That night Adam had a dream. He was standing in the icy cold water of Spider Crick, scooping up one bucketful after another as he tried to fill a hundred huge tubs on a wagon as large as the Coven Tree Village Green.
Suddenly something coiled about his ankles. He tried to reach the bank of the crick, but the thing pulled him farther into the dark waters. His legs were jerked viciously. He felt himself falling. Shivering and shaking, he tumbled….
Adam woke up. The morning sun shone through the window, but he still felt cold. The hissing of the waterspouts outside and the rumble of water hitting the roof were almost drowned out by the chattering of Adam’s teeth.
Drip…drip…drip…drip…
He sat up and looked at the foot of the bed. The blankets there were soaked with water, and the wet cloth was wrapped tightly about his ankles. On the ceiling was a large damp spot. He watched another drop of water collect in the center of the spot and then fall onto the foot of the bed.
The roof was leaking.
Quickly Adam got up. He found a bucket in the broom closet and brought it back to his room. Moving the bed aside, he put the bucket under the drip. As he started to get dressed, the ting…ting of the falling drops added itself to the sounds of the gushing spouts and the water on the roof.
Ma had oatmeal ready in the kitchen. “There’s a leak in the roof,” Adam told her as he ate. “Somewhere over my room.”
“I wouldn’t wonder,” said Ma. “The water was spurting out all night. Our roof has had more water on it in a single day than rain would bring in ten years. I couldn’t sleep with all the noise.”
“Maybe Pa and I could fix the leak,” Adam said.
“Your Pa’s got other things on his mind. Look.”
Adam went to the window. The water from the spouts had washed out a gully that led down to the hollow where the barn was. The barn looked different now, too. It seemed to sit on a smooth, flat surface that reflected the sunlight in glittering waves.
There was a pool of water down there. The barn was flooded!
“Pa’s trying to get the mess cleaned up,” said Mrs. Fiske. “You’d best go help him, Adam. If the water doesn’t stop soon, I don’t know what’s to become of us.”
Adam pulled on his high boots and then splashed his way to the barn. Pa was standing near the stalls, talking softly to the horses.
The whole floor of the barn was underwater. In one corner, two full sacks of grain were now soggy lumps of mush. The ducks seemed happy enough, paddling about from the stalls to the granary to the threshing floor like a squadron of tiny boats and quacking joyfully. The chickens perched on the edge of the hayloft, where Pa had set them. They ruffled their soaked feathers with furious clucks and generally acted as mad as…well, as mad as wet hens.
“First,” Pa told Adam, “you take the horses to the Jenks farm while I see if any of the grain is dry enough to be worth saving. Then we’ll carry the tools and such up to the hayloft. That’s well above the water—at least for now.”
The work in the barn took most of the morning. Pa had moved all the dry grain by the time Adam got back from the Jenks farm. The two of them rescued most of the large tools from the steadily rising lake in the barn. But many of the smaller things—chains and snaffles and clevises and such—were lost beneath the water.
“I guess we’ve done about all we can,” said Pa finally. “But those spouts by the house are going as strong as ever, and the water coming out of them holes I poked in the fields doesn’t show signs of quitting either. It’s surely odd how the water just keeps coming and coming. The whole farm is drenched.”
“The crops won’t die, will they?” Adam asked fearfully.
“Hard to tell,” Pa answered. “Right now they’re just getting a good drink. But they’ll either be drowned or go rotten if the water doesn’t stop soon. It does beat all how the water’s just on this place. Once it reaches the end of our land, it just disappears down into the ground.”
“But what’ll we do if we lose the crops, Pa?”
“We’ll make do somehow. Right now I’ve got more on my mind than a few bushels of corn.”
“Like what, Pa?” What could be worse than having all the crops die? Adam wondered.
“Look there, Adam. D’you see all that higher ground around the house and the barn? Our buildings are down in a kind of hollow. And if that hollow fills with water—”
“Pa!” Adam gasped. “We’d be living in the middle of a lake!”
Pa nodded. “If the water doesn’t let up in the next day or so, the only thing that’ll be comfortable in our front parlor is fish. I figure on staying put as long as possible, but we just might have to leave the farm before we’re drowned out.”
“Leave the farm, Pa? That’d be awful!”
“We won’t have much choice unless the water lets up. And don’t carry on so. I bought this farm, and I can buy another. It’ll take a few lean years while we save up the money, but we’ve seen bad times before, and I guess we’ll weather this one all right.”
Then Pa waved a warning finger. “Not a word to Ma about this, Adam. No sense getting her upset just now. Maybe the water’ll stop, and we’ll have done all this worrying for nothing.”
But as the day wore on, the water kept on gushing up out of the ground. Every few minutes Adam would peek out the kitchen window. The pond around the barn was deeper every time he looked. It crept closer and closer to the house like some hungry monster.
Toward the middle of the afternoon Adam looked out and saw a small knot of people standing on the high ground overlooking the house and barn. “Pa,” he said. “Folks are coming out from town to see what’s going on.”
“I reckon I’d do the same if I was one of them,” said Pa in a tired voice. “Go out and see ’em if you like, Adam. I’m weary from all that work this morning. I’ll just sit here and keep myself company.”
Adam wanted to find out what other people thought about the spouting water. As he walked up the hill to the high ground, he heard Jonas Colby, the stationmaster, arguing loudly with Wilbur Baldwin, who taught science at the high school. Mr. Colby was used to winning his arguments.
“Consarn it, Wilbur!” he was saying. “You can talk until you’re blue in the face about underground rivers and rock strata and all that rubbish. But how in tarnation do you explain them things?” He poked a finger in the direction of the five spouts.
“Wells…called artesian wells…sometimes come up…” began Mr. Baldwin.
“I don’t give a hoot if every artist in the world has got a well,” interrupted Mr. Colby with a cackling laugh. “There’s nothing in any of your almighty science books to explain how water can be shooting up out of the ground like that. Admit it. Here’s one thing you don’t know beans about.”
“No, I don’t,” replied Mr. Baldwin. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“Maybe we’re just seeing things, huh? Maybe them things ain’t really there, flooding out the barn.” Then Mr. Colby dug his elbow playfully into Mr. Baldwin’s ribs. “Or how about this, Wilbur—maybe it’s magic!”
At the word magic, Adam’s stomach seemed to turn to jelly. The Church Social…Thaddeus Blinn…the wish card…He remembered all of these. Just as clearly, he suddenly remembered his own wish:
I wish we had water all over this farm.
“All over this farm”—that’s what he’d said. But he’d only meant—
“Adam?”
It was Sven Hensen, the blacksmith. Sven was more than six feet tall, and as thick and hard as a full-grown oak tree. Once Adam had seen him lift two steel anvils off the ground without even sweating.
“Iss all dat water givin’ you and your pa trouble, Adam?” Sven asked.
Adam nodded his head.
“You vant I should cap dem spouts so you don’t get no more water?”
“Could you really do that, Mr. Hensen?” Adam couldn’t believe there was a way to turn the spouts off.
“Sure. I show you.” Sven took mighty
strides toward the house, with Adam trotting close behind. The blacksmith found a washtub on the back porch. “Dis’ll do joost fine,” he said.
Sven walked to the nearest spouting column, paying no attention to the water that was pouring down on him. He lifted the tub high above his head.
“YAAAHHHHH!” Sven’s shout rang in Adam’s ears as the blacksmith brought the tub down over the spout. He leaped onto the tub’s bottom and raised both hands above his head.
“Look there!” called somebody on the hill. “Sven Hensen has capped the first spout!”
Now there were only four columns of water. “Come, you people!” Sven ordered. “You drive stakes deep in ground around tub. Den you tie down tub with rope and…Ohhhhhh!”
Before anyone could obey, a rumbling came from deep underground. Sven, still standing on the tub, began to rise into the air. Water shot out of the ground, pushing the tub higher. The blacksmith was above the porch roof before the tub slid off the column of water. Both Sven and the tub came crashing back to earth with a thud and a clang.
“Mr. Hensen!” cried Adam in alarm. “Are you all right?”
Sven sat up, looked about, shook his head, and got to his feet.
“I joost get wind knocked out from me,” he said. “But dat water’s powerful strong, Adam. I’m strongest man in Coven Tree. If I can’t put cap on dem spouts, nobody else can do it neither.”
Sadly, Adam made his way back to the house. For the rest of that day, he and Ma and Pa sat without saying a word, simply watching the water come closer and closer. They all knew the farm was as good as lost. But nobody wanted to talk about it.
By suppertime, Adam had worked up his courage to tell Pa about the terrible wish he’d made. “Pa,” he began, “when I was at the Church Social last Saturday, I saw a little man in a white suit. He told me…”
“Adam, be still!” ordered his mother sharply. “Your pa’s in no mood to hear about your frivolous goings-on.”
“But Ma, I—”
“That’s enough, Adam!” Ma whacked his wrist hard with her teaspoon. Adam couldn’t remember another time when Ma had struck him in anger.
“I’ll be quiet, Ma,” he said in a whisper.
Later, as he was getting ready for bed, Adam heard a new noise above the hissing of the spouts and the drumming on the roof and the tink-tink of the drip from the ceiling. It was water, running and trickling as if into a still pool. But the sound was coming from just underneath the floor on which his bed sat.
Pa appeared at the door of his room, holding a lantern.
“The water’s reached the cellar windows,” he told Adam. “It’s coming inside now. Tomorrow we’ll have to move out.”
When Adam got up Thursday morning, he looked out the window first thing. There was a big lake all around the house, lapping against the foundation. Much of the barn was underwater. The five spouts were gushing as strong as ever, and the drumming sound on the roof was loud in Adam’s ears.
Quickly he pulled on his clothes and went into the kitchen. The roof there was leaking now—leaking badly. Pails and pots and pans were all over the floor, each one catching its own drip from the ceiling. Ma stood at the stove. She was wearing her black rubber raincoat and hat, and in one hand she held an open umbrella. With the other she flipped an egg in the skillet. A drop of water hit the umbrella, rolled off, and hissed as it hit the hot stove.
“You shouldn’t be cooking this morning,” Adam told her. “We could get along without breakfast this once.”
“I’ve cooked breakfast at this stove every day since your pa built this house,” she replied. “I’m not about to give it up now, even if it is our last day here.”
In her own way, thought Adam, Ma could be just as stubborn as Pa.
“Ahoy, the house!” Adam heard Pa cry from somewhere outside. “Ready yourselves. Captain Fiske is coming into harbor!”
Ma threw open the back door, and Adam saw a sight stranger than he’d ever expected. There was Pa, soaked to the skin, standing on what looked to be some kind of a raft. The frame was heavy wooden beams, notched at odd places. Underneath, a barrel was fastened at each corner to make the craft float high in the water, and the whole thing was tied together with cords, baling wire, and heavy ropes. Pa stood at the rear with a long pole in his hands, using it to push the raft ahead.
“This here’s parts of the chickenhouse and the horse stalls,” he said. “I had to tear apart a few things down in the barn to get what I needed.”
“It…it’s a fine raft, Pa,” said Adam.
“The water’ll rise and flood the first floor in a few hours,” said Pa. “We’ll have to raft the furniture and such to high ground while there’s still time.” He pointed toward where a little hill marked the beginning of the Jenks farm.
“Before we start,” said Adam, “let me tell you about the wish…and the little man at the Church Social…and—”
“No time for idle chitchat now, Adam,” said Pa. “The water’s coming up fast, and we’ve got to get a move on. I’ll sail this thing around to the front, where those spouts won’t be dropping water on us. You go through the parlor and unlock the door for me. Toot! Toot!” Pa pretended to pull on the rope of a boat whistle.
“How that man can make jokes at a time like this is beyond me,” Ma told Adam.
He opened the front door just as Pa poled his way around the corner of the house. Pa threw Adam a rope, and between them they soon had the raft bobbing just outside the door.
“The davenport goes first,” Pa said. “And maybe one of those straight chairs. We can’t put too much on at once or we’ll capsize.”
He and Adam loaded the raft, and off they floated toward the hill. Once ashore, they unloaded and began poling back for a second load. It was slow going, with the raft wallowing in the water like a tired walrus.
The beds took two trips, and once Pa’s overstuffed chair almost slid into the water. They took Ma herself over to the hill in the middle of a load of pots and pans and knickknacks. Back and forth they went for hours. Finally, the only thing left was the big cookstove in the kitchen.
Adam gripped the stovepipe where it went through the wall and twisted. As the pipe came loose, a cloud of soot poured down over his head and shoulders.
“Phooo!” Adam snorted. “Pa, I’m covered with—”
“You can wash later,” Pa told him. “There’s water aplenty. Right now we’ve got to get this stove out of here.”
The stove was heavier than anything else in the house, and Adam had all he could do to carry his end. Just as they got it on board the raft, they heard a loud SLUUUSH as the rising water came in through the front door and up from the cellar, covering the floorboards.
“The house is sinking!” cried Pa. “Shove off, Adam.”
They were still some twenty feet from the hill that marked the beginning of dry land when…
CRACK
“What’s that, Pa?” whispered Adam in a frightened voice.
“I don’t know. It…”
CRACK
“The raft’s breaking up!” Adam cried. “The stove’s too heavy. Faster, Pa! Faster!”
They both pushed harder with their poles, but it was too late.
CRACK CRUNCH
The whole raft came apart. The stove broke through the deck and sank like a rock. The side of the raft tipped up, dumping Adam and Pa into the cold water.
“Swim, Edward!” called Ma from shore. “Adam, swim! Swim for your lives. You can’t drown now. Help, somebody. Help!”
“Sarah, will you stop that caterwauling?” yelled Pa. His roars of laughter rang out across the water. “The water here only comes up to our waists.”
By the time the household goods had been arranged on shore, two or three wagons were coming up the road from town. The good folks of Coven Tree weren’t about to stand by idly when a neighbor was in trouble. Whole families began arriving. The men and boys offered help in moving the furniture away from the shore of the lake, and the women an
d girls brought food enough for an army and offers of spare rooms where the Fiskes could stay.
But Pa would have none of it. “We’ll just camp out here,” he told Mayor Tubbs. “A little hard luck ain’t going to make us lose heart. A man ain’t licked until he hollers ‘uncle.’”
“But it’ll be dark soon,” said the mayor. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Yes, sir, there is. I’d be obliged if you’d just leave us alone for a bit to sort things out.”
The villagers left then. As the sun settled down on the western horizon, the Fiskes were alone at the edge of the lake that had once been their farm. Pa built a small fire and opened a can of beans with the axe. Ma spread blankets on the ground to sit on as they ate. The only sounds were the hissing of the waterspouts and the patter of water on flooded fields.
Adam took a deep breath. “Pa?”
“What?”
“It was me, Pa. I’m the one who done it!”
“Done what, Adam?”
Adam began his story. He told of the Church Social and Thaddeus Blinn and the card and the wish he’d made and what that wish had turned into. When he finished he sat silently, waiting for Pa to roar out his anger or thrash him with a stick or…or…
“It don’t seem possible,” murmured Pa softly.
He walked to the shore and dabbled the toe of one shoe in the water. “It don’t seem possible,” he repeated. “I never thought to see something like this in a dozen lifetimes…and all from one little wish. Still, it’s happening. So it must be magic.”
“Ain’t—ain’t you going to get mad, Pa?” Adam asked.
“Because you made a wish, Adam?” Pa replied. “I must have made the same wish a hundred times in years past. The only difference was, I didn’t have the card with the red spot. But if I’d had it, I’d have used it, same as you. No, Adam, I’m sad that our farm is gone. But I’m not angry with you. Wishing that things were better is something all people do.”
Adam felt a sense of relief wash over him. It was good to have the whole story out in the open, and not bottled up inside anymore. And Pa…Pa wasn’t even angry with him.
The Wish Giver Page 8
