A Clatter of Jars

by Lisa Graff

  “The frog says to put the bracelet on,” Ellie told Chuck. “Then”—hdup-hdup!—“then we’ll both have a Talent. What? Chuck, what is it?”

  Chuck held out the jar to Ellie, to show her the label, written in neat, blocky letters.

  Ellie read it, then looked up at her sister. “Do you really think . . . ?”

  Despite everything, Chuck laughed. “Looks like I’m a Frog Twin after all,” she said, unscrewing the lid. FROGS was written on the label.

  Chuck tied the bracelet to her wrist, letting the Talent seep into her bones. “I guess maybe I don’t mind so much,” she told her sister.

  Hdup-hdup! went the frog.

  Jo

  AS THE LAST RAYS OF SUNSHINE CLUNG TO THE LAKE, JO tipped the final canoe. In that moment, she could have sworn that behind her, in the dark woods, she heard singing. A gorgeous voice, rich and deep. Lyrics to her wordless tune.

  Los golpes en la vida

  preparan nuestros corazones

  como el fuego forja al acero.

  But when she turned to look, no one was there.

  Precisely at the moment when the sun sank fully below the horizon, that’s when the clattering began.

  Jars, and jars, and jars.

  They pushed themselves up the pebbly shore with the tide, each with an orb of yellow-purple illuminating its center, until Jo was buried to her ankles. Out in the black water, campers and counselors splashed and shrieked, but Jo was focused on only one thing.

  With her harmonica at her lips again, Jo lifted a single jar into the air. Playing her song, she twisted open the lid and took a tentative sniff. When the Talent that wafted past her nose did not have an air of Recollecting, Jo let the jar smash to bits on the pebbles. The orb of yellow-purple drifted off across the water, to be lost forever in the wind. And Jo played another jar into the air.

  • • •

  Jo was busy, so she didn’t notice him—the single figure in the water who was not swimming toward the shore. The single figure who was heading deeper into the lake, hoisting himself into an empty canoe, tugging splashing campers inside with him. The man had arrived moments before sunset, diving into the lake to do what he could to help.

  He’d been in such a rush that he hadn’t even thought to unclip his pocket watch.

  Lily

  EVEN BEFORE LILY’S BODY HIT THE WATER, SHE HAD only one thought in her head: Max. When she popped to the surface, the thought grew heavier, until she could barely breathe for thinking it.

  Max.

  She hadn’t realized she was shouting until she heard her brother’s reply.

  “Lily! Over here!”

  The relief filled Lily’s lungs, so that she bobbed a little higher. Max was safe.

  Lily sliced her way through the biting water, her arms nearly numb with cold. All around her, anxious campers fumbled for their overturned canoes. But Lily was focused on Max.

  She needn’t have worried. By the time she reached her brother, he was being pulled into a canoe with a crowd of other campers. The counselor who’d helped him held his paddle out for Lily, so that she might climb aboard as well. But when she reached for the paddle, she saw that the man was not a counselor.

  “Dad?” she said, a summer’s worth of tears welling up behind her eyes. “You came.”

  Her father’s smile was warm in the cold chaos. Juan Vera may have been known the world over for his singing, but Lily had always been much more fond of that smile. “You needed me,” he said. He reached the paddle out a little farther. “I knew there’d be no ease for my heartache if anything happened to you.”

  The tears wet Lily’s cheeks then, and she didn’t even try to stop them. Her father had come. When she’d needed him, he’d come.

  Lily returned her attention to Max, who was scanning the water. “Are you okay?” she asked him. “Your cast . . .”

  “I can’t find Hannah,” Max replied. “She can’t swim.”

  The chill of the water clenched Lily’s chest.

  “Is that her?” their father asked, pointing.

  Max nearly lunged from the canoe when he spotted her. “Hannah!” Their father caught him by the back of his shirt.

  Out in the blackness, Hannah was splashing wildly, her head bobbing-then-sinking-then-surfacing.

  Lily’s father surveyed the swarm of canoes around them. “I don’t think we can reach her.” But Lily’s thoughts were already focused at the bridge of her nose, her gaze fixed on Hannah, attempting to lift her from the water. And then Lily remembered that she’d lost her Talent.

  No, she hadn’t lost her Talent, not like everyone else in the lake.

  Lily had given hers away.

  “I can still help,” Lily said, pushing off from the canoe, plunging deep into the icy lake. Kicking. Kicking. Kicking. She dodged canoes and campers, the cold seizing her skin. Lily raced for the one person she’d never thought she’d be racing for.

  When she neared the spot where Hannah was thrashing, Lily snatched an overturned canoe. With one hand on the rope handle, she kicked the last few yards to Hannah and wrapped her free arm around her stepsister.

  “I’ve got you.” Lily felt Hannah’s body relax, just a little, as she helped her grab hold of the canoe’s edge. “Everything’s okay.”

  That’s when Lily turned to shore and realized that everything was very far from okay.

  Hundreds of yellow-purple orbs of Talent were careening across the lake, lighting the black water like stars shooting through the sky. Jo was using the Pinnacle Talent—Lily’s Talent, the one she’d given away like it was nothing—to smash every Talent out of its jar. These were no Mimics, Lily knew. These were real Talents. The Talents of every single camper and counselor at Camp Atropos, Coaxed out by the lake.

  And they were about to disappear forever.

  “What’s happening?” Hannah asked, as they joined the crush of campers kicking for shore.

  Lily decided the simplest answer was probably best. “I messed up,” she told her stepsister. “I think I really messed up.”

  Hannah snorted. “At least now you’re telling the truth,” she said.

  Renny

  SALT WATER.

  Sick from Caramel Crème bars, Renny and Miles had climbed down from their bunk and were heading across the shadowy path to the lodge to find the others when a new memory worked its way into Renny’s mind. It was unpleasant, like a nose full of warm salt water.

  “There’s something happening at the lake,” Renny said, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. Now that he was listening for it, he heard splashing. Shouting. Through the trees, he noticed orbs of yellow-purple illuminating the sky. “Maybe I can help.”

  Miles’s face was near ghostly in the darkness.

  “It’s okay,” Renny told him. “You go back to the cabin. I’ll come get you as soon as I can.”

  Miles gripped Renny’s hand tight. “No. I want to stay with you.”

  Renny glanced through the shadows to the lake.

  And he made up his mind.

  “Okay,” Renny told his brother. “I don’t have to go.”

  “No,” Miles said again. “D-Don’t let go of my hand.” And then, his grip tight in Renny’s, Miles took a step toward the black water.

  Renny was so surprised he nearly tripped as Miles tugged him along.

  “Howard Greenspan,” Miles said, and it took Renny a moment to realize he was reciting Talent history. “Thirty-six as of his last birthday.” He took another step into the trees, Renny at his side. “T-Talent . . .” One more step.

  “Talent,” Renny joined in. “Obliviator.”

  One step after another, the brothers made their way to the water.

  Chuck

  AS CHUCK AND ELLIE CUT THROUGH THE TREES TO THE lake, the preposterous scene came fully into view. Campers churning
in the water like carrots in a boiling stew, Jo’s melancholy lullaby a bizarre accompaniment to the chaos. The orbs of Talent, glowing yellow-purple, that soared above it all, as Jo dashed jars on the shore.

  Chuck turned to her sister to ask what they should do.

  Hdup-hdup!

  It wasn’t a frog that made the noise.

  It was Ellie.

  In response to the call, the bright green frog with the white throat and the bulby pads at the ends of his toes leapt from the dirt, plopping directly onto Ellie’s shoulder.

  “You can talk to them, too,” Ellie told Chuck, squeezing her hand.

  Hdup-hdup! agreed the frog. Chuck understood the creature, she realized. If she strained. If she wanted to.

  Forty-one Eastern spadefoot toads, seventeen male and twenty-four female. Burrowed into the dirt. Burying themselves under damp leaves.

  Sixty spring peepers. Sleeping in trees.

  Twelve mink frogs. Thirty-three leopard frogs. Eighteen common tree frogs. Thirty-seven pickerels.

  Big frogs, little frogs.

  Fat frogs, skinny frogs.

  Green and brown and spotted and striped.

  Chuck could talk to them all.

  She threw back her head, releasing a vibratey song for the spotted pickerels.

  Rut-rut-rut-a-rut-rut!

  The pickerels emerged from the darkness—one, then another, then another—in response to her call. They hopped themselves into a line before her, froggy soldiers at attention.

  Ellie called to the mink frogs.

  Didda-didda-didda-did!

  Chuck called to the leopard frogs.

  Huuuuuuh-dut! Huuuuuuh-dut!

  And when every last amphibian was assembled, Chuck and Ellie told them what to do.

  Creeeee-creeeee!

  First to respond were the spadefoot toads, speckled with orange dots. They leapt for the water, where flocks of Talents were escaping to the darkness. Hopping from canoe to canoe to lily pad to canoe, the creatures, one—gulp!—by one—gulp!—by one—gulp!—by one, snagged the yellow-purple orbs on the ends of their sticky tongues. The leopard frogs followed. Then the pickerels.

  As fast as Jo smashed, the Frog Twins’ hopping helpers snatched the Talents up, cradling them in their mouths, where they glowed yellow-purple through the thin-stretched skin of their froggy throats. After catching the Talents, they returned to the sisters on the shore, puff-puff-puffing. Waiting for Chuck and Ellie to tell them what to do next.

  “Now what?” Ellie whispered to Chuck.

  Chuck looked at the long row of glowing creatures before them. A little froggy army. “No idea,” she admitted. But she knew that whatever they did next, she and Ellie would do it together.

  Jo

  JO DID NOT NOTICE THE FROGS. SHE WAS TOO BUSY LIFTING every jar from the lake. Unscrewing every lid. Smashing the unwanted jars to bits.

  Como el fuego forja al acero . . .

  The Talent Jo needed was not there.

  As the rage welled in her chest—a rage so fierce Jo felt she needed to smash anything, everything, around her, just to squelch it—the last lingering notes of El Picaflor’s song lifted an object from the water that Jo had not expected. An envelope. Soggy at the corner but, wedged as it had been between two lily pads, mostly dry throughout.

  Jolene Mallory, it said on the front, in Jenny’s loopy cursive. Jo stuffed her harmonica into her pocket and snatched the envelope from the air. Her heart thudded in her chest as she tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter she’d waited half a life to read.

  Dear Jo,

  I wish I could tell you that I’m coming, as you’ve asked me to.

  Jo hadn’t realized that she’d sunk to the water, crouched in the shattered remnants of the jars. Frogs snatched yellow-purple Talents from the sky around her, the tide lapped at her bare legs, chilling and raw. And Jo forced herself to read on.

  I’ve read every letter you’ve ever written me, Jo. And I want to reconcile. I don’t want to hold on to my anger any longer. I want to let it go. But you want me to forget what happened, and I know I can’t.

  In every letter you’ve ever written me, Jo, you’ve never once apologized. That’s what I need. That’s all I’ve ever needed.

  I’ve waited, and I’ll keep waiting, until you understand.

  Ever your sister,

  Jenny

  Frigid from the water, Jo at last looked up, blinking at the scene before her.

  The glass.

  The frogs.

  The campers—her campers. Drenched and tired and scared, most likely.

  It couldn’t all be for nothing.

  The rage welling in her chest fiercer than she’d ever felt it, Jo reached for Grandma Esther’s harmonica in her pocket. But when she put the instrument to her lips, she found that it wasn’t an instrument at all.

  Grandma Esther’s precious Artifact had been replaced, somehow, by a Caramel Crème bar.

  Renny

  RENWICK CHESTER ULYSSES FENNELBRIDGE MAY HAVE been born without a Talent, but there was one thing he’d always been very skilled at.

  “That was my Caramel Crème bar,” Miles said as Renny picked his way back across the pebbly shore, slipping the harmonica into his pocket. Miles was clearly anxious, this close to the water, but Renny was impressed with how well he was holding up.

  Renny pressed his fidgeting hands to his sides, taking in the splashing and shrieking in the water. The frogs with their iridescent throats, lined up before Chuck and Ellie like troops on the shore.

  “I wish there was some other way to help,” he said.

  “Fun fact,” Miles said in response, his voice flat. “Only two people know about Renny Fennelbridge’s Talent, and they have a brother bond.”

  Renny’s head jerked up on his neck. “Renny’s Talent?” he asked. But when he glanced down at his hands, he understood. He hadn’t been fidgeting at all.

  Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!

  That saltwater memory, Renny realized, that was one he himself had collected, wrapped around his fingers like a cobweb. He’d flicked Miles the memory from the pier, too.

  “Can I get another Caramel Crème bar when you’re done helping?” Miles asked.

  Renny reached his mind out to the line of frogs, their throats glowing as they puffed. He found a memory easily, fresh like basil, and wrapped it around his fingers.

  A spring peeper, swallowing a Talent for heat.

  Renny reached his mind off into the water next, where chilly campers clutched at canoes. He found another memory, this one meaty like thick-cut steak. Hal Bernstein, first discovering that he could heat liquid between his two hands. Renny wrapped this new memory around his fingers, too. And then—flick-flick-flick-flick-flick!—he sent it to the frog.

  The spring peeper tilted her head, and then, once she had fully digested the steak-flavored memory, she took a great leap toward Hal in the water.

  The frogs on the shore, every last one of them, turned to Renny, their throats illuminated, as though waiting for the memories he could give to them.

  Renny let his fingers flick.

  • • •

  Renny didn’t notice Jo scooping up a canoe paddle. He didn’t notice either that, in her rage, she began to whack her way toward the spring peeper leaping for Hal in the water. He didn’t notice Miles, pulling the harmonica from his pocket as easily as Renny had pulled it from Jo’s.

  “I can play the harmonica,” Miles said. “I learned last year in music class.”

  But Renny did notice when Miles began to play.

  Lily

  LILY AND HANNAH KICKED THEIR WAY THROUGH THE frigid water, bumping up against everyone else in the rush for the shore. At last they reached a spot where their feet touched the bottom, but with the press of boats and bodies, there was n
owhere for them to go. There was no way to reach Lily’s cabinmates, and no way to stop Jo, who was whacking furiously at frogs with a canoe paddle.

  The music that drifted across the water then was a shaky song, by an inexperienced musician, but Lily recognized it all the same.

  Los golpes en la vida

  preparan nuestros corazones

  como el fuego forja al acero.

  It was Lily’s father’s song, the melody he’d made so famous that he’d earned the nickname El Picaflor. The Hummingbird. As renowned for his arresting voice as for his inability to stay in one place. The song was coming from Jo’s harmonica. But it wasn’t Jo who was playing.

  At first, Lily thought that the water in the lake was being tugged from underneath somehow, like draining bathwater. And then she realized that it wasn’t the water that was moving.

  As Miles played her father’s song, Lily rose higher and higher into the black sky. Water gushed from the tips of her shoes as she was pulled from the lake completely, and she let her arms fall, heavy at her sides. Soon she was floating, flying, above the splashing campers, being tugged through the air toward her cabinmates on the shore. The wind clung to Lily’s wet clothes, and she shivered with cold.

  She had never felt quite so alive.

  Miles pulled the harmonica down from his lips just as Lily’s feet thumped against the pebbles.

  “Liliana Vera,” he said. “Talent: Pinnacle.” He held out the harmonica, shining silver in the moonlight.

  Lily took the instrument, put it to her lips, and drew a tentative breath. It wasn’t the way she’d used her Talent before—easy and focused and familiar. And Lily didn’t know how to play any song. She could only draw in one note, then release another. In then out. In then out.

  But it was so good to have her Talent back.

  Lily played, focusing her thoughts on the frogs with the Talents in their throats, who were scattering this way and that to avoid Jo’s rage. The frogs rose with the notes, higher and higher, away from Jo, through the moonlight, toward the campers in the water. Beside her, Renny flicked his fingers, and Chuck and Ellie croak!ed and cree!ed, and Miles filled them in on all the Talent history he knew. And together, the campers of Cabin Eight matched up frogs with campers. Lily watched as a spring peeper settled herself on the canoe in front of Hal Bernstein, and—bur-RAAAAAAAAP!—burped her yellow-purple orb of Talent directly in his face.