The curious, bright-eyed Raven decided enough was enough. Time to let the light free to shine on everyone. He changed himself into a pine needle that the girl swallowed when drinking a cup of water.
As well as selfish, the girl must’ve been awfully stupid, I figured. Imagine not noticing that you’d gulped back a pine needle!
The pine needle part was Pantelli’s favorite. Pantelli loves trees. He wants to be a tree doctor when he grows up, or maybe a forest ranger. So, for our project, he went into a five-page rant about different types of pine needles — how it must’ve been a needle from the dwarf pine that the girl swallowed, as opposed to one from a regular-sized pine.
We got points taken off, needless — or should that be needles? — to say. OFF TOPIC, the teacher wrote scornfully.
Back to the myth of the Raven. Having been digested by the girl, he changed himself into a baby, which she then gave birth to.
The baby/Raven started crying nonstop. I guess there weren’t any pacifiers in those far-off mythic days. The girl and her dad shoved the bags at the baby to keep him quiet. Dumb-dee-dumb-dumb. The baby/Raven opened the bags, probably with a big, gleeful caw!, and let loose the stars, moon and sun.
I studied the Raven’s long beak, with its red rim stretching like a smile. And the round black eyes, alert and — humorous, I thought.
“He’s funny,” I said.
Julie nodded, pleased. “You’re right, Dinah. The Raven has an excellent sense of humor. I’ve always thought that’s the source of his cunning, his mischief, in all the stories about him.”
“As long as he doesn’t use his mischief for ill,” murmured Mother — a typical no-fun, Motherly comment, I thought and shook my head at her. She was so embarrassing sometimes.
Julie stroked the bright red beak. “The Raven’s challenge is to turn his gift of mischief to good use. He doesn’t always succeed. I think that if you were that clever, that capable of fooling others, it would be very hard to stay on the straight and narrow all the time.”
Madge was still gazing, entranced, at the mask. Like me, she was too much in awe of the Raven to care about his off days. “Since he brought light to the world, I think we pretty much have to forgive him everything,” she pointed out.
“With fans like you, the guy definitely doesn’t need an agent,” remarked Mr. Wellman. “Hey, Julie, you’re really knowledgeable. Maybe you should start giving lectures on the Raven.”
“I’d be at every one,” promised Madge, who was starting at Emily Carr Institute of Art in the fall. Her blue eyes shone.
Julie’s round, cheery face began to rival the Raven’s for redness, only it was embarrassment, not ferocity. “I don’t think Elaine would approve,” she said, running a hand through her spiky-cut black hair. “She’d think I was shoving my way into the limelight.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I demanded. “I do that myself, as often as possible.”
Julie hesitated. “You see, Elaine believes that amateurs should keep quiet. She says it took her years to become a professor, so she’s earned the right to be a public figure. Whereas someone like me — well, I love art and mythology, and I’m actually an artist, too. Or trying to be! But I don’t have a fancy Ph.D. like Elaine.”
“P-h-phooey,” I said, deciding I didn’t like this sister of Julie’s very much. Sounded like Elaine put on quite the airs.
Julie ran her hand through her hair again. She was one of those people with untidy hair that looked chic and expensive, whereas mine just looked untidy.
She confided, “Besides, with what’s been happening, I’d rather keep a lowered profile on the cruise.”
Julie had quieted her voice even beyond its usual softness. I leaned forward to be able to hear her. Unfortunately, my cat-slippered toes crunched on some bubble wrap that had fallen. Pop, pop, pop!
“We don’t need sound effects, Dinah,” Madge reprimanded. Being dreamy, she was pretty quiet and soft-spoken herself.
“Sorry,” I apologized. Nope, I just wasn’t the type to maintain a soothing atmosphere.
Julie was more twinkly-eyed than offended, so I plunged on, full of curiosity. “Mr. Wellman mentioned a sinister something. Is it to do with the mask?”
Julie nodded. “Someone’s been trying to steal it.”
Madge and Mother also leaned forward to hear. Hunched in a circle around Julie, the three of us resembled cloves of garlic.
There’d been two attempts to steal the mask, Julie explained.
The first had been at her apartment on Cadwallader Avenue, where she’d stored the Raven initially. Someone had climbed the tree next to her second-story window, slid along the nearest branch, jimmied the window open —
And crashed to the ground when the branch broke beneath him.
“The police deduce that it was a ‘he’ from the footprints limping away from the scene,” Julie explained. “A man of slight build, about five nine.”
Mother broke in with a Motherly tsk. “Cadwallader’s not the best area for a young woman to be living in. So much crime! It’s not safe for you, let alone the Raven, Julie.”
Julie shrugged. “It’s all I can afford, at least till my paintings sell. An art dealer told me I had real talent — that it wouldn’t be long till I could hold a show in his gallery!”
Finding out about the attempted theft, Elaine insisted Julie bring the mask to her beautiful house in the Shaughnessy area. Julie could stay there with the mask until the cruise; Elaine herself was already off on her archeological dig.
For the privilege of staying at Elaine’s, Julie had to scrub the house from top to bottom. “I don’t mind, though,” Julie assured us.
Mother, Madge and I exchanged looks. So Julie was stuck on grimy Cadwallader Avenue while Elaine lived in swishy Shaughnessy! The only small houses there were the bird feeders. You’d think Elaine could spare Julie a teeny room at her place, at least while Julie struggled to make it as an artist.
Soon after Julie moved into Elaine’s, the security alarm blared forth. Poking his head out, a neighbor saw a slight, medium-height man in black cap, sweat suit and black mask hobbling off. Obviously the same guy who’d tried breaking into her apartment. This time the burglar had taken fright at the alarm’s loud pealing.
Mother and Madge looked horrified, but I had to stifle a laugh. The burglar’s efforts reminded me of a Roadrunner cartoon. “It doesn’t sound like we’re dealing with an overly high IQ here,” I observed.
“There’s a big illegal market for art — a problem we should take very seriously,” Mr. Wellman said. “Most likely some unsavory art dealer has hired our low-IQ thief. That’s the police’s theory, anyhow.”
He told Julie, “One reason I wanted to introduce you to Dinah is that she’s very observant, a natural detective. She’ll watch out for you. In any case, once you set foot on the Empress, you’ll be out of our thief’s reach. Smooth sailing, I’d say.” Mr. Wellman beamed at his little joke.
Madge, Mother and Julie laughed politely, but I took the opportunity to frown at him. Grown-ups were so bad at humor, in my view. Best not to encourage them.
The adults started talking about the luggage limit you could take on board a cruise ship. Mind-numbing. I mean, as long as I remembered to bring my CD player and Judy Garland and Bessie Smith CDs, I’d be well-equipped.
Excusing myself, I started to head upstairs. Then, in the front hall, “The Yellow Rose of Texas” tinkled out.
Either there was an elf-sized orchestra nearby or — yup. Somebody’d left a cell phone, a silver metallic one, on the hall table. I grabbed it.
“Hello?” I said.
Now, since I’d never seen the cell phone before, I knew quite well the call couldn’t be for me. However, like the Raven, I was naturally curious. Curiosity was my strong or weak point, depending on how you looked at it.
A female voice on the other end snapped, “Are you cleaning?”
“Not if I can help it,” I replied in surprise.
A wa
il. “C’mon, you’re staying in my house, aren’t you? It needs cleaning. So get to work!”
This must be Julie’s cell phone, and the woman on the other end must be —
“Elaine?” I guessed.
“Of course it’s Elaine,” Professor Hébert barked. “You listen to me, Julie. Take good care of the mask. Don’t botch this for me. And don’t talk to people about the Raven, or anything else for that matter! You’re not the know-it-all you think you are. In fact, you know nothing! You’re just a silly little — ”
I scraped what little fingernails I owned over the mouthpiece. Nothing wrong with creating a little static. What a creep this Elaine was! It was surprising Julie had any self-confidence left at all.
“Sorry, can’t hear you,” I said and powered off.
Chapter 3
Attack of the brussels sprouts
Mother insisted Mr. Wellman and Julie stay for dinner. She asked Mr. Wellman if he’d like to phone his wife and invite her, too, but it turned out she was visiting friends in San Diego. “So you’ve saved me from a frozen dinner,” my agent thanked Mother. “And, given my kitchen comprehension skills, frozen dinners tend to remain frozen, even after I’ve heated them up.”
“Oh dear,” fretted Mother, not recognizing yet another of Mr. Wellman’s lame jokes. Like Madge, she was pretty, though in a softened, middle-aged kind of way, and dreamy to the point of being somewhat dotty. “How hungry you must be, then! … And you, Julie, is there anyone, um, a partner or family member you’d like to call — ”
“Thanks, but I’m alone in the world except for my stepsister,” Julie smiled. “And I don’t see her much; she’s so busy with her teaching and public speaking.”
And with being nasty, I thought. I didn’t tell Julie about Elaine’s call. I was sure Julie got enough of her stepsister as it was.
Pantelli dropped by in time to join us for dinner, something he did often. Pantelli had already eaten, but, like mine, his appetite was endless. Unlike me, irritatingly, he stayed as skinny as the twigs he liked to examine through his magnifying glass.
He immediately applied the magnifying glass to the Raven. “Cool,” he breathed.
“Yes, the mask combines the Raven’s mischief and majesty all at once,” Julie said.
Pantelli looked up, his brown eyes puzzled beneath his untidy black curls. “Huh? I meant the wood,” he clarified. “It’s yellow cedar. Very resistant to decay. Interestingly, the inner side of a yellow cedar’s bark smells like potatoes.”
“Er … speaking of potatoes, why don’t we have some,” Mother suggested to Julie, who seemed rather baffled. Pantelli took some getting used to. Like, years.
Over roast beef, garlic mashed potatoes and, much less pleasantly, brussels sprouts, Julie told us how she’d once visited a lecture of Elaine’s.
“It was at the Vancouver Roundhouse Community Center. I tried to slip into the lecture room unseen — and knocked over a chair. Unluckily, Elaine had stacked books and papers on the chair. These went flying! What a commotion.
“Elaine was furious. Claimed I’d deliberately ruined the speech she was giving to these high school kids.”
“Wow,” said Pantelli. “You sound like Dinah. Impossible for Di to make a quiet entrance.”
“I’m sure the lecture wasn’t ruined,” Mother reassured her as I glared at Pantelli. “Here, have some brussels sprouts, Dinah,” and she ladled a mini-mountain of them onto my plate.
Mother then politely concentrated on Julie, who began talking about her art. These brussels sprouts have to go, I was thinking. I tipped my plate, emptying the mini-mountain into the napkin on my lap.
Madge eyed me with distaste. She was the type who took a good helping of vegetables and only dainty portions of mashed potatoes and beef. Sick, in my view. “Sometimes it’s not only stepsisters who are vastly, even frighteningly, different,” she remarked.
This got her odd looks from Mother, Julie, Mr. Wellman and Pantelli, but I didn’t think Madge was planning to give me away. Madge didn’t tattletale when she was in a good mood.
Which she was, this week, because a) she was going on a cruise ship packed with clothing boutiques, and b) even better, Mr. Wellman had wangled a job for her boyfriend, Jack French, on the Empress Marie as a swimming instructor.
Jack was very athletic, with all kinds of Red Cross and Royal This-And-That badges and certificates. A regrettable side to an otherwise nice guy.
I’d guessed right about my sister, for, glowing with girlfriendly pride, she began to tell Julie about Jack: “He took a year off after high school to volunteer with an anti-smoking group, but this fall he starts university. He plans to become a teacher.”
The rest of us smiled encouragingly. My smile was my phony, bared-teeth one, though. Not that I didn’t admire Jack. I did, wholeheartedly.
However, my mind was on getting rid of the brussels sprouts.
Rolling up the brussels sprouts-stuffed napkin, I tucked it under my arm and mumbled an excuse about needing to go to the washroom. No one batted an eye. Smooth, or what?
I was being honest. I did need a washroom — so I could flush the sprouts down the toilet. If the yechy green things were so nutritious, let the city sewers be healthy.
By the upstairs bathroom, I paused to unroll the napkin. Beside me was Madge’s room; the door to her balcony, which faced on to the street, was open. Madge had been leaving it open, even in the chilliest weather, since reading in one of her fashion magazines that too much indoor air stifled the complexion.
Right.
Now, through the balcony door, I heard a boy’s voice say: “Yup, LOUD is the word for Dinah Galloway.”
Huh? Still clutching the brussels sprouts-filled napkin, I went through Madge’s room to the balcony and stepped out. The balcony railing was covered with wisteria that we let grow wild, much to our neighbors’ disapproval. The advantage to us was that all those rampant leaves acted as a privacy screen.
Crouching below the railing, I peered through the leaves at the boy who’d just dissed me.
It was the new boy in my grade seven class. Talbot St. John.
There’s a twerpy name for you. Imagine naming a kid “Talbot” if he was already stuck with “St. John.”
The twerpish sound of it had not, however, prevented several girls in my class from going gaga over him. I suppose because he was tall — well, tall for a grade seven — with dark hair that drooped in a soulful lock over deep blue eyes.
Maybe it was the late-birthday thing again, but, soulful lock or not, I failed to understand why the girls stood around at recess in limp clumps, drained of any energy, and certainly of any personality, gazing with hopeless adoration at him.
It was one of the gaga girls he was talking to on the sidewalk: Liesl Dubuque, our neighbors’ niece. Liesl was staying with them for a year while her parents traveled.
Liesl had a white, sharp face framed by wedge-cut black hair. She was always tugging on the back of her hair, the wedge part. I’d overheard her say she wanted to grow her hair out to — get this — impress Talbot.
As well as sharp features, Liesl had a sharp, scornful laugh, which she erupted into now.
“ ‘LOUD’ doesn’t express it, Talbot. When Dinah opens her mouth, there’s no point in anyone else trying to speak. Ms. Boom-Boom deafens us all.”
“Talk about breaking the sound barrier,” Talbot began — and Liesl’s laugh sliced through the air again.
I’d had enough. Grabbing brussels sprouts, I started hurling them at the sidewalk duo. I had good aim, too, so — splat! splat! — the round green blobs smashed against their heads.
“AT LEAST I HAVE A PERSONALITY, YOU TWO TWERPS,” I bellowed. “THEY’D HAVE TO SEND OUT A SEARCH PARTY TO FIND YOURS!”
Down to one brussels sprout, I crouched behind the wisteria-thick railing again. After all, you never knew. Talbot and Liesl might be packing eggs or tomatoes.
It was then that I noticed something.
Wisteria wa
sn’t all that was gripping the balcony rails. At the side, two black-gloved hands were as well.
My mouth dropped into an elongated O. Amid the wisteria leaves, a black-balaclava-covered face stared back at me. I was able, at least, to see the eyes. They were a pale, and at this moment rather shocked, gooseberry color.
A burglar! He’d climbed the wisteria-laden trellis. He’d intended to break in by way of the balcony.
If I thought my jaw had plummeted, his had practically hit Australia. Frantic ideas about screaming or running for help fled my mind. I knew exactly what to do.
I took the last brussels sprout and shoved it through the railing into his wide-open mouth.
Wrenching away in reaction to the brussels sprout, the masked man yanked too hard on the trellis. Along with the sound of splitting wood, there was an “AAAGGH!” as the man fell back, back … into one of the firs separating our yard from the neighbors’.
I saw the man was dressed head-to-toe in black, including turtleneck, pants and hiking boots.
The evergreen he smashed backward against buckled under his weight. Then the tree trampolined him forward again. He slid straight down to thump in a painful heap on Mother’s snapdragons.
There were voices behind me, on the stairs.
“What the — ?” Mr. Wellman erupted.
“Property destruction?” came Pantelli’s admiring voice. “Cool, Dinah.”
From Mother, in an apologetic tone to Julie, “Somehow a household with Dinah in it is never quiet, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s not my fault,” I objected, as the others joined me on the balcony. I pointed to the masked man, who was picking himself up with difficulty from the flattened snapdragons. “Bet it’s your inept thief again, Julie.”
Julie could only moan.
Deciding to be a bit more practical, I started to charge downstairs after the thief — but Mother and Madge held me back. “No tangling with criminals,” Mother warned. “We leave on our cruise tomorrow.”
Mask on the Cruise Ship Page 2
