The Calder Game

by Blue Balliett

  She knew the boy Calder liked mysteries and had a good mind for patterns and puzzles. He also understood numbers, and, she felt quite sure, understood them better than most people.

  Mysteries. She was looking for mysteries at Blenheim. She didn’t know how or why the Calder sculpture had vanished, but she wasn’t convinced that the boy knew anything about that. Perhaps he had become curious about something else, and had gotten too close. He might have been poking around someplace he didn’t belong.

  But how did the collector, Arthur Wish, fit in? She thought of the Minotaur, of Henry and Rosamund, and of the two mazes at Blenheim, one legendary and the other very real. Games and myths … of course these were ancient myths, really just stories about bravery and revenge and love and loss, the same things that have always brought joy and pain. Could a myth come to life if connected with just the right game? But heavens! It was a silly thought, perhaps the thought of an old woman who had read too much about symbols. She refused to imagine that the boy had been consumed alive.

  And then she read again, that evening, about the old viewing platform at the Grand Cascade.

  Struggling to her feet, she went out into the hall and knocked at the children’s doors. She should have known: Both were gone.

  Mrs. Sharpe then put on her most sensible shoes and all of her warm clothing, and set off for the park. There wasn’t a moment to spare.

  She stump-stumped over the cobblestones, her shadow slipping lightly across walls and past quiet curtains. Once or twice she stopped to listen, and even to look behind herself.

  What was that? She’d heard something — a rustling of fallen leaves — and hoped that as she walked, she walked alone. She knew about small towns, and knew that very little went unnoticed. She also knew that odd things could happen to anyone who disturbed the peace.

  Miss Knowsley, who had asked Walter Pillay to call her Posy, was standing at the Triumphal Arch, the town entrance to Blenheim, holding firmly to his arm. While hurrying through the dark streets of the town just moments earlier, the two of them had agreed on what to say to the police. It was just as they turned the last corner that they heard a tremendous splash.

  In all the shouting and confusion, the officers at the gate didn’t notice two figures ducking inside the high walls.

  Minutes after the figures hurried off unseen, an old lady with a cane worked her way slowly toward the same entrance to the park.

  By the time Posy Knowsley and Walter Pillay reached the bridge, there were at least five police cars. No one could figure out what or who had fallen into the lake, but everyone was examining the empty market cart. Ribbons of police tape waved mournfully from the edges of the cart, as if the party were over and the prizes gone — but what party? And which prizes?

  Just as the detectives absorbed what Ms. Knowsley and the boy’s father were telling them, that there might well be a secret room in the Grand Cascade that the boy had fallen into, Mrs. Sharpe arrived in the back of a police car, having commandeered it at the gate. Oddly, the old American woman backed up their theory. Then she added the sobering piece of news that the other two kids were missing, and had left no note about where they might be.

  “But it’s obvious,” the old woman added briskly. “Where else would they be?”

  Police walkie-talkies crackled, and an order was given. Calder’s dad and Miss Knowsley were invited into the car with Mrs. Sharpe. Soon the police cruiser was bouncing along the road to the Grand Cascade, clunking over rocks and careening around ruts. With each jolt, Mrs. Sharpe poked the back of the front seat with her cane. Not knowing his elderly passenger, the officer driving assumed these jabs were involuntary.

  As the four adults climbed out of the car at the top of the falls, a round, dark shape came hurtling out of the shadows. “Yee-owww!”

  “Pummy, darling! Where have you been, you naughty boy?”

  The black ball of fur could then be seen attacking a cracker that came out of Miss Knowsley’s apron pocket. Unafraid of all the commotion, he blinked his one eye thoughtfully and looked around. He licked his whiskers, then licked one paw.

  The cracker gone, he moved slowly and daintily, rock by rock, toward a boulder that was several feet from shore. Head on one side, he sniffed the small piece of plastic sitting on the top of his rock.

  Tap-tap! He pushed the object with his paw, moving it gently. Tap-tap!

  “Never seen a cat that fished like that at night,” one of the officers remarked. “Saw him earlier today, trying to get something out of that pool. Looks like he finally made his catch.”

  It was then that the group heard feet pounding along the path through the woods. It was the quick bam-bam-bam of a small person running. Everyone turned as Tommy burst out into the headlights, gasping for breath.

  “Petra — in the maze — something moving in the woods, something big —” he panted, and Mrs. Sharpe surprised everyone, including herself, by giving him a hug. Tommy surprised himself all over again by hugging her back.

  Then, before anything more could be said, Walter Pillay gave him a quick, glad-you’re-safe squeeze that lifted Tommy off his feet. It was then that the boy saw Pummy on the rock, and an oddly familiar object next to Pummy’s paw.

  “Wait!” Tommy said as soon as he was standing again. “What’s that?”

  A flashlight beam whirled across the top of the falls, and Pummy’s one eye flashed. “It’s a pentomino!” Tommy shouted. “It’s one of Calder’s pentominoes!”

  Walter Pillay was already splashing crazily toward Pummy, who hissed in alarm.

  Next came a flurry of cat fur, slippery rocks, a father who went underwater, and a small wet head swimming furiously for shore. Everyone was shouting.

  “Stand back!”

  “Oh, Pummy darling!”

  “The man’s lost his mind!”

  “He’s got it — the first piece of evidence!”

  Calder’s dad stood, half sobbing and half grinning, the shiny yellow piece of plastic held high in the air. Everyone looked away as he kissed it, then waded slowly toward the shore, his head down.

  It wasn’t clear at all that the broken pentomino was a good sign.

  A new quiet settled on the group as Walter Pillay and Tommy examined the shard together, busily theorizing about the pentomino being a signal or perhaps a message of some kind left by Calder. It wasn’t logical, but neither is the need for hope. No one mentioned the fact that Calder never lost his pentominoes or left them behind — unless forced to.

  A police officer reported the find through her walkie-talkie, but she shut the car door before speaking and didn’t talk long. She popped back out of the patrol car, looking uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Sharpe, watching in silence, now cleared her throat. “While the moving equipment gets here, perhaps we could investigate the maze. You heard what the young man said.”

  “I’ll bet Petra’s waiting,” Tommy said eagerly. “Oh, yes, please! She’s probably frightened out of her gourd. I know I was, while I was in the woods. We were planning to head for the maze once we got over the wall, but … it wasn’t so easy.”

  It was now the officer’s turn to clear her throat, but instead of lecturing Tommy, she asked, “Anyone like to go along? Might be a good idea to have a familiar face.”

  Tommy now looked agonized, glancing from the policewoman to Walter Pillay. Mrs. Sharpe said quickly, “I’ll go.”

  The officer ducked back into the car to make a call for another vehicle and officer, one to drive to the Kitchen Garden with the old lady. She was in the car for quite some time, the walkie-talkie crackling. Those standing outside in the dark could see her rubbing her forehead. When she put the receiver down and stepped back out, her face was an odd combination of goods and bads. “News!” she blurted.

  Several things had happened: In the last half hour, two local men had been arrested in the bushes by Rosamund’s Well. They had been responsible, they said, for moving the Minotaur to the top of the bridge, where they claimed it had
tipped off the wagon in a tremendous gust of wind and fallen into the lake. The men said that an American man had hired the two of them and several other local men — no names were given — to move the sculpture three days before, but then never turned up, as promised, to pay them. He hadn’t given them his name. They insisted that they were just returning the sculpture to the police, but couldn’t explain why they had agreed to steal the sculpture in the first place, or why they had then dragged the wagon into the park instead of simply placing a call.

  “Claimed they had no cell phone, and didn’t want to leave the sculpture someplace where it might be stolen,” the police officer said, then rolled her eyes. “Again!”

  Tommy glanced at Miss Knowsley. Her mouth had tightened into a shaky pucker. She looked like she was going to cry.

  The officer hurried on to tell the group that a heavy construction vehicle was on its way, and that the rocks at the edge of the falls were going to be moved that night. They wouldn’t even wait for dawn, now that a pentomino piece had been found. And Arthur Wish, in the hospital, had managed to say a little more. Here the policewoman paused.

  “What?” Walter Pillay almost shouted.

  “He has only said, ‘Falls, boy in falls.’ He said it twice.” The officer looked sorry not to have better news on Calder. Everyone was silent, picturing Calder falling down a crack in the rocks, down the Cascade, or perhaps being swept downstream.

  There was also the thought of a boy with no food and possibly no water for three whole days — not to mention no air.

  Time, on that piece of land where people had hunted for so long, slowed to a crawl. Searchers were everywhere that night, armed with flashlights and machinery. People hunting people: The tools had changed, but the intensity had not.

  Petra could never remember, later, whether she had passed out from sheer terror or fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, after wedging herself tightly under the hedge, was the blinding light of a flashlight and a man’s voice saying, “Here she is, ma’am! It’s the girl! Let’s see what we have!”

  And then she heard Mrs. Sharpe’s reedy, “Wonderful! Do be careful, don’t startle her!” coming from outside the maze.

  Night had never looked as miraculous. After hearing that Tommy was safe and Calder was possibly being rescued, Petra swore that if Calder survived, nothing would ever, ever bother her again. Nothing.

  And as she followed the police officer through the dark paths, she thought she would probably never set foot in another maze if she could help it. Not on purpose.

  She practically floated across the lawn, her black hair matted with leaves, dirt, and bits of paper and garbage. The clouds were gone, the sky was awash with sparkling stars, and it was heavenly to be alive, to be walking, to be feeling the wind on her face.

  And Mrs. Sharpe! How amazing that she was here! She stood near the wall of bushes, leaning heavily on her cane. Petra hurried over to say hello to her, then hesitated. Mrs. Sharpe held out her arms, and the two had a happy, unlikely hug. For a brief moment, dark tangles brushed across a white, biscuit-like bun.

  Riding to the Cascade in the police car, Petra closed her eyes and sent silent messages to Calder: I’m here, Tommy’s here, and you are, too. You are, you are! You’ll be okay, I know it, I’m sure of it. I’m sending you a million wishes to help you be strong. Soon you’ll be back in the world, in the beautiful night, in the wind.

  It wasn’t until the car stopped that Petra realized she had been holding Mrs. Sharpe’s thin hand as she wished. She let go of it, and Mrs. Sharpe gave her a little nod, as if she knew exactly what was going on.

  When Mrs. Sharpe and Petra arrived at the falls, they found Tommy sitting next to Walter Pillay on a rock. Calder’s dad had his head down on his arms, which rested on his knees; Tommy’s arm was draped over Walter’s back, as if their roles had reversed, and one had become the adult and the other the child.

  At the sound of Petra’s voice, Tommy was on his feet, grinning. The two rushed into a hug that looked ridiculously awkward from the outside, but felt wonderful on the inside. Tommy received a bent-kneed shoulder crunch and what might have been a kiss on the ear. Petra got a footstomp and a huge belly-squeeze. Both kids had bruises and scrapes that hurt, but their hug was the most delicious thing either had felt in a long time. Or at least it felt like a long time; that day had been the longest day either one of them had ever known.

  When they’d exchanged news, the group settled down to wait, including Pummy. An ambulance and a rescue team were parked on the bank. The police were clear about warning Walter Pillay that this latest exploration was only a possibility; if they didn’t find his son that night it might, in fact, be a good sign. After all, the boy could walk out of the woods any second, much as the Calder sculpture had flown off a hay wagon on the bridge. The detective speaking attempted a dry laugh, but it was met only with a fragile, distracted silence. Walter Pillay turned the broken pentomino over and over in his fingers, as if touching each side and holding it from every angle might help.

  Soon the earth-moving vehicle arrived and went to work, churning slowly and carefully. Rock by rock, the top of the falls was dismantled. Each time a boulder was lifted, water rushed under and around the hole, covering areas that had been dry for perhaps hundreds of years. Although this seemed precipitous and certainly dangerous, everyone agreed that waiting to dam and drain that part of the lake was not an option: Time was of the essence. If Calder was trapped inside the falls, every moment could count. Two divers in black rubber suits stood to one side of the vehicle, ready to jump in.

  Tommy, watching from between Petra and Walter Pillay, squeezed his coin as hard as he could. Wish, he thought, wish. If this wish comes true, I’ll be happy forever. Please. I’ll never wish again.

  No one but Petra knew about him finding this extraordinary coin, he’d gotten no glory, and suddenly that didn’t matter. He didn’t care if it was the oldest coin ever found, not if this worked.

  In a quick motion, he tossed the coin as far as he could. Spinning and turning as it flew, it shot through the bright fan of emergency lights before vanishing into the dark waves of the lake.

  No one said a word; everyone present understood.

  In the next few minutes, as machinery ground and scraped against the boulders, a shower of coins flew, one after another, into the water. Mrs. Sharpe handed her coins to Tommy to throw. He also tossed Ms. Button’s blue button. Petra threw everything she had: four pennies and a vitamin pill. Walter Pillay pitched every coin in both pockets, one at a time. Miss Knowsley threw all of her coins, and then the rest of the cracker crumbs. Even the police officers joined in.

  Pling … ponk … blip … plink …

  The patter of small disks falling on water was somehow comforting. Everyone was wishing.

  Just seconds after the last coin had been thrown, the two divers leaped forward, disappearing into a hole opened up by lifting a giant, trapezoidal rock. In the blink of an eye, Walter Pillay was in the water, lunging away from the grip of the policeman who jumped to restrain him.

  The machine stopped moving and the engine was cut; time stopped; no one on the bank said a word. The only sounds were those of a man struggling through thigh-deep water, a man who didn’t care if he slipped or fell.

  The divers couldn’t be seen, but low voices drifted back to the bank. Walter Pillay had, by then, scrambled up on the rocks behind them.

  “Calder!” His voice was half scream and half shout, an eerie and terrible wail that ripped through the night. One of the divers stepped quickly up out of the hole, and in his arms was a boy.

  The boy was limp, horribly limp, and as Walter Pillay clung to a boulder, suddenly unable to move, the diver leaped from rock to rock, rushing toward the ambulance on the bank.

  Everyone watching was dead silent; as Calder’s dad was helped into the ambulance with his boy, no one said a word.

  The doors to the ambulance closed; emergency technicians disappeared into the back. After what fe
lt to everyone watching like the longest few seconds in history, one of the nurses popped her head out a side window and shouted, “Radio the hospital that we’re coming, quick! The lad’s alive!”

  Three days earlier:

  It was dark, too dark to even imagine light. There was just the endless language of water, water splashing and gurgling and dripping and rushing. Black, black, black went a drip someplace to his right. He’d never realized how much the word fit what it sounded like: the flatness, the no-color, of dark water on dark stone. Black, black, black.

  He wiggled his arms and legs. Everything was sore. Moving your body in total lack of light — was this like moving your body for the first time? And why couldn’t he see?

  One hand in front of his face, he sat up very, very slowly, ready at any moment to bump into something.

  The slime on every surface, so slippery — Wasn’t that why he had fallen down here? Had the slime become his mind? Slip, slime, slip, slime … there was a watery sound to every word. Slip, slime, black, black … slip, slime, black, black.

  His hand hit rock an arm-length in front of him. The rock was cold and surprisingly dry. He pulled his hand back quickly, wiped it on his knee, and reached out again, slowly, slowly. The sounds of the words were as real as anything around him. He wanted to remember this later, the understanding that language blooms in the dark. Would he remember to tell Petra, who loved playing with words? He tried white, imagining brightness and the joy of being outside.

  White, white, white — suddenly he could feel the lightness and the shimmer of midday, of a fat cloud overhead, the dart and dazzle of sun on water.

  Maybe he’d hit his head, knocked himself out — he was quite sure he had — and now he had a crazy gift for language, a kind of mix-up of seeing and hearing. He tried another word, his eyes shut tight, although why bother? After all, shut and open were the same in here. Tight shut, shut tight — even the sounds of those two words were perfect for their meaning: tight had no air, no light, and shut was final, dreadful, closed.