by Janeen Brian
“Keep on.”
“I can’t work – oh, it might say unicorn.” Eloise held her breath. “Yes, it says unicorn. After that it could be power. Something power. Magic power.”
“Magic power,” muttered the old man. “Ah, ’tis nothing then. Nothing but a bit of floss and fairytale. And not worth the ink it’s written with. Here, give it to me and I’ll toss it in the fire.”
Eloise gasped, shaking her head. “No. Please. Don’t do that. I’ll keep looking. There might be something else.” Already her eyes had scanned other strange markings below the writing. Circles and shapes that might be numbers. “We know a few words, Mr Jackson. They might help me work out the rest. But I can’t do it now. I’ll come back, soon as I can.”
She could see the old man was confused. But Eloise’s curiosity was well and truly bubbling. She sucked a stream of air back through the gap in her teeth.
“You will keep the paper, won’t you, Mr Jackson?” she said, with concern and hope in her voice.
“Yes, I’ll do that. First it goes back in the tin, though.”
“Bye,” said Eloise.
As she spoke, a loud whinny came from the field. The blacksmith and Eloise exchanged glances and smiled.
“Oh, Dancy,” said Eloise. “I really have to go.” But the horse shook his head from side to side, flicking his forelock so the hair parted. And there, as if it was his intention all along, was the small bump, right in the middle.
Without another word, Eloise gently rested her forehead on his nose. Dancy made no other movement. Nor did he utter a sound, not a snuffle or a nicker. Again, a ripple ran up Eloise’s spine and she knew this was a moment she’d never forget.
Light clouds gathered and for a while pretended they were full of rain. But after a brief shower, there was nothing more. It left droplets on leaves and on Eloise’s eyelashes. And it cooled her face after the excitement of the morning’s discoveries. Six words. Whittering Pond, poison, unicorn and magic power. She couldn’t wait to find out what else lay hidden in those faded shapes. Was it really connected to a story of old? Or perhaps a warning of some sort? Or simply nothing at all? Nothing but a bit of floss and fairytale, as Mr Jackson had remarked.
And because she was thinking all those possibilities, Eloise almost walked past the rock. It was now a deeper colour and shiny from the drizzle. The blouse lay there still. Damp and forgotten.
This time, Eloise didn’t hesitate. She squatted and shoved the flattened garment down her tunic.
She didn’t know what was worse. Sully’s singing or the loud crashing sounds as the cook casually slammed lids on pots or thrust pans onto the stove. Whatever the noise, the smells were always awful. Eloise used to hope it was because Sully was boiling off the rotten stuff, so the food tasted better. But it never worked out that way.
“Hallelujah!” Sully cried, when Eloise appeared. “She’s returned with the water. And it ain’t even Christmas Eve!” The cook did a little dance with the frying pan.
“Oh, Sully,” said Eloise, with a grin. But when Sully shot a glance at her chest, she knew she’d better get out of the kitchen quickly and find a hiding place for the blouse. Otherwise, Sully would be thinking other things. Things that bulged out in front of a woman. Things like Sully had. But not the nuns.
Perhaps there was a place somewhere in the pantry. But even the topmost shelf, reached only by a stepladder, was used from time to time.
In the hallway, the clock chimed the half-hour. Eloise hurried across, glancing from side to side. There was no space at the back of the clock, and none behind the pendulum.
The side door burst open and Polly and Mamie tumbled into the room.
“Quick, Eloise,” said Polly, grabbing her arm. “You gotta come.”
“Sister Bernard fell over,” added Mamie. “And there’s blood!”
Eloise rushed out. Sister Bernard was white-faced and holding her ankle. Blood trickled onto the steps and by the look of it, Sister’s leg was still bleeding.
Eloise kneeled down.
“I’m fine,” said the nun. “I just need a cloth.”
Eloise leaned forward and was about to stand up, when something terrible happened.
Sister caught sight of the blouse. Like a magician pulling an object from a hat, so she whipped the top out into the air.
“This will do,” she said, after turning it around.
Eloise stood pale and silent. She could do nothing until Sister returned the blood-stained garment to her. “That will need seeing to, Eloise,” said the nun, her voice edgy with suspicion.
Dodging Sully’s curious attention was the next thing. Eloise rinsed and rubbed the blouse in a tub. The blood turned the soapy water pink but left pale brown marks on the material.
Sully looked over her shoulder. “What you got there, lass? I could do with another rag.”
“No, it’s not a . . . I mean, I need it.”
“Suit yourself,” the cook said offhandedly, but snuck another look at Eloise’s chest. A small frown appeared on her forehead. If the situation wasn’t so horribly disheartening, Eloise would’ve found it amusing. Without meaning to, she’d fooled Sully into thinking she was growing breasts.
But what was she to do next? Not only did she have a blouse to hide, it was also damp and streaked. The only place she could think of was outside. She’d scrape a hole in the ground, line it with pebbles and cover it with stones. Beside the lions, she decided.
Sister Bernard was seated on a bench, her leg resting on an upturned log, and clapping roundly as the Littlies marched up and down. Nothing escaped her sharp eye, and Eloise shifted the blouse into her other hand, out of sight. She strode to the storeroom, as if on a chore and grabbed a trowel. The ground was softer than Eloise thought and in no time, the blouse was safely buried. She’d tried hard to keep it as dirt free as possible. She didn’t want to be rounded up as a scruffy urchin when she made her escape.
That night the bedtime routine was the same as usual, except for two things. One was Eloise’s growing concern at the clouds that’d begun to darken the evening sky. And the second was that Sister Genevieve took over the night-time duty due to Sister Bernard’s swollen ankle.
It wasn’t long before Eloise heard the patter of rain on the roof, and knew that her hiding place for the blouse could be in trouble.
“Oh, stars,” she whispered, “what am I going to do?”
“Eloise, dear.”
Eloise pressed her lips tightly together but turned around in her bed to face the nun. This was it. Sister Bernard had told Sister Genevieve about the blouse, and probably Sister Hortense too. And now she was to be reprimanded by Sister Genevieve as well. So everyone would believe in her growing list of sins. But one look at Sister Genevieve’s gentle face, and all Eloise wanted to do was to wrap her arms around the nun and weep.
“You know, Eloise,” said the nun, “I sometimes talk to myself. I don’t see it as wrong. It certainly doesn’t mean I am conversing with the Devil or any other ungodly beings. Perhaps it is a habit and comes from praying. And,” she added, “maybe it is the same for you, Eloise.”
Eloise met Sister’s eyes.
“Thank you, Sister,” she said, taking her kind meaning.
“Goodnight, Eloise.”
“Goodnight.”
Nothing was mentioned about the blouse.
But if Eloise had ever doubted that her behaviour, no matter how small an incident, was discussed in the nuns’ room, she was in no doubt now. The walls were closing in, tighter and tighter.
Next morning, after breakfast, Sister Bernard limped towards her. She held something in her hand. It was the blouse, now rain-soaked and dirty. “I found this outside, Eloise. It is a piece of clothing I could not account for. And I assume you can’t either.”
With that, she hobbled off. That was the last Eloise saw of the blouse.
Eloise spied the cluster of stones and pebbles that’d been dislodged by the hole. Sister Bernard must have watched her wal
k off with the trowel. Even when she appeared not to be looking, she was. Perhaps she was Sister Hortense’s eyes as well.
So, with no money or blouse, Eloise felt as if a strong, unhelpful wind was pushing her backwards. She was getting nowhere. The thought of ending up like Sully upset her. Not that she didn’t like Sully, but there was something about her that made Eloise think the cook had also lived in an orphanage. And that she’d simply shifted to Children of Paradise to earn a living. Maybe she knew nothing else.
Eloise gazed up at the pale blue sky, the buckets hanging by her side. There must be something she could do to help herself get away. But what?
The other troubling thought was to do with Sister Hortense. Why was the nun so horrible to her? And why, after all these years, had she never tried to find a family for her?
Eloise thought. She was hardworking. She had no limp or other deformity. And though she didn’t think she was ugly, without a mirror, she couldn’t really know for sure.
Of course she knew the colour of her curly hair, because it was long enough to hang over her shoulders. But as to her other features, well, she could have orange or purple eyes for all she knew. Her nose, however, didn’t feel too big or too tiny.
Eloise sighed.
At least she had Mr Jackson’s unusual paper to look forward to. In a small way that’d helped stitch up the hole left from the cancellation of her lessons.
Eloise hadn’t expected to see the wigmaker out in the street again, but all of a sudden, there came a cry. “Hello, dearie. Oh, come over here and let me see them curls up close.” This time Eloise was nearer to the shop. A woman was outside her small house, scrubbing the front slab at the doorway. She glanced up briefly before returning to her cleaning.
It was an awkward situation. Eloise walked up. The shop owner herself was wearing a wig. “Oh, would you look at that,” she said, her thick lips wide in an appreciative smile. “I wonder who had that hair before you. Your mummy or your daddy.” Then, having realised what she’d said, she added, “Oh, silly me. Maybe you didn’t know them, dearie. You, being an orphan. So, you don’t have any other family then?”
“No,” said Eloise. “Please excuse me. I have to get the water.”
“Of course. Of course. My offer still stands, though. Money for them curls. Anytime, dearie. Anytime.” She went to touch Eloise on the shoulder, but Eloise moved off. “And don’t you go worrying about not having any family. You got the sisters, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Eloise muttered out of politeness.
However, the woman’s remarks opened up a part of Eloise’s heart that’d been closed for so long, she almost heard a crack as thoughts flooded in.
What had her mother and father been like? What did they look like? What colour were their eyes? Were they tall or short? Did they have curly hair or straight? Did they laugh a lot? Or were they grumpy and sour-faced?
And why were they all no longer together?
All she knew was that she’d been left at the front steps of the orphanage, in a bucket, newly born and wrapped in a scrap of blanket. Perhaps there was something about her arrival that set her apart from other orphans? Made her the stigma for Sister Hortense.
As she approached the pump, she saw the blacksmith. He didn’t see her. Back bent, brow furrowed, he worked the bellows, heaving and pushing the air into the fierce, glowing coals.
He hadn’t liked the idea of the unicorn. Or anything related to fairytales, so it seemed. But what if there was more to the message than either of them knew? One flick of that paper into the coals and whatever was on it would vanish. Its meaning gone in a silent swirl of smoke.
But when he caught sight of her, he straightened and raised a finger in the air. “Whittering-twittering,” he said with a gruff laugh and disappeared out the door. Eloise hoped that meant that all was safe. She wasn’t disappointed.
“There you be, young filly,” Mr Jackson said, handing her the paper. “I had another look at it after you’d gone, the other day. My hands work better than my head, but I’m thinking that those round bits at the bottom look like the moon, when it’s full.” He raised his bushy eyebrows, and his blue eyes twinkled, much like sunlight glancing off Whittering Pond.
Eloise peered and nodded. “Yes, they could be. And I think they are numbers alongside. And being close together like that, they might be dates.” She curved her mouth. “Maybe even dates that have something to do with the moon.” That was a new and exciting thought.
The old man looked closely at her. “Why don’t you have a little time to yourself to look over it? And best away from the forge. These coals need more huffing and puffing.”
“All right.” Eloise found a tree nearby. She sat down on a large rock and stretched her legs. The buckets were in full view at the pump, so she squinted hard at the paper.
First, she traced the known words with her finger. Then she picked up a jagged bit of metal lying close to her feet and scratched the same letters onto another large rock. Copying the letters, Eloise hoped, might help her work out other letters and words. And fill in empty spaces.
She decided to add the picture of the unicorn too. As she gouged at the horn, a shiver shot up her spine. She started, confused. And Dancy whinnied from his field. It could’ve been a coincidence. But Eloise instantly recalled other unusual things. The similar bumps on both her and Dancy’s heads. Wilfred’s comment. And now the strange quivery feeling to do with the unicorn.
A bird landed on a branch above her. Eloise glanced up. When it flew off, her heart sank. It was time she went too. She placed her fingers against the rock, pleased with what she’d done, but disappointed that she’d really made no further progress. If only she could spend the day sitting under the tree, all alone.
By now the forge fire was a rage of red. Eloise drew back from the heat but indicated to the blacksmith she’d got no further with deciphering. And so, where should she put the paper?
Mr Jackson was in a lather, she could see that. And not able to talk further with her. But he indicated a bench to one side. Eloise placed the paper carefully on the cleanest patch and put the tip of a horseshoe across the top in case a wind should spring up.
Then she waved and rushed back to the pump.
Sully met her at the kitchen doorway, hands on hips.
“Sister Bernard took my bucket of water to clean sumpthing in the storeroom. And I got a mountain of dishes. And I been waitin’! So, back you go, lass.”
“Oh, no.”
“Don’t you go oh, no-ing me. You keep your nose clean and stick to the rules and one of them rules is be quick with the water!”
She hadn’t even had time to take off her boots and rub her feet. Eloise let herself drift off to the family in her mind. She was fetching water from a spring at the farm on which they lived. In the kitchen, her mother made jam with the mulberries picked that morning and the sweet smell filled the room. “Come on, Dunlevy,” Eloise called and laughed as the dog bounded up. “Pooh, you stink! Have you been rolling in pig muck?”
It was all so real, Eloise was almost surprised when she found herself at the market square in front of the town pump. She began to work the handle up and down.
A bell rang loudly.
What was that? Eloise stopped and turned her head in the direction of the sound.
The bell was being rung by a barrel-shaped man with a three-cornered hat and a big nose. He stopped in front of the cross and then, with the handle gripped in both hands, swung it up and down.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Dear townsfolk of Whittering, allow me to introduce myself. I am your new town crier, and your humble servant, Mr Humple. And this fine gentleman here,” he gestured to the man beside him, “is Mr Strawney. We have come here today for both your pleasure and edification. This morning, you will hear a tale from Mr Strawney, but we will return from time to time, with news of townships near and far. And of course, to regale you with more wondrous tales. And all we ask, dear folk, is a measure of your appreciation. As lar
ge or as little as you see fit, depending on how much you’ve enjoyed our offerings.” He gave a small bow and Mr Strawney stepped up.
“Once upon a time,” began Mr Strawney, whose voice was remarkably deep for one so bone-thin, “there was a king who kept hundreds of mysterious beasts. No one knew where these beasts came from. But the king was cruel and many of the beasts escaped. Some flew, but others, battered by storms, lost their power of flight and stumbled for months searching for a safe home.”
Eloise stood rigid, picturing the tale as it unfolded.
“Many found caves, such as around here, outside the wall of your good town of Whittering –”
A gasp rose from the crowd. People turned to each other, with expressions of either surprise, delight or consternation. Those same feelings swept through Eloise, but she turned to no one.
Could this be one of the stories Mr Jackson had heard all those years ago?
She badly wanted to hear the rest of it, but, biting her lip, she dragged herself away and hobbled back to the orphanage.
“Here, Sully,” she said, relieved to feel the ache slip away from her arms.
“Ta. And here’s a crust for you. With dripping.”
The cook handed Eloise a piece of bread.
“Thank you.” Eloise widened her eyes questioningly.
“No need to look at me like that. I ain’t made of stone, you know. Besides, you’re bound to have a birthday sometime this year, ain’t ya?”
Still stunned by Sully’s generosity, Eloise began to eat hungrily.
“Oh, since you’re here,” the woman went on, “you could chop up them cabbages.”
Not long afterwards, Sister Hortense walked in. “So this is where you are, Eloise Pail.” She looked first at Sully, who suddenly needed to stir something on the stove, and then at Eloise. “You’re to take a group of Littlies for marching practice. It’s important that Sister Bernard keeps resting her sprained ankle.” The nun stepped a little closer. “What’s that on your chin? Is that a crumb?”
Sully stirred harder and Eloise hastily brushed at her chin. As her hand swept past her chest, there came a crinkling sound.
