Stork

by Wendy Delsol

  “I’ve been looking for you. You’re not going to believe what an extraordinary day I’ve had.” He paced in front of me distractedly.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “What?”

  He threw his hands up. “I had a conference call with the investors today. They were very agitated. They’d heard about the earthquake out in Palmdale and wanted to pull the plug on the deal, then and there. They kept talking about omens and bad luck. And how the Japanese believe in signs and need a solid foundation. The whole thing was going to fall through because of a little tremor. I had to think quick. Two years of work and a lot of money was about to go south.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told them about that crazy Hulda and her factory. It was the first thing that popped into my head. And you’re not going to believe it.”

  At this point I figured even Ripley himself had nothing on me, but I tried my best to look curious. “Believe what?”

  “They bought all that crazy stuff she said about karma turning the wheel, which they immediately interpreted as a wind turbine. And I knew the factory was on a bedrock foundation. How in the world had that even come up?”

  “Hulda’s kind of funny like that.”

  “There’s more,” he said. “When I told them the name of the factory was the Inga Paper Mill, they just about flipped. Inga is the Japanese word for fate or karma.”

  Now, that I wasn’t expecting. “Wow!”

  “I’ll say.” My dad ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it in spiky tufts. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen him this keyed up. “And now I’ve got to get hold of Hulda. I don’t even have a verbal agreement with her, never mind contract.”

  “Hulda can be hard to pin down. She shows up in her store across the street from time to time, but besides that . . .” As I was saying this, I looked across Main to see none other than Hulda in the front window of her store. I sat there, mouth open, as I watched her place a square red-and-white For Sale sign in a front and center position. “You won’t believe this,” I said. “Even I don’t believe it. She’s there right now.”

  My dad turned to follow my gaze. “Excellent. Let’s go talk to her.”

  Afi must have heard the excitement in my dad’s voice. He came shuffling out, rubbing his back. He shook Dad’s hand affably. I could tell he wasn’t the type to get involved in whatever had transpired between my parents. “What’s all the clamor out here?”

  “Look, Afi.” I pointed to Hulda’s. “It’s for sale.”

  Afi scratched his head. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Dad and I are going to talk to Hulda about her factory. I’ll get the scoop while I’m there.”

  My dad and I hustled out of the store. I heard Afi ask, “What about the factory?” on my way out, but figured we’d catch him up with the whole story later.

  The chimes tinkled above Hulda’s door as we let ourselves in. She was sweeping a century’s worth of dust and dirt, and it swirled about her in a thick, smoky haze.

  “Ah. I’ve been waiting for you.” Hulda propped the broom against a wall. “Follow me.” She waddled down an aisle of ginghams. It was alarming how small and frail and stooped she appeared from behind. I instinctively squared my shoulders, remembering my mother’s they’ll-stay-that-way warnings. She headed toward the back. Panic burned in my tummy. Was she really going to take my dad to the dungeon? He was already spooked by her; no need to set the stage. She stopped at the door and passed her hand over the crackled painted letters of the word OFFICE. Pushing the door open slowly with an eerie creak, she motioned my father forward. “After you.”

  I took a deep bracing breath and followed my father into the office. Huh? I spun around twice. No winding stairs, no basement room, just a battered wooden desk and chair, two folding metal chairs in front of them, and an old bookshelf stacked with pattern books. I touched one of the walls, the one where I thought the stairs should logically be, and tapped.

  “Kat, what is wrong with you?” my dad asked.

  I looked at Hulda, who had a wry smile on her face. “You like my office? I don’t think I’ve taken you back here before.”

  “I was expecting something different,” I said lamely. My dad looked at me like I’d sprouted alfalfa from my nose. “I thought there was access to the basement from here.”

  “No basement in this building,” Hulda said. “Nor in any of the shops on Main Street. Too close to the river. Flooding can be a problem.” She smiled at my dad. “Factory up high, you noticed. Never flooded, ever.”

  Now that I thought about it, Afi didn’t have a basement. Only the storeroom in the back and the attic rooms up above. I wanted to laugh and smack myself, hard. How could anything about Hulda still surprise me?

  Hulda took a seat behind the desk; my dad and I sat in the wobbly chairs.

  “So,” Hulda said, folding her hands, “you still want to harness the wind.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I had a very interesting conversation with my investors in Japan. I shared with them what we discussed at our last meeting.” My dad crossed and then uncrossed his legs. “You didn’t happen to know that inga means karma in Japanese?”

  “Of course,” Hulda said matter-of-factly.

  My dad opened his eyes wide, but then continued. “Then maybe I don’t need to tell you they were impressed. They thought it was a good omen.”

  “And you told them about the bedrock?” Hulda asked.

  “Yes,” my dad replied.

  “Interesting events in California lately,” Hulda said ominously. “Native American legend believes that the world sits on the back of Big Turtle. Mostly we don’t feel him move, but when he is bothered or frightened, we have earthquakes.”

  “Big Turtle reached the news in Japan,” my dad said. I was amused that he was starting to play along with Hulda.

  “Fascinating, this tale of Big Turtle.” Hulda looked at me pointedly. “The legend holds that a young girl from Sky World sat down under the branches of an apple tree. There was a rumbling, and the ground opened, and she would have fallen to her death, except two swans carried her on their backs to Water World, where Big Turtle made a new home for her on his back. This girl, Sky Girl, took on many qualities of the birds who saved her, and totem poles and carvings depict a powerful half-bird, half-woman creature in her honor.”

  “Sky Girl should pay more attention to where she plops down,” my dad said, clearly having surrendered all attempt at logic or formality.

  “This is the thing.” Hulda shook her finger at him. “Sky Girl was drawn to the apple tree.”

  “Her destiny,” my dad said.

  “Precisely,” Hulda replied.

  My dad did manage to talk business with Hulda. She was surprisingly knowledgeable about contractual leases, land sales, business permits, and all the various boring details my dad seemed keen to finalize. In the end, he negotiated a verbal agreement on a five-year lease, details to be hammered out lawyer-to-lawyer. It surprised me a little that Hulda had a lawyer. I half expected her to refer him to her shaman or numerologist.

  “Hulda,” I said, “I noticed you put a For Sale sign in your window.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Winds of change have come to Norse Falls. Remember the bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists.”

  “Who are you going to sell it to?”

  “Whoever makes the best offer,” Hulda said, as if it were perfectly clear and as if she were always so plainspoken.

  We walked out of the office, and as I walked down one of the cramped aisles, my finger trailed slowly across the bolts of beautiful fabric.

  “You see something you like, you take it,” Hulda said. “I’m donating the rest.”

  I inhaled sharply. “I do need something for the dance on Saturday.”

  “Any particular color?” Hulda said with a sparkle in her eye.

  “Red.”

  “I have just the thing.” Hulda directed me to a d
ifferent aisle, one with velvets and satins. She pulled out a bolt of nubby raw silk. It was a beautiful Chinese red. She walked to another aisle not far away and returned with a sheer tulle overlay in the same color. “What do you think?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “You know your amma — she had many red dresses. Red was her favorite color. And she and your afi, they liked to go dancing.”

  That I did not know.

  “You have a peek in her old steamer trunk,” Hulda said.

  My dad had wandered to the front part of the store. “Kat, I’m taking off. Gonna make a few calls,” he called back to me. “We’ll talk later.”

  “I understand the school is putting on a performance of The Snow Queen this spring,” Hulda said. “I’m going to donate materials to the costume department.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’m in Ms. Bryant’s design class. We’re already working on a semester project of costume and set designs.”

  “Do you know this story of The Snow Queen?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “Did you know that Hans Christian Andersen based this on many of the sagas that came from the Nordic peoples?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. Story is of the evil sorceress who rules the Winter People. Her snow palace is a mysterious castle of ice. Legend has it that she seeks to recover her errant peoples.”

  “Uh, that’s interesting.”

  “It’s very curious,” Hulda said, “the way so much that is held as myth or children’s stories are common themes found throughout cultures of the world.”

  All of a sudden I felt as if I should have a pen, notebook, and possibly class syllabus.

  “I just spoke of the Native Americans’ tales.”

  “Right. About Sky Girl.”

  “Good. You are paying attention.” Hulda walked along the back aisles of the store, as if looking for something. I followed. “This is very important, Katla. It is no coincidence that, throughout the world, ancient cultures share similar beliefs in realms separate to our earth. There is, of course, a common faith in a creator and a heaven to which the worthy will ascend. We know also of a netherworld to which doomed souls will be condemned.”

  Again with the damnation? As if recent events hadn’t sufficiently rattled me.

  “So much of this I learned at the knee of my own amma,” Hulda said. “I know your grandmother was sad not to have the chance to entertain you with the stories passed from Stork to Stork.”

  “Stork to Stork?” I asked.

  There was a funny glint in Hulda’s eye. Did she just tell me my amma had been a Stork?

  “Good,” Hulda said. “You’re listening again.”

  Busted. I felt like I’d been caught passing notes or sleeping in class.

  “Our Stork legends tell of Niflheim, a land of ice — Vatnheim, a watery kingdom — and Asgard, a world of sky. And of course, Midgard, our earth, the one which man, in bodily form, inhabits. Once upon a time, a bridge between these worlds was accessible — on significant days and in special locations — to the extraordinary among us.”

  Even though Hulda was using words like legends and tales, her tone was pulpit-pounding.

  “The passage was closed,” Hulda continued, “when Ravens were found gaining entrance to Asgard, the airy home of Odin and Valhalla, his majestic hall of warriors, where empyreal powers are granted.”

  Did she just describe a world-of-sky, power-disbursing hall of warriors?

  “Katla, these stories were not shared with you in your youth, but is not too late for you to learn the old legends. If you are interested, I will tell them to you.”

  “Uh. Sure. That’d be nice.” Because it sounded more like required reading than elective.

  “Good. The tales of Niflheim, the ice realm, will be good for you to know. Especially if you’re going to make good design for school project, you have to understand the nature of this coldhearted Snow Queen.” Hulda ran her hand along a rack of satins, stopping at a blue so pale and crystalline it appeared to be made of glass. “This is good color for Snow Queen.” She held it out to me.

  “Thanks. I guess.” Hulda seemed to be in a good mood. And I didn’t get many opportunities to talk to her alone. “What else can you tell me about my amma?”

  “Such a good person. Such a good friend. She suspected you were special, a herald of change, and foresaw great things for you. She entertained her sister Storks with tales of your childhood interest in birds. She even boasted of your claims to communicate with winged friends.” Hulda winked. “We all had a good laugh over these stories.”

  It didn’t sound so innocent to me anymore. It meant that my amma had unwittingly disclosed my Stork destiny and made some sort of prediction. And if there was already tension between my amma and Grim, then her resentment of me must have been cooking for years. Hulda was still smiling, so I figured I’d press for more info while I was at it. “Uh, Hulda, do you mind if I ask you something else?”

  “Ask.”

  “What did my amma and Fru Grimilla fight about?”

  “Ah. This again. They fought about the accusation that Fru Grimilla had been present at your accident.”

  “So my amma thought she could be a Raven?”

  “Originally, yes. But I promise you this was resolved and your amma was eventually satisfied with Fru Grimilla’s whereabouts that evening.”

  “How?”

  “It’s not for me to reveal.”

  “OK. One more question, Fru Hulda, if you don’t mind? Who would have been named second chair if I hadn’t shown up that night?”

  Hulda exhaled. “I had not decided. I was waiting for a sign.”

  “Was Fru Grimilla being considered?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just . . . she always seems so mad at me, and if there had been bad blood between her and my amma . . . Plus, there have been some fairly strange things going on. Close calls. What if I upset the chain of command?”

  “Do you trust me?” Hulda asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then I tell you I would place my own life in Grimilla’s hands. I know her to be loyal and devoted to the Storks. As I know all of my sister Storks to be.”

  I felt only slightly better, but was glad I’d asked. Sometimes a big black bird is just a big black bird was the chorus to my new theme song. I filled my arms with the three bolts of fabric, some trim, and a pocketful of glittery buttons.

  I waved good-bye to Hulda and was backing out her door, when a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a map approached me on the street.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the best way to the Lodge at Cedar Pole, would you? Or at least get me to Highway 116?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, juggling the slippery materials. “I’m the wrong person to ask.” I motioned with my head back toward Hulda’s door. “You should ask Hulda, the woman who owns this shop. She’d know.”

  The man thanked me, and I heard Hulda’s door chimes jingle as he stepped into her store.

  Afi was scratching his head in confusion when I got back.

  “Holdout Hulda’s really going to sell?”

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be.” His milky blue eyes were glazed. I could see that this had really startled him. “A day to go down in the record books.” He looked at the stack of fabrics in my arms. “What’s all that?”

  “I’m going to the Homecoming dance Saturday night. With Jack Snjosson. I need a dress.”

  “Snjosson?”

  “Yeah. We’re kind of friends. Maybe even a little more than friends.”

  “Like I said. A day for the record books.”

  “I was wondering if there might be any old dresses of Amma’s I could look at. Hulda said you guys used to go dancing.”

  “There’s an old wardrobe full of her things up in my attic. You’re welcome to whatever you find.”

  “Thanks.” I kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the best.�
��

  He blushed and rubbed his face.

  I hurried over to Afi’s. He lived in a turn-of-the-century house down the street from Penny and Grim. The area was known for its historic homes, tall trees, and large gardens, but I personally wouldn’t give up the conveniences of modern construction for the gingerbread look. The house had low ceilings and a detached garage, and my Louis Vuitton carry-on held more than all his closets combined. And boy, could his place use a little TLC. Threadbare furniture, stained carpets, an old belching fridge, and worst of all, heavy drapery that cast a dark pall over the place. And this after my mom and I had spent three weekends in a row weeding, scrubbing, and trashing three years of mess.

  I climbed up the rickety, fold-down steps to the musty third-floor attic. Cobwebby, low-lit, unfinished attics rank only slightly higher than basements on my anywhere-but-here list. I found the wardrobe easily enough and rifled through at least two dozen hanging garments. My amma had several dresses that, with a few modifications, had potential. I was surprised at the quality of the material, as well as the construction. I’m not sure I ever really appreciated vintage design. My tastes had always tended more to what was in style right now. I came across a red sleeveless gown with an empire waist and beaded bodice. It seemed a perfect match to the fabrics Hulda had selected. I’d completely cut away the skirt, which was frayed, but salvaging the upper half of the dress would save hours of labor. I remembered that Penny intended to rework one of Grim’s old dresses. Shame on me for pitying her this necessity. Once again, I’d underestimated my new friend’s ingenuity. I held the dress against my front, looking in a full-length mirror propped up against the wall. With a fitted silk underlayer and full tulle skirt, it would be quite elegant, and simple. Simple for me, anyway. And the red was perfect. I remembered my amma wearing a lot of red. I wondered what bird she had represented at council. A red bird? A red finch? A scarlet macaw? A cardinal? Something about the last one felt right to me. There had always been an unusual number of cardinals at her bird feeder.