He cocked his head. “Is that so? What were they saying?”
“I didn’t understand everything,” I said. “They seem to like the sun. I think the wind disturbs them. They seem very sleepy.”
“No wonder,” he said. “It’s nearly winter. All sensible creatures know winter is a time of rest. Only we civilized beings are silly enough to work through the winter.”
I smiled at that, and he smiled back. I think he was starting to enjoy having someone to talk to. “Well, next time you’re listening to the trees, tell them we need some firewood. I haven’t had time to stock up yet.”
“I’ll try,” I promised.
I went to bed that night, cuddling with my doll, my head full of thoughts. I missed my father, and the thought of him brought tears to my eyes. Still, the feeling wasn’t as bad as it had been before. I told myself that he would soon return, and that thought comforted me a bit. He had promised to come back. I held on to that, and it tempered my sadness.
Eventually my mind strayed to the trees, and in my half-sleeping state, I imagined that I was out there listening to them. “Wood Folk, here in the vale,” one of them said. “Strange times these are.”
“I’m not Wood Folk,” I said.
There was a creaking and groaning among them. “What do you want with us?” another said.
I thought about it. “The Tinkerman needs firewood for the winter,” I said. They murmured a response that I couldn’t quite hear, and their voices seemed to drift away on the wind. Soon, I fell asleep, and lost myself in the dreams of a child.
The next day was much the same as the first. The Tinkerman went straight to work on his project, and I wandered down to the quiet end of the valley where I could listen to the trees and gaze out over the plains. Perhaps I thought that if I stared long enough, I’d see my father coming back across those fields. Or perhaps I feared he wouldn’t, and found some small comfort in the beauty of nature around me. Either way, it wasn’t long before I was lost in daydreams.
The trees started to murmur again as I wandered around, and I climbed the hill at the edge of the woods, thinking I might understand better if I was closer. Gradually, one word became clear to me.
“Fire,” the voices said. I tilted my head, stepping closer. I didn’t smell smoke, so it seemed odd that they should use that word. Then suddenly the trees all along the mountainside began to shake and shiver, and branches began to rain down around me. There was a lot of noise for a minute or two, and then suddenly it stopped. “Firewood,” the voices murmured. “Fire. Wood.”
I surveyed the hillside, hardly able to believe what had just happened. I wasn’t dreaming, I realized. I had actually spoken to the trees… and they had given us firewood for the winter!
Then I glanced around and realized that they had given me more wood than I could carry. It was going to take a while to gather it all. I started picking up the smaller branches. I had an armload ready to take to the cottage when the Tinkerman appeared. He’d been running, and he was breathless.
“You’re all right?” he said. “What was that noise?”
Then he noted my arms full of wood. His eyes widened as he glanced up the hillside. “Firewood,” I said cheerfully. “The trees gave it to us.”
His jaw dropped, and he watched in silence as I clambered up the slope towards the cottage, struggling with an armload of branches that must have weighed as much as I did. On my way back to the trees, he passed me on the trail with a load of his own.
We spent the whole afternoon clearing the hillside. As I gathered my last load, I paused to thank the trees. Tinker witnessed this and did the same, though his face reddened before he rushed up the hill ahead of me with his eyes downcast. The trees didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment. They simply gave me a warm feeling and returned to their dreams.
It was on my third day that the trouble started.
Chapter 3
It was midmorning. The weather was cool but not uncomfortable, and the sun was warm on my skin. I had gotten used to Tinker’s routine, and though I wasn’t by any means settled, there was a certain comfort that came with the sense of familiarity and the acceptance that my father was far away and that I wouldn’t see him for a long time. This led me to seek other distractions. One thing had been weighing heavily on my mind since I arrived: what to do with all of Tinker’s junk?
I hadn’t quite settled on how to deal with Tinker’s mess but clearly something had to be done, and clearly I was the person to do it. Not that Tinker had asked or in any way even hinted that he was unhappy with the situation, but it was obvious to me that he was too distracted by his work to even acknowledge that there was a problem. Therefore, I set my mind to it, determined that anything I came up with would be better than what he had.
The easiest –and in my opinion best-solution was to toss it all down the mountainside. I suspected Tinker might not approve, so I kept working on the problem. It occurred to me then that there might be room to store some of that junk in the barn. I decided to investigate. So far I’d only seen the barn from a distance, but it didn’t look much different from my father’s old barn. If anything it was slightly larger, but I suspected it would be much the same on the inside. I was wrong.
Strange odors assaulted me as I slid between the partially-opened doors. I paused, suddenly reluctant, with my nostrils burning from the scent. It made my eyes water. I hesitated there, at the threshold of something new and potentially wonderful.
It wasn’t grease or oil, I knew those scents well already. It was subtle, and yet in it’s own way even more potent. It was the smell of the foundry; the smell of burnt coal and soot, and the acidic tinge of molten metal and cooked flux.
The barn’s interior was dark, illuminated only by random beams of light that broke through the slats in the walls. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, my courage began to build. I swept my gaze across the shadowy interior and saw tables and workbenches covered with miscellaneous parts of machinery and tools. Beneath the tables I saw more junk, packed into boxes and stacked as tightly as Tinker could fit them, and still more dangled from hooks and nails on the walls. The stuff was piled up in the corners right up to the rafters.
Tinker’s clutter problem was ridiculous beyond belief. I was astounded. The cottage had been bad. The front yard was downright hazardous. The barn… Ah, the barn.
At some point, as I gazed across that minefield of chaos, my mission changed. I forgot my naïve idea of organizing the yard. I had found a new world to explore. It was a world of strange things: of gadgets, tools and trinkets from the far corners of the world. Somehow they had all landed here, and their mysteries beckoned to me.
I found myself drawn towards a workbench at the far wall. It was the tidiest area that I had seen since my arrival. Glass and stone beakers filled with colored liquids lined the back corner. One of these cast a pale glowing light across the tabletop. At the center of the table rested a small rectangular metal tray. It held a dozen balls of varying sizes, the largest being about the size of my fist and the smallest the size of my thumb. They all appeared to be made from some sort of stone. I picked up one of the smaller balls and felt its weight in my palm.
Like everything else in the room it gave off an odd scent, but it looked and felt just like a stone. I don’t know what came over me, but for some reason I got the idea to test my aim. Perhaps it was because I had seen my father throw rocks to chase off rodents around my old home.
I took aim at a tin pot hanging on the far wall, and let it fly. I missed, and when the rock hit the wall, it exploded. The thundering BOOM! that followed tore a hole right through the side of the barn. It sent splinters and boards flying in every direction. The concussive shock threw me back against the table. The noise was so horrendous that it left my ears ringing. I could only barely hear myself screaming.
“Tinker!” I cried, as loud as I could. “TINKER!”
Sunlight filtered in through the enormous hole I’d made in the wall and smoke drifted in a
nd out of the shadows. Tinker appeared in the doorway, horrorstricken. He eyed me up and down, making certain that I hadn’t been damaged, and then snatched me up and hauled me back outside. He sat me down outside with an accusatory look.
“Don’t ever, ever go in there child! That barn is dangerous, do you understand me?” I nodded. I was terrified, and I burst into tears.
“There now,” he said, lifting me up. “I didn’t mean to yell. You just frightened me, that’s all.”
I sobbed for a few moments and then lay there with my head resting against his shoulder. Tinker’s shoulders were smaller than father’s, and he was very bony. He wasn’t comfortable the way Father was. It was comforting, however, to be held.
He carried me up to his work site behind the cottage, and set me down on a stump. I was surprised to find that his stacks of wood were nearly all used up. A large box-like structure with bare plank siding rose before me. The far end was attached to the back wall of the cottage. He reached for a hammer and then paused as he saw me staring.
“It’s almost finished,” he said. “Would you like to take a look inside?”
The shock of my previous experience faded instantly. Tinker saw my wide eyes and smiled. He turned and motioned for me to follow. We went inside the cottage, and he led the way to the back door. I’d never even realized there was a back door because it had been hidden behind shelves. Tinker had moved all of this aside, and now he opened the door into the newly-built room. It was little more than a box with plank floors and bare walls. He stepped inside and I followed.
“Well what do you think? It’s going to be your room!”
I looked at him, uncertain as to what I should say. It didn’t look terribly inviting, and I couldn’t imagine what use I might have for a room.
He smiled. “We will paint it this evening, and tomorrow I’ll make you your own bed. We can decorate it any way you want. And after it’s painted, we’ll put in some furniture of course. Where would you like the window?”
I was overwhelmed, but his excitement was contagious. I walked around the room for several minutes, imagining what I was supposed to do with such a place. I’d never had a private space of my own.
I finally decided I wanted a window on the western wall, closest to the trees. I also wanted a window on the roof, so that I could see the sky at night, and so the sun would shine in during the day.
“I’ll have to think about that,” he mumbled. “Ain’t ever seen a window on a roof before.”
Over the next few days my room became a quaint, cozy little space. Soon I had a bed and bookshelves just as Tinker had promised, and even a small writing desk. He offered to make one of his light-creations for my room, but I asked for candles. My little accident in the barn had left me with a new respect for Tinker’s devices, and the thing’s proclivity for throwing sparks made me nervous.
Chapter 4
This was the manner in which I came to know Tinker, and it wasn’t the first time I would be surprised by his willingness to push everything aside just to make me comfortable or happy. That was Tinker’s way. Despite his quiet, solitary nature, Tinker’s heart was in everything he did, especially when it came to his friends. Not only that, Tinker was also the smartest person I ever met.
He was a quiet man, not given to boasting or showing off, and because of this most people never really knew him. If I hadn’t seen the things that I witnessed in the days to come, I never would have guessed the true depth of Tinker’s character. But even then, before I really knew anything about him, I learned something from him every single day. Tinker never withheld knowledge from me, and more importantly, he gave me the curiosity to seek it out myself. Without this curiosity, things never would have turned out like they did.
The weeks slipped quietly by, and over time Tinker and I became close friends. He began to teach me details about his work; about the mechanisms inside a clock or the way that iron could be turned to steel and made into things like blades and springs. He encouraged me to think of new ways to use the junk we had, and I found myself approaching the world from a decidedly Tinkerish perspective. The more I watched Tinker and learned, the more I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Tinkering was fun!
Unfortunately, there was very little work that was safe for a child and I continued to spend much of my time wandering the woods around the cottage and listening to the quiet thoughts of the trees. I stayed far away from the barn and anything else that looked even remotely explosive.
Gradually, Tinker’s little cottage became my home. There were still nights when I would lie in bed and think of my father –and on occasion I might shed a few tears-but for the most part I had gotten used to my new life. On those nights when I was sad and lonely, I would sneak up the ladder into Tinker’s bed and curl up next to him.
It was a week after the first snow when Tinker announced that he must take a trip into town. “I have neglected my business,” he said, “and we are low on supplies. I spent far too much time building that extra room, and now I must set things to right.”
“Can I go?” I asked. “Please take me with you!”
He frowned. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Please, Tinker? I’ll behave. I won’t touch anything!”
He sighed and ran his hand through that rat’s nest he called hair. “I suppose it’s just as dangerous, leaving you here alone…” He disappeared into the loft and came back holding a knit wool cap. “You must wear this,” he said. “You must promise me that you won’t take it off, no matter what happens. You must not let anyone see your ears, or they might become angry.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Alright then, remember you must do whatever I say. We don’t have money to spend so we won’t be doing any shopping, and we won’t be staying long, understand?”
“I understand.”
I tried on my new hat as Tinker went behind the garage and pulled out an old wagon. It was a rusty, rickety thing that looked like it would rattle apart if someone sneezed. There was a long bench seat across the front, and an odd contraption rested just behind the seat. He crawled into the back of the wagon and built a fire inside the tall metal chamber.
I watched with growing curiosity, and soon enough the questions came bubbling out. “What is that thing, Tinker? What does it do? Will it keep us warm? How will we pull the wagon without a horse?”
He chuckled as the questions streamed out of me. “Aren’t you the curious one today?” he said. I smiled. “Just be patient, child. All your questions will be answered soon enough.” He lifted me onto the seat. “You wait here while I load the wagon.”
I did as he instructed, eager to prove that I was worthy of his trust. He hauled a few boxes out of the barn and then climbed into the seat next to me. I felt warmth radiating off the contraption, and it felt good on that wintry morning.
“Hang on,” Tinker said. He pulled back on a long metal bar that rose up in front of the bench (which I soon learned was the brake), and the cart started to move. I gasped, and he shot me a smile. “This is what we call steam locomotion,” he said. “This is my steamwagon.”
I bent over, trying to get a look at what was happening underneath us. He grabbed my coat by the collar and hauled me back. “I don’t want you bouncing out,” he said. “Last thing I need is you with a broken arm, or worse yet, a broken neck.” I glanced around and saw steam exhausting out of the machine, and heard a loud hissing noise.
The wagon bounced happily down the road as I twisted left and right, searching for an understanding of this bizarre creation. It was slow-going as we traveled down the valley, but once we reached the flatlands, Tinker let it go. We easily doubled the speed of a horse-drawn carriage and in less than an hour, we rolled into town.
It was breathtaking.
Like Tinker, my father had lived in seclusion. I’d never been near a town in my life. I had never even dreamed of the wonders that now revealed themselves to me. The town of Riverfork was alive with festivity. The buildings were
decorated with dancing skeletons and brilliant streamers of gold and red for the celebration of Sowen, the week of the dead.
Tinker explained that although the name of the holiday sounded morbid, it was actually a celebration of the seasonal harvest and the transition into winter. The citizens celebrated by hanging stick figures in the shape of skeletons and black cats from the street lamps and doors, and by placing pumpkins with angry faces carved into them on their porches to ward off the specter of death.
I absorbed this all in mute wonder. I was equally awed by the town itself. The buildings were tall, some as high as four stories, and their steep roofs cast shadows across the cobbled streets even in the middle of the day. I saw dozens of people on the streets, some pulling carts, others riding in wagons or, rarely, even in a carriage. Others strolled along the wooden boardwalks peering into shop windows and greeting one another with smiles and nods. Lamps rose up along the street every few yards, and Tinker was kind enough to explain their purpose as I stared in wide-eyed wonder.
Looking back now, I know that our town was really little more than a backwater village, but at that moment it was a city. I had never imagined so many people might exist in the whole world, much less in one place. I was so overwhelmed with excitement that I completely forgot who I was and why I was there. I just wanted to see it all.
We made several stops along the way and Tinker was cautious to warn me every time. “Stay put, and keep that hat on! I’ll be back in a few moments.”
He wandered into the first shop with a box of nuts and bolts, and other hand-made fasteners. He returned with saw blades, paint, and sandpaper. At another stop he traded knife blades and sharpening tools for a good supply of smoked meat. A peddler on the street gave us a pig and two chickens for a clock and a small supply of Tinker’s explosive balls. Tinker delivered several boxes of those balls at the post office, and I was glad to see them gone.
The Tinkerer's Daughter Page 2
