by Lynne Jonell
Where could he have gone?
She was getting close to the guardhouse. Christina slipped from shadow to shadow, careful how she placed her feet. Had they taken Danny inside?
She crouched down under the window. The voices inside were loud and confusing, talking all at once, but she could pick up random snatches of conversation.
“Yeah, nobody cares what happens to orphans, so we’re safe—”
“—the Karsnicky Medal comes with a hundred-thousand-dollar prize—”
“We’ve got to ship a kid out tomorrow with the plastic toys—”
“—singing wrong notes on purpose, I swear—”
“But weren’t you going to get some kid with perfect pitch, boss? For the underground mine, where they can’t hear the harriers?”
“Yeah, well, she made a run for it.” The babble quieted as Lenny Loompski’s voice grated with suppressed rage. “We’ll find her, though. I found a picture of her in her dad’s office, and I put up ‘Missing Child’ posters all over town—the police station, the library, the school . . . I want everyone here on the lookout for a scrawny girl with blond braids. Answers to the name Christina.”
CHRISTINA could scarcely breathe. No place was safe. Even in the town, people would be looking for her. And at Dorf Elementary, where she had hoped to go to school one day, her face was plastered on the door . . . like a criminal’s.
She tried to stand and walk away, but her legs felt strangely watery. She crawled instead, trying desperately to make no noise at all. When she reached the first bit of adequate cover—a large bush at the base of a tree—she stopped and hugged her knees to keep from shaking, and tried to think what to do next.
Lenny was looking for a girl with braids.
Well, she could fix that. Christina reached into her back pocket, past Leo’s wrench, and pulled out her jackknife.
She hesitated a moment. It had been so lovely when her mother brushed her hair.
Of course if Lenny caught her, she might never see her mother again. Christina gripped her left braid and sawed away with the knife. The night was quiet; she could hear an irregular squeaking, like an odd sort of cricket, and the soft, rasping sound of splitting hair next to her ear.
The braids were off, and heavy in her hand. She rubber-banded them together and tucked them in her waistband. There was no sense leaving them around for someone to find.
She needed to look more like an orphan and less like the girl in the picture. She picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it on her face. There. She’d done what she could for now.
Christina looked up toward the cone where the pickup was parked. It was getting lighter, and now she could see the flitting shadow of something moving, legs perhaps, between the truck chassis and the ground. If she squinted, she could see a faint glow seeping over the cone’s top like a pale violet fog.
No, it was gone again. Taft must have put in another gunnysack and gone down to unload.
All right. She hadn’t been able to find Danny. But clearly she had to get back inside the mountain. And there was no time to lose . . . the sky had changed from dark to pearly gray. She couldn’t move about, hidden, for much longer.
That cricket was squeaking in the strangest manner. The sound seemed to be coming from behind a large upthrust rock.
Christina crept stealthily toward it. She could hide behind it if anyone came, and it was fifty feet closer to where she needed to go.
Only it was not a cricket. It was Danny.
The moon had set long since, but the sky was growing lighter, and she could see his tall, dejected form slumped against the rock, tear streaks on his dirty face. He was cradling something in his arms—the rubber cow—and as Christina watched, he squeaked it again.
She couldn’t leave him here alone . . .
But Danny didn’t know her. Even if he would come with her, even if he didn’t make a fuss, he would still be slow and clumsy climbing up to the cone. Her chances of getting caught were at least doubled with Danny along.
The door of the guardhouse slammed. Heavy boots clattered down the wooden steps. There was a sound of matches flaring and then a wafting scent of tobacco.
Christina hunkered down in the shadow of tall weeds, her heart beating wildly. If she stayed very still—if they didn’t glance this way—
One of the guards scuffed at the dirt. “Did you get all that, Torkel?”
“Sure, Barney. What didn’t you understand?”
“Well, those plastic toys are too hard to soak up zoom.”
“Nah, plastic soaks liquid up just like raisins do. Ever soaked hard raisins in water? Give it a day and they’re juicy again.”
“But I still don’t get why . . .”
Christina slid her eyes sideways. She could see the ends of the guards’ cigarettes glowing briefly as they inhaled.
Torkel blew out a stream of smoke. “I guess if zoom’s in plastic, and solid, you can bring it anywhere, no spills, no explosions. But melt it, sing it out again, and wow!”
Barney scratched his head. “Wow, what?”
“Something happens to it when it’s in the plastic. It’s a cat—a catal—”
A catalyst, thought Christina. She had heard that word from her father. But she couldn’t remember exactly what it meant.
“Anyway, all of a sudden it’s, like, a thousand times more explosive!”
“Wow, dangerous!”
“More like, wow, more energy, more power for fuel, and a lot more money for Lenny Loompski!”
There was a silence. From behind the rock there came another squeak.
“Is he going to give any of that money to us, Tork?”
“If we do a good job, Barney. See, you drive the garbage truck, right?”
Barney swelled up his chest. “I sure do.”
“Well, then. You’re the one who’s going to drive the kids and the toys. Just pretend you’re picking up garbage, and drop the kids off instead, and you’re done.”
“But where are they going on the garbage truck, Torkel? I won’t feel sorry for them, I promise.”
Danny was still squeaking his rubber cow, oblivious to the rumbling voices of the guards. Christina could only hope they thought it was just another insect. But simply for her own sake, she wished he’d stop. She might miss hearing something important.
“. . . lots of places still heated with oil. If they can be heated by orphans singing zoom out of plastic toys, it’s a ton cheaper. The clients save lots of money, Lenny gets even richer, and everybody’s happy, as long as they follow three simple rules—oh, come on, that cricket’s driving me crazy!”
Torkel picked up a stick and threw it in the direction of the rock. There was a cry.
“That’s no cricket!”
The guards thundered past the patch of tall weeds where Christina lay hidden. There was a sound of scuffling and a whimper from Danny as he was dragged to his feet.
“All right, hand over the squeaky toy.” Torkel stood over Danny, legs apart and arms folded.
Danny clutched the cow to his chest. “Taff gave it to me,” he said, his voice ragged.
“I don’t care if Santa Claus and all his elves gave it to you. Hand it over.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Danny stretched out the hand that held his toy.
“Oh, for crying—” Torkel made an impatient noise and grabbed the cow. He flung it away, and Christina followed its high, curving arc with her eyes.
“Now get on out of here!” Torkel gave Danny a push with his boot, and the tall boy went stumbling off, his large head low.
Barney shuffled his feet. “Guess you gotta be hard on them, huh, Torkel?”
“It’s for their own good.” Torkel threw an arm around Barney’s shoulder as they walked back toward the guardhouse. “See, if we’re soft with them now, it’ll just be harder for them later. Life isn’t easy for orphans, and the sooner they learn that, the better.”
“So that’s why everyone tells them they’re stupid and dirty and won’t eve
r amount to anything?”
“Yep. Then they won’t be disappointed when it turns out that way, see?”
Barney followed the other man’s bulky form up the steps to the guardhouse. “But, Torkel, you said there were three simple rules to follow. What are they?”
Torkel paused at the door. The lantern shone full on his squashed, bulldog face. “Rule number one: Keep the orphans a secret.”
Barney looked up. “Is that why I have to deliver them in a garbage truck?”
Torkel nodded. “And then the client puts them in a little room with no windows—”
“And locks it, I bet!”
“That’s right. And they never leave, until their voices get too grown-up sounding to work.”
Barney twisted his hands together. “I suppose rule number two is to keep them hungry, or they won’t sing when it’s time to.”
“Well, of course.”
“I don’t know if Momma would have liked that,” said Barney, half to himself.
Torkel socked Barney playfully on the arm. “Your momma’s dead, though, right?”
“Yeah,” said Barney earnestly, “but what if she’s looking down on me from somewhere?”
“Listen, Barney, was your momma a normal person? Or a crazy bleeding-heart type?”
“Um . . . normal. I guess.”
“Well, then, she’ll understand it’s just business. Nothing personal.”
“Oh,” said Barney. He looked up. “And what’s rule number three?”
The guardhouse door opened. Torkel and Barney backed down the steps as Lenny came out, took a deep, vigorous breath of the early morning air, and looked over at the sleeping orphans, some distance away.
“I’ve got to get these kids earlier,” he said, rasping the stubble on his chin. “I hear the younger you teach them their notes, the more likely they are to develop perfect pitch.” Lenny gazed at the sleeping orphans some distance away. “I’m sure I can find a few babies across the border—hey, you there!”
Christina looked in the direction of Lenny’s glare. A little distance away, Danny was on his hands and knees, searching for something in the weeds.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Danny lifted an anxious face. “My cow is lost.”
The sky grew lighter in the east as dawn neared. On the rocks above, a harrier cried out its first greeting to the day.
“Hear that?” Lenny raised his voice. “Forget the cow. Just remember that pitch, if you know what’s good for you, or . . . KABOOM!”
Danny ran back to the sleeping orphans, whimpering.
“Hee hee!” Lenny clapped his thick palms together.
“I wish you wouldn’t say that, boss,” said Barney plaintively. “That kaboom part gives me the willies.”
“It’s fun, though.” Lenny opened the guardhouse door. “Anyway, if they’re not afraid, they won’t get the right sound in the note.”
“And that’s rule number three,” said Torkel, as the door slammed shut.
Barney frowned. “Keep them secret. Keep them hungry. And . . . keep them scared?”
Torkel nodded. “And when their voices change, of course, get rid of them.”
“You mean . . . permanently?”
“Sure. We just drive up in the garbage truck like we’re going to pick up trash, only we pick up the kid. And then, well, you know. We push the red button.”
“We mash them?” Barney swallowed hard. “Isn’t that a little . . . harsh?”
Torkel shrugged. “Maybe, but how else are we going to keep rule number one?”
CHRISTINA stumbled across the rocky ground in horror, hardly able to take in what she had heard.
This was why her father had tried so hard to keep her safe. Because he had known what she had not—that there were terrible people in the world who didn’t care about keeping children safe at all.
The guards were back inside, but not for long. Christina made a last dash for the relative safety of the pickup truck and collapsed behind it, her breath uneven.
There were no gunnysacks left. So Taft had made five trips, up and down—and now he would come back for her. She hoped he would understand why she hadn’t brought Danny.
She scanned the back of the pickup truck. Would Lenny notice that some of the food had been taken? Maybe she should rearrange the boxes. Quickly, she scrambled up—and saw the bottle of cough medicine still there, front and center.
She snatched it up and tucked it inside her waistband with the braids. No harm done. She’d bring it down with her. Christina quietly moved some full boxes to the fore and hid the empties behind them, glancing over her shoulder now and then to see if Taft had returned.
He should have come back by now. How long did it take him to unload one sack? She scroonched on her stomach to the lip of the cone and hung over the edge. Yes, there was Taft, already flying up, the plane glowing a beautiful blue . . .
She blinked. That wasn’t right.
The plane struggled higher and took on a greenish tint.
Christina cupped her hands around her mouth. “You’re running out of zoom! Use the spare canister!” She glanced back over her shoulder. Had anyone heard? She hoped the sound had all gone downward.
She looked back into the cavern and saw Taft still ascending, his face upturned, the plane now greenish gold.
“What did you say?” he called, his voice anxious.
“The spare—” Christina began, and then clapped her hands over her mouth. No! He couldn’t refuel midflight—the plane was far too wobbly. If the zoom spilled, it would explode when it hit the ground. And her mother and Leo were down there.
The plane turned golden. Suddenly Christina saw that Taft would never make it. He needed what zoom was left to make a safe landing—if he could do it at all. It would take less fuel to go down than to keep rising.
She still had her mother’s cough medicine. She pulled it out along with her braids—yes, she could rubber-band the hair around the bottle to cushion it.
“Catch!” she cried, and dropped the bottle.
Taft caught it with both hands and pulled it to his chest. He looked up at her as the plane turned a bright pumpkin color.
Christina could read his face like a headline. He understood what was happening. But he couldn’t make himself abandon her.
“You’ve got to!” cried Christina. “Go down now, or you’ll crash!”
Taft cast her one last anguished look. The plane began to descend, faster, faster.
Christina clenched her hands, her fingernails biting into her palms, and waited tensely for the sound of smashing metal. But all was quiet.
She looked down. Far, far below, there was a faint glow of pinky rose—and then it winked out.
Taft was safe. And she was on her own.
There was a crunch of boots behind the pickup. Christina, startled, shoved herself quickly away from the lip of the cone.
It was a little more force than she needed. The cone was steep and the pebbles loose, and she was skidding, sliding, making far too much noise. She scrabbled to a stop at last and opened her eyes. There, inches from her nose, was a pair of polished black boots.
Christina’s heart jackknifed like a fish leaping. She sucked air as a ham-sized fist gripped her arm and hauled her upright.
“And what have we here?” Lenny Loompski bent over Christina, his face shadowed. “Is this one of my happy orphans who loves me?”
Christina pressed a hand to her heart, whose beat had steadied to a taut, fearful pounding. She looked up at the man’s dark, broad face.
He didn’t recognize her with her dirty face and short hair, but she recognized him. This was the man who had imprisoned her mother, jailed her father, enslaved a hundred orphans, and driven his own uncle insane. She could not think of anyone she despised more.
“Yes,” she said through her teeth.
“And what were you doing way up here, all by yourself?” Lenny’s eyes darted suspiciously to the truck.
&nbs
p; “Er . . .” Christina thought fast. “I was practicing my song. I didn’t want anyone to hear it until it was ready. It was a Happy Orphan kind of song,” she added in a burst of inspiration.
Lenny Loompski’s face relaxed into a smile. “Really? A song for me? A new one?”
Christina nodded. She was pretty sure Lenny Loompski hadn’t heard verse two of Taft’s vomit and bomb-it song. But she thought she had better change a few words.
Lenny’s sure to win the Karsnicky
Since he’s smart, it won’t be tricky
Yes, it’s clear, it is not murky
Lenny’s not a big fat turkey . . .
She sang it slightly off-key. Lenny didn’t seem to notice.
“Marvelous, marvelous! You’ll have to sing that one for our visitor tonight. And make sure you sing your very best.” He pointed down past the sleeping orphans to the terraced mines, open to the sky. From this angle, Christina could see what she had never noticed before—a blackened hole in a rock wall, the height and width of a man. The top seemed to have been recently collapsed.
“That,” said Lenny, chuckling, “is where orphans go when they’re not so happy. Sometimes, bad orphans don’t sing their very, very best for Lenny. But if their pitch is off in the underground mine . . . well, let’s just say, small loss. And the roof of the mine gets opened up a little more, so it all works out in the end, see?”
Christina looked at him in horror. She backed away.
“Bad orphans go kaboom, see?”
Christina turned and ran. Down the hill, toward the orphan camp—anywhere to get away from that smiling, evil man. She crashed through tall weeds, her feet kicking up everything in their path—dirt, gravel, rocks, rubber cows—
Christina stopped. She walked back a few steps and looked carefully at the ground. She bent swiftly and tucked something inside her shirt.
The orphans sat in the dust, all eyes fixed on Christina. She had told them very little about herself—who knew if one of them might accidentally blurt something out in front of a guard? But they seemed most interested in the fact that she wasn’t an orphan.
