The Boy, the Bird and the Coffin Maker

by Matilda Woods

  “And – and—” Tito bounced with another question. “And can it float?” he finally said.

  “Why, I don’t know. Should we go and see?”

  That night when Alberto returned to his workshop he pushed his own coffin aside and made a wooden train with five carriages. The following night, he made a set of miniature birds that fitted one inside the other. Soon he had made so many toys for Tito he had to build a large chest to store them.

  While Alberto made toys for Tito at night, during the day he played with him. They played marbles in the kitchen, blindman’s buff in the workshop and hide and seek all over the house. Hardly a sound left their lips for fear the sisters next door would hear, but despite the silence their days became full of fun and, for the first time in thirty years, the house at the top of Allora Hill became a bright and happy home once more.

  ALBERTO’S PROMISE

  Though Alberto could keep Tito inside most of the time, he could not deny him visits to his mother. So late at night, when the moon was the only other thing up, they would sneak out to the graveyard at the top of the hill.

  Tito would go to his mother’s grave while Alberto went to his family’s four. Sometimes Tito was there for hours, whispering whole days of conversation in one night. Alberto did not know what he spoke about and though, of course curious, never asked. Those words were meant for Tito’s mother alone.

  One night Tito spoke for so long that the clock tower chimed in a new morning. Alberto, for the first time, had to go over and interrupt. But before they could leave, someone else entered the graveyard.

  “Quick, Tito. Hide,” Alberto whispered. But he need not have spoken. After one glance at the approaching man, Tito had jumped behind a gravestone and was now hidden from sight.

  Alberto watched the man approach. In the dark of night, he couldn’t see much. He was tall and dark and, instead of walking, marched.

  “Hello,” Alberto said when the man drew so near he could ignore him no longer.

  The stranger jumped and reached into his pocket. The handle of a pistol appeared. It glistened white in the moonlight.

  “Strange time to visit a graveyard,” the armed man said.

  “And yet,” Alberto replied, unable to stop his voice quivering, “both of us are here.”

  The dark stranger stepped nearer. When Alberto’s form grew clear, he loosened his grip on the gun. “Good point. Are you the caretaker?”

  “In a way. I’m the coffin maker.”

  The man’s eyes flashed with interest. “Then you might be able to help. I’m looking for someone. My wife. She’s in here somewhere. Bonito’s the name.”

  “Why, you’re right here.” Alberto pointed to the grave before them. He had suspected the man was Tito’s father – they shared a likeness in the shape of their faces – and now he knew for sure.

  “So I am,” Mr Bonito said. His eyes skimmed the gravestone and settled on something small and white that stuck out of the winter grass below. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a flower,” Alberto said.

  Mr Bonito picked the flower up and snapped the thin stalk in two. Droplets of juice, like morning dew, seeped out. “A fresh flower that has just been placed.”

  “Yes.” To block the gravestone Tito hid behind, Alberto shifted his body to the left. “I just put it there.”

  “You?” Mr Bonito’s eyes jumped with surprise and then suspicion. “Why would you—” He took a step forward. His large shadow fell across the old coffin maker. “Leave a flower on my wife’s grave?”

  “Because I knew her,” Alberto said with only a slight gulp.

  Mr Bonito’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, did you? And in what way did you know my wife?”

  “I made her coffin. I already told you that. I’m the coffin maker.”

  “Oh.” A little of Mr Bonito’s suspicion fell away, but some remained. “Do you place flowers above every coffin you make?”

  “Well, of course not. There aren’t enough flowers in my garden to do that.”

  “So why place a flower on my wife’s grave?”

  “Because no one else does.”

  “And why would they?” Up until that moment Mr Bonito had been quite civil, but now his voice cracked through the air like a whip. “She thought she could take him away from me. But she couldn’t. You see, a boy should be with his father. He is mine, and I will have him. That’s why she was punished. Death was her curse and so shall it be the curse of anyone who has helped her.” Anger made his mouth froth like the sea after a storm.

  “Mr Bonito,” Alberto said calmly, “death will be the curse of everyone. Even you.”

  “Well—” Mr Bonito’s voice grew as icy as the late winter air. “I wouldn’t bother leaving any more.” He kicked at the flower lying broken on the ground. “She didn’t deserve flowers. Besides, I’m sure there’s a little hand that’s eager to leave another.”

  “If you’re talking about your son, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Miss Bonito lived in this town for over a year and no one saw this so-called son, not once.”

  “But I know he was here,” Mr Bonito said. “I found his things, and she never went anywhere without him.”

  “But perhaps he is here no longer. You have missed a nasty snap in the weather. A chill so deep it almost froze the very sea. I doubt any child living by himself could have survived that.”

  “Ah, but who said he was living by himself?”

  Alberto frowned. “Whatever do you mean? If no one has seen the boy, no one could be helping him.”

  “No one has said they have seen him. They’re two very different things.”

  “Yes, well, it is a possibility,” Alberto admitted. It would have been suspicious to deny that.

  “A very real one,” Mr Bonito said. He looked across the sea for a moment, as if thinking, and then turned back to Alberto. “You’re right,” he said. “Someone must be helping him.”

  “Well, you can’t be sure of tha—”

  “Yes I can,” Mr Bonito snarled. “There was that bowl of stew. No other bowls in the house had looked like that.” His eyes lit with triumph. “Here I was waiting for the boy to come back to the cottage. But if he has help, I’ll have to do far more than that.”

  Without another word to Alberto, Mr Bonito spun on his heel and marched towards the graveyard gate, trampling over graves as he went.

  Alberto watched Mr Bonito leave. When he was long lost to sight, he leant over the tombstone behind him and whispered, “Tito, are you still there?”

  The young boy slowly stood up. The tombstone was so large, he remained in its shadow.

  “Did he see me?” Tito whispered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tito’s body relaxed, but when he spoke his voice was filled with worry. “What I said isn’t false. It’s the truth. He really did hurt my mum and do those bad things. I swear it.”

  Hearing the despair in Tito’s voice, Fia poked her head out of his jacket (she was now far too large for his pocket) and nuzzled him gently on the chin.

  “I know, Tito,” Alberto said. “I believe you.”

  “Please don’t let him take me.”

  “I’ll try, Tito.”

  “But trying isn’t enough. My mum tried every time, and he caught us every time. You have to promise.”

  Alberto was not the type of man to make promises he could not keep, but more than that he was not the type of man who wanted Tito to worry. So, though he feared a day might come when he couldn’t keep it, he opened his mouth and said:

  “I promise, Tito. Now, come around here. There’ll be no more hiding behind gravestones for you.”

  THE SAILING COFFIN MAKER

  Now that Tito knew his father was back, he had no desire to leave Alberto’s house. Even the garden became too dangerous in Tito’s eyes. And so, as winter turned to spring, he remained inside, trapped not by a key and lock but by fear: the fear that his father would find him and take him far away.

  As the seasons
changed, Mr Bonito remained in Allora. After his conversation with Alberto, he had stopped waiting for Tito to return to his mother’s home and now waited for someone to return the boy to him. He had offered a reward of twenty, then fifty, then one hundred golden coins to whoever returned him first. Alberto had never seen so much money – not even the mayor’s coffin had cost that much – but he wasn’t tempted in the slightest.

  Alberto tried his best to keep Tito busy. Their reading lessons continued, and soon Tito could read whole words by himself. Alberto’s old ABC book was cast aside in favour of books with proper stories, and it wasn’t long before Tito knew all sorts of long, tricky words like gingerbread, bumblebee and pomegranate.

  The more Tito read the more curious he became. No subject was dull to him. Alberto could not enroll him in school, so he tried to bring school to him instead. He taught him all that he knew, not just about wood and coffins, but about history, geography and arithmetic. He even tried to teach him how to cook. Yet no matter how much Alberto told Tito, the boy always had more questions than he could answer.

  While Tito could not leave the house, Alberto left every day. In the morning he would walk down the cobbled lanes of Allora, buy a fresh loaf of bread from Enzo and a small bag of sweets from Madame Claudine and then he would sit in the main square and wait.

  Alberto wasn’t waiting to meet someone. Rather, he was waiting to hear someone – anyone – who spoke of the Bonito name. By now the reward had climbed to one hundred and fifty golden coins and false sightings of Tito Bonito had risen to at least three each day.

  “I saw him climbing the town wall,” said a man outside the tavern. “Almost tripped over his own feet. But by the time Mr Bonito arrived he had disappeared like a ghost into the air.”

  “I heard a child crying down by the rocks,” said a woman about to enter Madame Claudine’s sweet shop. “Weeping for his long lost father and cursing his evil, crazed mother. But by the time I reached the water the child was gone, swept clean out to sea.”

  “It’s true. The sea has claimed him,” said the foolish fisherman as he awakened from a deep slumber. “I saw it just now, in my dreams. The waves came and took him away, so very far, far away.”

  Alberto always breathed a sigh of relief when he heard these lies and imaginings. There was no way Tito could climb the walls of the town, they were far too high; and he was not stupid enough to go and sit by the rocks near the sea. But there was one rumour whispered amongst the people of Allora that was actually a truth. And it made Alberto very worried.

  “He’s started to search the houses,” Enzo said one morning as he fetched Alberto a fresh loaf of bread. “Not all of them. But he has searched three already at the bottom of Allora Hill. Apparently someone saw a child’s face looking out the window of the first, a child’s shoe lying suspiciously outside the door of the second and a whole child – legs, arms, head and all – running in the garden of the third. The mayor says Mr Bonito can search any home he wants, as long as there has been a sighting. He’s even talking about making it a new law.”

  To keep Tito’s mind off his father, Alberto continued to read him stories every night. Or rather, just the one. Tito’s favourite: the big red book about Isola.

  By now they had heard all about the robbers who had raided Isola Mountain, the crazed queen who had claimed it as her own and the kind farmer who toiled upon its land and bred a whole flock full of diamond sheep. And now, finally, after months of reading they had reached the final chapter.

  Over the space of three and fifty years, men and women, queens and kings, farmers and robbers, all made their mark upon the mountain called Isola. But it was not a good mark. For as the pockets used to smuggle chocolates and pearls turned into buckets and then carriages and carts, the mountain itself began to die. Rubies turned to dust, never-ending fires faded to ash and snowflakes fell to the ground as ice not pearl.

  But the bad marks did not stop there. For, you see, Isola Mountain was far more special than anyone could know. It possessed a wonder that could not be seen or stolen and that wonder was this: Isola Mountain was alive. Just like you and me, she could think, she could feel and she could dream. And as she felt person after person trampling over her body and tearing wonders from her skin, she began to cry.

  A mountain is a big thing, far bigger than us, so her tears did not form puddles on the ground, but a whole sea across the land. Waves surged up around the mountain as she sobbed, and the people on Isola fled before they drowned. In a single day Isola Mountain became Isola Island.

  Isola’s tears were as magical as the island itself. She could tame them, control them and move the whole sea at her will. In her anger, she made the water rage without rest for days, weeks, months, even years. As her land remained untrodden all of its stolen wonders grew back.

  But just like every living thing, Isola grows tired and must sleep. While she sleeps her tears still and if you are fast enough and brave enough you can sail all the way to her island and tread upon the magical land yourself. And if you are good and true and kind, Isola will let you stay. She will treat you like a mother and fiercely keep everyone else away.

  “Wow,” Tito said as Alberto closed the final page of the book. “Do you think all that stuff’s real?”

  “It could be,” Alberto replied.

  “I’m going to go there one day,” Tito said with a stubborn nod of his head. “I’m going to become a sailor and sail all the way to Isola.”

  “A sailor?” Alberto said. “I thought you wanted to be a coffin maker like me.”

  “Can’t I be both?”

  Alberto laughed. “Why, of course you can. You can be the first ever sailing coffin maker. The one and only, sailing from town to town helping to bury the dead.”

  “And I’ll go to Isola first. You can come too,” Tito offered.

  “That is a kind offer,” Alberto said. “But I think I might stay here. I’m far too old for an adventure like that. But I’m sure Fia would be very pleased to join you. The way she stares across that wild sea, I think she’d feel right at home out there.”

  “Twrp!” sang Fia, in her most cheerful tone yet.

  “Maybe the two of you could bring me back a present. How about a flying horse? Or perhaps a diamond sheep? Or, I know, a flower made of rubies?”

  “All right,” said Tito. “I’ll bring you back two.”

  THE MAYOR TAKES A TUMBLE

  Tito and Alberto were eating breakfast one morning when they heard a knock on the front door. By now Tito was used to running when death knocked, so he ran upstairs to his room with Fia. Alberto waited for the door above to click closed before opening the one below.

  “Ah, Master Alberto,” said the man standing on the other side.

  “Good morning, Mister Mayor. What can I do for you?” It had been a long time since his last visit.

  “I just came to check on my coffin.” He didn’t bother keeping his voice down. His coffin was no longer a secret. The Finestra sisters had made sure of that. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” Alberto stepped aside so the mayor could enter. It was a tight fit, and he feared that if the man got any larger he would need a new coffin. “We’re making good progress.”

  “We?” the mayor asked.

  “Yes. You and me.” Alberto was quick to correct his mistake. “I think we make a very good team.”

  “Right you are,” the mayor said with a chuckle. “Now, lead the way, Master Alberto. Take me to my glorious coffin.”

  For once the mayor was pleased with Alberto’s progress and, despite the wooden frame, couldn’t help admiring his speed and workmanship.

  “Particularly those cherubs,” he said, pointing to a little cluster near the coffin’s base. “What skill you have, Master Alberto.”

  “Thank you,” Alberto said, making a mental note to commend Tito on his work.

  “Now, I best be getting on. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your work. Though, like I said before, there’s no need to rush.�
�� The mayor stepped into the hall. “No need at a—”

  A loud crash filled the hall, and the whole house shook as if a ship had ploughed through the front door.

  “Mayor, are you all right?” Alberto called, racing to his side.

  “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” The mayor rocked back and forth like a tortoise stuck on its shell. “Just need a little help getting up.”

  “Of course. Here, let me.” Alberto offered his hand and hauled the great man up.

  “Thank you, Master Alberto,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle. “Must have tripped over my own fee— hang on. What’s that?”

  The mayor hadn’t tripped over his feet after all. He had tripped over a little wooden sail boat lying in the hall.

  They didn’t come until later that night. Tito and Alberto were fast asleep. When they heard the knocks, their eyes flew open and they hurried into the hall. They met in the centre, both wearing their nightcaps.

  “Who is it?” Tito whispered. Fear robbed his face of all signs of sleep. He had lived with Alberto long enough to know the knock of death. That knock was sad, resigned and, at night, apologetic. This knock was different. It was fast, insistent and angry. Even the mayor did not knock like that.

  “I’m not sure.” Alberto crept into his room and over to the window. Silently, he opened one of the shutters and peered outside. The sky was dark but the lane was bright.

  “Oh no,” Alberto said. Four men were gathered below. The mayor stood at the back and Mr Bonito at the front. He could not see the two who stood in between.

  “What is it?” Tito rose on to the tip of his toes and tried to peer outside. Alberto closed the shutter before he could see.

  “They have come for you,” Alberto said.

  “What do we do?”

  “We must hide you, Tito.”

  “Just like in our game?”

  “Exactly like our game.”

  “But where?” Tito asked.

  Alberto pictured every corner of his house: every fireplace, every cupboard and every bed. But they wouldn’t do. Mr Bonito was sure to check there. He needed some place else. Some place no one would even think to check. His eyes lit with an idea.