by Rich Horton
“Professor,” said Blanchefleur, “we haven’t had dinner.”
“Dinner?” said Professor Owl. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry. There are some mice and birds in the cupboard. I caught them just last night. You’re certainly welcome to them.”
“Human beings can’t eat mice and birds,” said Blanchefleur. “They have to cook their food.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Professor Owl. “An inefficient system, I must say. I believe I had—but where did I put it?” He turned around, looking perplexed, then opened the door of a closet under the stairs. He poked his head in, and then tossed out several things, so both Ivan and Blanchefleur had to dodge them. A pith helmet, a butterfly net, and a pair of red flannel underwear for what must have been a very tall man. “Yes, here is it. But you’ll have to help me with it.”
“It” was a large iron kettle. Ivan helped the owl pull it out of the closet and place it on the long wooden table. He looked into it, not knowing what to expect, but it was empty.
“It’s a magic kettle, of course,” said Professor Owl. “I seem to remember that it makes soup. You can sleep on the second floor. The third is my study, and I hope you will refrain from disturbing me during daylight hours, when I will be very busy indeed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going out for a bit of a hunt. I do hope you will be useful to me. My last apprentice was a disappointment.” He waddled comically across the floor and up the stairs.
“These scholarly types aren’t much for small talk,” said Blanchefleur.
“I thought he was going out?” said Ivan.
“He is,” said Blanchefleur. “You don’t think he’s just going to walk out the door, do you? He’s an owl. He’s going to launch himself from one of the tower windows.”
Ivan looked into the kettle again. Still empty. “Do you really think it’s magic?” he asked. He had eaten the bread and cheese a long time ago, and his stomach was starting to growl.
“Try some magic words,” said Blanchefleur.
“Abracadabra,” he said. “Open Sesame.” What other magic words had he learned in school? If he remembered correctly, magic had not been a regular part of the curriculum.
“You really are an idiot,” said Blanchefleur. She sprang onto the table, then sat next to the kettle. “Dear Kettle,” she said. “We’ve been told of your magical powers in soup-making, and are eager to taste your culinary delights. Will you please make us some soup? Any flavor, your choice, but not onion because his breath is pungent enough already.”
From the bottom, the kettle filled with something that bubbled and had a delicious aroma. “There you go,” said Blanchefleur. “Magical items have feelings, you know. They need to be asked nicely. Abracadabra indeed!”
“I still need a spoon,” said Ivan.
“With all you require for nourishment, I wonder that you’re still alive!” said Blanchefleur. “Look in the closet.”
In the closet, Ivan did indeed find several wooden spoons, as well as a croquet set, several pairs of boots, and a stuffed alligator.
“Beef stew,” he said, tasting what was in the kettle. “Would you like some?”
“I’m quite capable of hunting for myself, thank you,” said Blanchefleur. “Don’t wait up. I have a feeling that when the Professor said you should be up by dawn, he meant it.”
That night, Ivan slept on the second floor of the tower, where he found a bed, a desk, and a large traveling trunk with Oswald carved on it. He wondered if Oswald had been the professor’s last apprentice, the one who had been such a disappointment. In the middle of the night, he thought he felt Blanchefleur jump on the bed and curl up next to his back. But when he woke up in the morning, she was gone.
Ivan was used to waking up at dawn, so wake up at dawn he did. He found a small bathroom under the stairs, splashed water on his face, got dressed, and went downstairs. Blanchefleur was sitting on the table, staring at the kettle still set on it, with a look of disdain on her face.
“What is that mess?” she asked.
“I think it’s pea soup,” he said, after looking into the kettle. It smelled inviting, but then anything would have at that hour. Next to the kettle were a wooden bowl and spoon, as well as a napkin. “Did you put these here?” he asked Blanchefleur.
“Why would I do such a stupid thing?” she asked, and turned her back to him. She began licking her fur, as though washing herself were the most important thing in the world.
Ivan shrugged, spooned some of the pea soup into the bowl, and had a plain but filling breakfast. Afterward, he washed the bowl and spoon. As soon as he had finished eating, the kettle had emptied again—evidently, it did not need washing. Then he sat down at the table and pulled the first of Professor Owl’s notes toward him.
It was tedious work. First, he would read through the notes, which were written in a cramped, slanting hand. Then, he would try to add a paragraph to the file, as neatly and succinctly as he could. He had never paid much attention in school, and writing did not come easily to him. After the first botched attempt, he learned to compose his paragraphs on the backs of Professor Owl’s notes, so when he went to update the entries, he was not fumbling for words. By noon, he had finished additions to the entries on Justice, Rose, Darwin, Theosophy, Venus, Armadillo, Badminton, and Indochina. His lunch was chicken soup with noodles. He thought about having nothing but soup, every morning, noon, and night for an entire year, and longed for a sandwich.
He sat down at the table and picked up the pen, but his back and hand hurt. He put the pen down. The sunlight out the window looked so inviting. Perhaps he should go out and wander around the tower, just for a little while? Where had Blanchefleur gone, anyway? He had not seen her since breakfast. He got up, stretched, and walked out.
It had been his habit, as long as he remembered, to wander around as he wished. That was what he did now, walking around the tower and then away from it, looking idly for Blanchefleur and finding only lizards. He wandered without thinking about where he was going or how long he had been gone. The sun began to sink in the west.
That was when he realized that he had been gone for hours. Well, it would not matter, would it? He could always catch up with any work he did not finish tomorrow. He walked back in the direction of the tower, only becoming lost once. It was dark when he reached it again. He opened the door and walked in.
There were Professor Owl and Blanchefleur. The Professor was perched on the table where Ivan had been sitting earlier that day, scribbling furiously. Blanchefleur was saying, “What did you expect of someone named Idiot? I told you he would be useless.”
“Oh, hello, boy,” said Professor Owl, looking up. “I noticed you went out for a walk, so I finished all of the notes for today, except Orion. I’ll have that done in just a moment, and then you can sit down for dinner. I don’t think I told you that each day’s updates need to be filed by the end of the day, or the Encyclopedia will be incomplete. And it has never been incomplete since I started working on it, five hundred years ago.”
“I’ll do it,” said Ivan.
“Do what?” said Blanchefleur. “Go wandering around again?”
“I’ll do the update on Orion.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Professor Owl. “I’m sure you must be tired.” But he handed Ivan the pen and hopped a bit away on the table. It was a lopsided hop: Ivan could tell the owl’s right foot was hurting. He sat and finished the update, conscious of Blanchefleur’s eyes on him. When he was finished, Professor Owl read it over. “Yes, very nice,” he said. “You have a clear and logical mind. Well done, boy.”
Ivan looked up, startled. It was the first compliment he ever remembered receiving.
“Well, go on then, have some dinner,” said Professor Owl. “And you’ll be up at dawn tomorrow?”
“I’ll be up at dawn,” said Ivan. He knew that the next day, he would not go wandering around, at least until after the entries were finished. He did not want Blanchefleur calling him a
n idiot again in that tone of voice.
Summer turned into winter. Each day, Ivan sat at the table in the tower, updating the entries for the Encyclopedia of All Knowledge. One day, he realized that he no longer needed to compose the updates on the backs of Professor Owl’s notes. He could simply compose them in his head, and then write each update directly onto the file. He had not learned much in school, but he was learning now, about things that seemed useless, such as Sponge Cake, and things that seemed useful, such as Steam Engines, Epic Poetry, and Love. One morning he realized Professor Owl had left him not only a series of updates, but also the notes for an entry on a star that had been discovered by astronomers the week before. Proudly and carefully, he took a blank file card out of the cabinet, composed a new entry for the Encyclopedia of All Knowledge, and filed the card in its place.
He came to write so well and so quickly that he would finish all of the updates, and any new entries the Professor left him, by early afternoon. After a lunch of soup, for he had never managed to get the kettle to make him anything else, however politely he asked, he would roam around the rocky countryside. Sometimes Blanchefleur would accompany him, and eventually she allowed him to carry her on his shoulder without complaining, although she was never enthusiastic. And she still called him Idiot.
One day, in February although he had lost track of the months, he updated an entry on the Trojan War. He had no idea what it was, since he had not been paying attention that day in school. So after he finished his updates, he asked the Encyclopedia. It opened to the entry on the Trojan War, which began, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that judging a beauty contest between three goddesses causes nothing but trouble.” He read on, fascinated. After that day, he would spend several hours reading through whichever entries took his fancy. Each entry he read left him with more questions, and he began to wish he could stay with Professor Owl, simply reading the entries in the Encyclopedia, forever.
But winter turned into summer, and one day the professor said, “Ivan, it has been a year since you arrived, and the term of your apprenticeship with me is at an end. Thank you for all of the care and attention you have put into your task. As a reward, I will give you one of my feathers—that one right there. Pluck it out gently. Gently!”
Ivan held up the feather. It was long and straight, with brown and white stripes.
“Cut the end of it with a penknife and make it into a pen,” said Professor Owl. “If you ever want to access the Encyclopedia, just tell the pen what you would like to know, and it will write the entry for you.”
“Thank you,” said Ivan. “But couldn’t I stay—”
“Of course not,” said Blanchefleur. “My mother is expecting us. So come on already.” And indeed, since it was dawn, Professor Owl was already heading up the stairs, for he had very important things to do during the day. Owls do, you know.
The Castle in the Forest looked just as Ivan remembered. There were cats tending the gardens, where the roses were once again blooming, as though they had never stopped. Marmalade greeted them at the door and led them to the Lady’s solar, where she was sitting at a desk, writing. Her cats-in-waiting were embroidering a tapestry, and one was strumming a lute with her claws, playing a melody that Ivan remembered from when he was a child.
“Well?” she said when she looked up. “How did Ivan do, my dear?”
“Well enough,” said Blanchefleur. “Are there any mouse pies? We’ve been walking all day, and I’m hungry.”
Really it had been Ivan who had been walking all day. He had carried Blanchefleur most of the way, except when she wanted to drink from a puddle or play with a leaf.
“Wait until the banquet,” said the Lady. “It starts in an hour, which will give you enough time to prepare. It’s in honor of your return and departure.”
“Departure?” said Ivan.
“Yes,” said the Lady. “Tomorrow, you will go to the Southern Marshes, to spend a year with my friend, Dame Lizard. She has a large family, and needs help taking care of it. Blanchefleur, you will accompany your cousin.”
“But that’s not fair!” said Blanchefleur. “I’ve already spent a year with Ivan Idiot. Why do I have to spend another year with him?”
“Because he is your cousin, and he needs your help,” said the Lady. “Now go, the both of you. I don’t think you realize quite how dirty you both are.” And she was right. From the long journey, even Blanchefleur’s white paws were covered with dirt.
As they walked upstairs, Ivan said, “I’m sorry you have to come with me, Blanchefleur. I know you dislike being with me.”
“You’re not so bad,” she said grudgingly. “At least you’re warm.” So it had been her, sleeping against his back all those nights. Ivan was surprised and pleased at the thought.
That night, the banquet proceeded as it had the year before, except this time Ivan knew what to expect. Several of the female cats asked him to dance, and this time he danced with more skill, never once stepping on a cat paw or tail. He danced several times with Blanchefleur, and she did not seem to dislike it as much as she had last year. Tailcatcher, the striped cat, was there as well. Once, as they were dancing close to one another, Ivan heard a hiss, but when he turned to look at Tailcatcher, the cat was bowing to his partner.
At the end of the evening, as he was wearily climbed the stone stairs up to his bed, he passed a hallway and heard a murmur of voices. At the end of the hallway stood Tailcatcher and Blanchefleur. The striped cat spoke to her and she replied, too low for Ivan to hear what they were saying. Then she turned and walked on down the hallway, her tail held high, exactly the way she walked when she was displeased with him. Ivan was rather glad Tailcatcher had been rebuffed, whatever he had wanted from her.
As he sank into sleep that night, in the curtained bed, he wondered if she would come to curl up against his back. But he fell asleep too quickly to find out.
The next morning, they started for the Southern Marshes. As they traveled south, the forest grew less dense: the trees were sparser, more sunlight fell on the path, and soon Ivan was hot and sweating. At midafternoon, they came to a river, and he was able to swim and cool himself off. Blanchefleur refused to go anywhere near the water.
“I’m not a fish,” she said. “Are you quite done? We still have a long way to go.”
Ivan splashed around a bit more, then got out and dried himself as best he could. They followed the river south until it was no longer a river but a series of creeks running through low hills covered with willows, alders, and sycamores. Around the creeks grew cattails, and where the water formed into pools, he could see water lilies starting to bloom. They were constantly crossing water, so Ivan carried Blanchefleur, who did not like to get her feet wet.
“There,” she said finally. “That’s where we’re going.” She was pointing at one of the low hills. At first, Ivan did not see the stone house among the trees: it blended in so well with the gray trunks. Ivan walked through a narrow creek (he had long ago given up on keeping his shoes dry) and up the hill to the house. He knocked at the door.
From inside, he heard a crash, then a “Just a moment!” Then another crash and the voice yelling, “Get out of there at once, Number Seven!”
There were more crashes and bangs, and then the door opened, so abruptly that he stepped back, startled. He might have been startled anyway, because who should be standing in front of him but a lizard, who came almost up to his shoulders, in a long brown duster and a feathered hat askew over one ear.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she said. “They’ve been impossible today. But they are dears, really they are, and the Lady told me that you were a competent nursemaid. You are competent, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “Oh, it’s good to see you again, Blanchefleur. Did you like the shrunken head I sent you from Peru?”
“Not particularly,” said the white cat.
“Splendid!” said the lizard. “Now I’ll just be off, shall I? My train leaves in half an h
our and I don’t want to miss it. I’m going to Timbuktu, you know. Train and then boat and train again, then camel caravan. Doesn’t that sound fun? Do help me get my suitcases on the bicycle.”
The bicycle was in a sort of shed. Ivan helped her tie two suitcases onto a rack with some frayed rope that he hoped would hold all the way to the station.
“Such a handy one, your young man, my dear,” said the lizard to Blanchefleur.
“He’s not—” said Blanchefleur.
“Kisses to you both! Ta, and I’ll see you in a year! If I survive the sands of the Sahara, of course.” And then she was off on her bicycle, down a road that ran across the hills, with her hat still askew. As she rode out of sight, Ivan heard a faint cry: “Plenty of spiders, that’s what they like! And don’t let them stay up too late!”
“Don’t let who stay up too late?” asked Ivan.
“Us!” Ivan turned around. There in the doorway stood five—no, six—no, seven lizards that came up to his knees.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“These are her children,” said Blanchefleur. “You’re supposed to take care of them while she’s gone. Don’t you know who she is? She’s Emilia Lizard, the travel writer. And you’re her nursemaid.” Blanchefleur seemed amused at the prospect.
“But the Lady said I was supposed to help,” said Ivan. “How can I help someone who’s on her way to Timbuktu? I don’t know anything about taking care of children—or lizards!”
“It’s easy,” said one of the lizards. “You just let us do anything we want!”
“Eat sweets,” said another.
“Stay up late,” said yet another.
“Play as long as we like,” said either one who had already spoken or another one, it was difficult to tell because they kept weaving in and out of the group, and they all looked alike.
“Please stand still,” he said. “You’re giving me a headache. And tell me your names.”
