It was a safer place than leaving it in her pillow, her bedside cabinet or even under the mattress. Sister Bernard was always counting shoes or items of clothing or overturning mattresses.
If only she had more privacy from the Littlies’ eager stares.
“You got a bluebottle up your drawers, or sumpthing, lass?” said Sully as Eloise burst into the kitchen for the buckets.
“No. No, Sully.”
Eloise hurried off. The rock hiding the blouse was still there. Just where she’d left it. Eloise paused and looked about. A few women strolled by, chatting, one with a baby on her hip.
Then someone called, “Look o
ut!” and tipped a bowl of slops from an upper-storey window. Eloise leaped to one side and rushed on, leaving the blouse beneath the rock.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Dancy,” she called to the horse, having spied the blacksmith already hammering in the forge. Dancy whinnied. Eloise put down the buckets, grabbed some grass, walked across and patted him. “Lovely boy,” she said. “I’ll come back later if I can, but right now I’ve got some reading to do!”
“Ah!” boomed Mr Jackson over the clang of his hammering. “Will you be wanting to see that paper again?”
“If that’s all right,” shouted Eloise.
“I’ll get it now. I got customers coming sometime this morning, but that won’t be bothering you. I’d be glad to know of them words. Buried they’ve been, right under Dancy’s nose, for goodness knows how many years. Seen you looking at the picture, too. Just a bit fanciful. Words be the real things.” The old man kept up the beat of his hammering the whole time he spoke. Eloise strained to hear him. So when the noise of his banging and yelling stopped, her ears felt empty.
A short time later, she held the paper in her hands. It was coarse, and thicker than the scroll hidden beneath her tunic. She stared at the unicorn and felt a small tingle up her spine. Then she placed her finger under the first word. It was written in squiggly letters. “I think it says, Whittering.”
“That be right,” nodded Mr Jackson, approvingly. “Since it be our town.”
“And the next word is . . . Pond. Whittering Pond.”
“Well, I never. What next?”
Eloise brought the paper up closer. She shook her head, peering. “Everything’s so faded.”
“Can’t you just make up the letters what’s missing? Work ’em out?”
Eloise moved a little way away from the forge to where the light was better. Mr Jackson stepped up alongside.
“I think,” said Eloise, “I think the next word says . . . poison.”
The blacksmith frowned and scratched his beard.
“But I might be wrong,” Eloise murmured. She wasn’t the only one recalling the old stories and the fouling of the pond.
