Well, thank you for your time in reading this.
I look forward to your answer.
Yours with great affection and hope,
Hector Samuels,
County Sheriff
Bonfire, The Farms
Jimmy looked up from the letter in the manner of somebody gazing over the tops of their spectacles at a well-meaning but difficult child.
‘That’ll persuade them, eh?!’ Hector said.
‘No,’ said Jimmy. ‘I doubt it.’
He ignored Hector’s cries of protest, running his eyes over the pages again. Eventually he looked up.
‘It’s a good letter, Hector,’ he said, ‘although I don’t know that “Their Royal Sweethearts” is the technical term.’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘And you think maybe you should leave out the bit about Elliot? It’s not . . . kind of taking advantage of him?’
‘Nah.’ Hector retrieved the letter and rolled his chair back to his desk. ‘Elliot’s gonna love it when the royals come to town!’
Jimmy laughed and turned back to his own work. He reached for a mandarin and dug his nails in to start peeling.
‘You know what I’m working on again?’ he said to Hector. ‘Those five missing persons reports. The ones that Central Intelligence sent through. Still got me stumped. All five of them.’
‘Huh.’ Hector grew thoughtful. ‘Me writing letters to royal tour committees, you doing missing persons for Central Intelligence. Makes you wonder how we ever get any real police work done around here, doesn’t it?’
Jimmy paused and spat out a mandarin seed, looking equally thoughtful.
‘I guess it is a Saturday,’ he began, but at that moment the door jangled open and they both straightened up in their seats.
‘Here we go,’ Hector said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Police work.’
But it was just the Twicklehams, come to apply for some money from the Red Wave Damage Fund.
The signage out the front of their shop had been scorched when the second-level Red (grade 2b) came through, they said, and two windows had broken when passers-by, enraged by the fourth-level Red (grade 8(a)), had hurled hammers at each other and missed.
Hector began talking through details with the adult Twicklehams, while Derrin sat down on the carpet. She always wore a leather pouch on her shoulder, stencilled with a butterfly, and now she flipped this open, drawing out a pencil case. It had a row of little plastic windows spelling out her name: D E R R I N, and was otherwise decorated with butterfly stickers. She took a notebook and green marker and began to draw.
The application was done in a few minutes, and Hector added it to the pile, and moved from behind the desk to say his goodbyes. Jimmy also stood, politely.
‘Either Jimmy or I will swing by in the next day or two to check out the damage,’ Hector said, ‘but seems fairly cut and dry to me. How are you finding Bonfire these days anyhow? Apart from the flying flames and hurling hammers, I mean!’
The Twicklehams laughed, and Derrin looked up from her drawing.
‘Oh, well, and if it isn’t the picture of a town!’ exclaimed Mrs Twickleham.
‘The square is of excellent proportions,’ agreed her husband. ‘And the gardens are a tissue to the soul.’
‘Folks here treating you right?’ continued Hector. ‘Given you a proper Bonfire welcome?’
‘Indeed and they are!’ began Mrs Twickleham. ‘We often partake of tea with Derrin’s grade-school teacher! Olivia Hattoway, she is a dove! Perhaps you have seen us together in the square? As to a—’
‘If you will know it,’ Mr Twickleham said at the same time, his voice gruff, ‘the town has not—’ His wife touched his shoulder.
‘Now then,’ she murmured, gently. ‘Shall we not bother these good folk with such things?’
Derrin continued drawing. Her picture was entirely in green: a green wind blowing across a green field, a green man and green woman, each with green tears and sad green mouths.
‘People here aren’t treating you right?’ ventured Jimmy.
‘Ah, you warned us,’ sighed Mr Twickleham. ‘It is the young people, the friends of Elliot Baranski. They find ways to jib at us—nothing we can actually complain to—but at least a dozen occasions we’ve seen them accost customers about to enter our store.’
‘And the leaflets we make,’ added Mrs Twickleham, glancing at her husband. ‘To advertise our specials and such? We put them under screenwipers on cars, but each time, within half an hour, they are gone again. Snatched by the breeze, I thought at first, and was unplussed, but then I saw one of those young people—I think it was Cody—gathering them up and throwing them away!’
‘It’s such things,’ nodded Mr Twickleham. ‘A hundred examples we could give, but we seem petty! As to that poor young Elliot Baranski—why, there he is now!’
He pointed toward the window, and both Hector and Jimmy startled. Then they all looked across the road to the schoolyard. It was empty, being a Saturday, but there, indeed, was Elliot Baranski.
‘What is that odd and disastrous contraption he investigates?’ exclaimed Mr Twickleham.
‘That’s a sculpture,’ Jimmy said smiling. ‘Cody made it. That’s my old TV on top there. It was broken, so Cody used it for his sculpture.’
‘A broken televisual machine,’ Mrs Twickleham said sighing. ‘We could have fixed that for you, Jimmy. We’re good with electronics, you know. As to a—’ But her voice drifted away and she turned her attention to Derrin, still on the floor.
‘Of course you’re good with electronics,’ Hector agreed heartily. ‘That’s why you’ve got an electronics shop!’
‘Ah, my little Derrin.’ Mrs Twickleham was crouching. ‘We’re not so sad as your picture depicts, my sweetsnail. We’ll be all right, I promise.’
Derrin pushed her hair behind her ears. In her elfin face, her eyes were large and unblinking. She shifted these around the room, from person to person, then settled on Hector. She handed over the green picture.
‘This is for me?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, it’s so pretty! I’m going to put it right here on the wall. Wait! No, I’m not.’ With a flourish, he reached for his own satchel—it was leaning up against his desk—and pointed out a plastic window on its front. ‘I’ve got a window here, like you’ve got little squares for your name on your pencil case! But mine is the right size for a picture!’ He slipped Derrin’s picture into the plastic cover. ‘Now I can carry your masterpiece everywhere I go!’
Derrin seemed essentially to have forgotten about Hector as he enthused about her artwork and where to put it. She was packing her pencil case into her pouch, standing and adjusting its straps onto her shoulder.
The Twicklehams smiled grateful and embarrassed smiles at both Hector and Jimmy.
‘Business will improve,’ Mrs Twickleham said. ‘There’s that Bonfire Trade Fair coming up, and we’ve plans for a stall, such as we’ll build in the shape of an appliance of some kind! Or anyway, we’ll make it very pretty. And we’ll bake little deliciousnesses and give these away, along with coupons for “one free repair”. The plans we have! It will save us. The fair will save us.’
‘The fair will save us,’ agreed Mr Twickleham. ‘And in the meantime, Jimmy,’ he pointed again to the schoolyard and the sculpture; Elliot appeared to be leaning against it, ‘what if I gathered up your broken TV and fixed it for you?’
Jimmy breathed in through his nose and clicked his tongue.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I feel like maybe that’s not the solution to your problems in this town?’
‘Ah, the kids’ll get over it,’ Hector said. ‘You just give them time. They’re too loyal, is the problem, but in this case they’ve got their loyalty all in a tangle. I’ll have a word to them on your behalf, is what I’ll do.’
The Twicklehams thanked him, at the same time as exclaiming that he should do no such thing, then they smiled their gentle smiles, and the door to the station closed behind them.
Jimmy and Hect
or watched them through the window for a moment.
‘Sad,’ murmured Hector.
Jimmy shrugged. ‘The fair might save them,’ he said. ‘But in the meantime they want to take Cody’s sculpture to pieces? That’ll sure improve the situation.’
Hector laughed, and they both returned to their desks.
In the empty schoolyard, Elliot had found another letter from the Girl-in-the-World. He sat on a bench to read it in the sun.
Dear Elliot Baranski,
Your last letter was crazy and I liked it, and then I remembered you warning me that a ‘Red’ might mess with your mind—and that made me like it even more.
Cause that was kind of clever.
I know your letter wasn’t supposed to make sense—the lava and chestnuts and that—but you know what? One thing you said, you actually got right. ‘You’re the one with your eyes closed!’ you said.
You put it in capital letters actually, which, you’d think would’ve been enough of a message from the universe that I should take notice. But no. I just kept on closing my eyes, and now it’s too late.
I guess there are things a person doesn’t see, even with their eyes open. Like, did you realise there are more colours than we realise? We’ve got that handful from the rainbow, but just outside that range, there are more. Just past violet, there’s ultraviolet, and in the other direction, past red, infra-red, and they are THERE but our eyes can’t see them.
Rattlesnakes can see infra-red, and birds can see ultraviolet. Some birds even have patterns in their wings that only other birds can see cause they’re in ultraviolet.
Makes you think, doesn’t it?
Specifically, it makes me think that you can walk around with another person for weeks and months, never seeing the beautiful patterns on his feathers, and just when you finally do see, you realise you’ve torn them to pieces.
So he flies away with shredded feathers.
Anyhow, that’s kind of morbid, and my metaphor got slightly shredded too, so let’s leave that.
Although, the whole colour thing makes me wonder—do you have invisible ‘Colours’ in your Kingdom too? Colours off the edges of your vision so they attack you but you can’t see them coming? Like tear someone to pieces in the middle of the night! You should totally think about introducing those.
Bye.
M.T.
P.S. The UV thing makes me wonder if birdwatchers have UV vision? (Very confused about how ultraviolet can be a colour and burn your skin.) (So do the UV patterns on a bird’s wing burn the sky?)
P.P.S. I’m asking you this because I feel like you might know the answer to birdwatching questions.
P.P.P.S. Okay, I’ve got an idea. Do you want to meet up? I know you might be a crazy old guy so, you know, don’t meet up if you are. And just in case you ARE, maybe somewhere in the open and in public. But I THINK you’re young and normal, right?
Elliot replied later that day.
Dear M.T.
See, the thing is, I can’t meet up with you, cos I can’t get through to your World, cos here I am in the Kingdom of Cello.
Like I might’ve mentioned once or twice before.
And it’s true there’s a crack which lets our letters get through, but it definitely wouldn’t be big enough for people. Hasn’t been one that big in over three hundred years.
I wish I could help because you sound sad, what with your troubles with tearing up your friend’s feathers, and wanting to see colours that aren’t there, and reading messages ‘from the universe’ into my fourth-level Red letter.
Sorry about that letter, and I can guarantee, there wasn’t any ‘message’ there, just madness.
I’m sure your eyes are open at all the right times.
What else?
Okay, seems to me, if I’m reading you right, there’s a boy you like, and you didn’t realise how much you liked him until now, but it’s too late cause you’ve done something to hurt him? And now he’s run off?
Ah, just tell him you’re sorry, and he’ll come around. He’s probably even forgotten by now—girls are always imagining things into boy’s heads that have long gone. We’re tougher than you think—and more forgetful.
Speaking for myself, if you’re looking pretty and your hair’s all shiny, and there’s a glint in your eye, and you say sorry like you mean it, and then kiss me on the mouth and let your hand kind of slip under my shirt so it’s on my back, well, I’d sure forgive and forget.
(And if I’ve misread your letter about what’s actually happened, and I’m way off the mark on all this, that’s your fault. You’re too cryptic.)
Anyhow, like I said, there’s no way through, and to be honest, I’m not all that keen on risking the plague.
One more thing.
M.T.: it’s good corresponding with you, but maybe you could give the talk about Colours a rest.
Take it easy,
Elliot
P.S. Can’t help with your birdwatching question either, mainly on account of I have not the faintest stirrings of a clue what you are on about. No offence.
Clover Mackie, town seamstress, was sitting on her porch doing a crossword puzzle. Every now and then, she straightened up to think about an answer, her eyes running over the square.
Here came Elliot Baranski in the Thursday afternoon sunshine, stopping at the doorway to Le Petit Restaurant, and handing over a big cardboard box. He ran back across the square to where his truck was parked, and emerged with a second box, this time handing it over at the grocery store. For a third time, he ran across the square towards his truck, calling ‘Hey’ to a friend in the Bakery, and jumping to touch the eaves of the Toadstool Pub with his fingertips as he passed.
Now he was back in the square again, a smaller box under his left arm, and he was running his right hand along Clover’s own paling fence, opening her gate and leaping up the stairs to her porch.
‘You seem happy,’ Clover said. ‘Tell me first, what’s a seven-letter word that means shy? And after that, tell me if you’ve got time to sit and have a coffee and a fresh-baked croissant, and share some of that good cheer with me?’
‘Word that means shy? No idea,’ said Elliot. ‘Hang on, seven letters? Bashful. And I’d kill for one of your croissants, Clover, but I’m meeting Kala any minute.’
‘Ah, that explains the good mood,’ said Clover. ‘She’s a sweet girl, your Kala, isn’t she?’
‘She is,’ agreed Elliot, ‘and a whole lot more. Just been dropping off some raspberry deliveries, and we’ve got some extra for you.’ He placed the cardboard box onto the table.
‘Here she is now,’ said Clover, pointing across the square with one hand, and holding up a raspberry with the other. ‘These look delicious! How’s things with you, Kala?’ she called.
They both watched as Kala approached the gate, grinning up at them.
‘Actually, things are sort of great, Clover. I just got news.’ Kala turned her grin on Elliot, her hands brushing over the fence posts. ‘Guess what happened?’
‘Can’t.’
‘I got a scholarship to Demshield College.’
Elliot’s hand reached across to the box of raspberries.
‘The boarding school in Olde Quainte?’
‘It’s the best one there.’
‘Didn’t know you’d applied.’ Elliot was studying a handful of raspberries.
‘Sure you did.’ Kala smiled back. ‘Well, you knew it was my plan anyhow.’
‘I guess,’ he agreed. ‘When’s it start?’
‘In a couple of weeks! It’s a third-round offer, that’s why it’s so last-minute. I wasn’t smart enough to get in with the first two rounds. But it’s good anyway, it’s a full scholarship.’
‘Well, how about that,’ said Elliot, his voice low and easy, dropping the raspberries back into the box. He nodded at Clover, jumped down the steps, put an arm around Kala’s neck and kissed the top of her head.
‘Not smart enough,’ he murmured. ‘Smartest girl in all the Kingdoms
is what you are.’
A few days later the Girl-in-the-World wrote again.
Hey Elliot
You know the poet Byron? He went horseriding in the rain when he already had a chill, and ended up dead.
So anyhow, there was this other poet, Tennyson his name was, and he was only fifteen at the time. He was a big fan of Byron—I guess poets were the rockstars of the day—and the day he heard that Byron had died, he went to pieces.
He talked about it later. ‘Byron was dead!’ he said. ‘I thought the whole world was at an end. I thought everything was over and finished for everyone—that nothing else mattered. I remember I walked out alone, and carved, “Byron is dead” into the sandstone.’
I’ll tell you what I saw in my friend Jack’s eyes when he walked out the door of my flat after I hurt him.
That something was dead.
His recklessness, his hope, the poetry inside him.
Byron is dead, I thought, and everything is over and finished.
I guess what I’m saying here is, I don’t think brushing my hair is gonna fix it.
Why don’t you write me into your story? Give me a role to play in the Kingdom of Cello, cause turns out I’m useless right here.
M.T.
Hey M.T.
You guys die from riding horses with a chill?
You need to get yourselves some better doctors.
Sad story, but I still think it’s not so bad as it seems, kid. Betcha one of our quince trees it’ll turn out okay if you say sorry.
Elliot
Dear Elliot Baranski,
You remember once I was talking about how to solve problems?
And I said it’s really easy, and gave you, like, suggestions?
Ha ha.
Today I was reading about Isaac Newton (again) and turns out I was totally wrong.
Okay, so Isaac had this obsession with light and colours—how they worked, how our eyes see them, that kind of thing—and he wanted to figure them out. (I know you asked me to stop talking about colours, but why? I like them.)
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