He looks like he stepped out of an old photograph, thought Lucy. She remembered the photograph she had seen upstairs. Did Aunt Helen recognize Oscar?
“Earl lives near town,” said her mother.
“Would it be all right if I showed Earl around?” Lucy asked, anxious to get Oscar away before Aunt Helen started asking more questions.
“Go ahead,” said her mother.
“Earl looks so familiar. But I don’t see how he could be a Norby,” Lucy heard Aunt Helen say in a low voice as she and Oscar left the kitchen.
“Why did you say you were Earl Norby?” Lucy whispered as they climbed the stairs.
“I don’t know. Earl was my best friend. Lucy, you don’t think — well, it must be true — that old man your aunt mentioned — he must be my Earl Norby. Gosh, it would be good to see him.”
Then they reached the top of the stairs and Oscar saw his room. He stood in the doorway for a moment. “It’s changed some. That’s my desk all right, though. And my bookcase,” he said at last. His eyes rested momentarily on the photograph Lucy had noticed before — the one of Oscar and his mother and Lavonne and Morris. Lucy wondered if he would pick it up.
He looked away instead. “I see some of my books are still here,” he said, kneeling down and running his hand along the titles. “I’ve never heard of some of these,” he remarked, hesitating at a battered-looking paperback copy of The Hobbit.
He looked up. “Let’s see The Book of Story Beginnings.”
As Lucy sat down beside him, Oscar took the book and opened it. He studied the paragraph in Norwegian, whispering the syllables. “That word there means books,” he said. “I think it says, ‘Once there was a man who loved books. He loved books so much that they became real for him — more real than his own life. Books became his life.’”
“Maybe that’s important — the part about books being real.”
“Hmm.”
“What I mean is, this book makes whatever you write in it become real.”
“Right,” Oscar murmured. Lucy could tell he wasn’t really listening.
“Well, what do you think is important?” she said, frustrated.
“I was thinking about stories,” said Oscar. “It’s just like the book says, isn’t it? A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.”
“Right. And we’re in the middle of a story. We already know that!”
“It’s more than that. What we are is characters in the middle of a story. We’ve got to start thinking like characters,” Oscar explained. “We’ve got to get ourselves to the end of the story. The middle is figuring out how to get there.”
“I can’t think of a way to end this story,” said Lucy. “I just want to find my father and bring him home! Only we haven’t got the slightest idea where he’s gone!”
“Except that he flew across the sea,” said Oscar. “That’s something.”
“Right,” Lucy said sarcastically. “Maybe he flew to the same island you did. Maybe the Queen of Birds has him locked up in her palace! How are we supposed to know?”
“Jump into the story,” said Oscar. “There’s got to be a way to find him — otherwise it wouldn’t be a story.”
“All I know is that stupid book has got him lost and — oh!” Lucy stopped short as an idea came to her. “Oscar, listen!” She had to wait for words to catch up with her idea. “What you said — that a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. What if we could change my beginning — or add to it just a little bit? What if we could have my father turn himself into a bird, fly out the window — just like it happened — and then have him fly to a particular place — a place where we could find him?”
“Not a new beginning, exactly — just a better one,” said Oscar.
“Better for us! We’ll never find my father if we don’t know where he is.”
“Do you think it would work?”
“It’s worth a try,” said Lucy, who was already hunting for a pencil in a drawer of the desk. She found one and held it up triumphantly.
“Where would you put him?” said Oscar.
His question set them both to thinking. Lucy wanted her father to end up close to home. “He could fly over the sea for a bit, then come back and roost in the barn,” she suggested.
“What kind of bird is he?” asked Oscar.
“I don’t know — a crow, I think.”
“I don’t think crows roost in barns.”
“So he doesn’t have to roost. He just likes to swoop down to the barn every day like all the other crows to eat corn near the feedlot. I’ve seen the crows down there — lots of them!”
Oscar continued to look skeptical. “It doesn’t sound like a very interesting story.”
“Who cares if it’s interesting?”
“A story has to be interesting,” Oscar said with conviction. “You have to care. Otherwise it’s not a story.”
“Maybe he’s gone wild or something like that. We have to tame him.”
“How would you tame a crow?”
“With love! Affection! Food! I don’t know!” Lucy was getting annoyed.
“Your father will get mixed in with all the other crows,” said Oscar. “How will you pick him out?”
“I think I’d know my own father!” said Lucy, though she wasn’t sure that was true.
“What if he gets killed by a farm cat?” said Oscar. “‘Be mindful of stories that you begin’! That’s what the poem says.”
“Any story I begin could lead to something dangerous,” Lucy countered. “And you have to agree that the feedlot is a pretty safe place, considering.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Oscar. “You don’t know what will happen.”
“I’ve got to do something,” said Lucy. She opened the book to the page where her story beginning was written and read aloud: “‘Once upon a time, there was a girl whose father was a magician.’
“Now I want to say that the girl’s father invented a potion that could change — no, transform — one thing into another,” she said.
“You’d better explain what you mean by ‘transform one thing into another.’”
Lucy thought for a moment. “How about ‘invented a potion that could transform one thing into another — a mouse into a salamander, the land into sea . . .’”
“‘A cat into a boy,’” Oscar finished. “I guess that’s all right. Write that down and go on. What’s next?”
Despite his initial hesitation, Oscar seemed to be entering into the spirit of the thing. Lucy felt encouraged. “‘A cat into a boy,’” she murmured as the pencil raced across the page. “‘One night the girl’s father used the potion to change himself into a bird. To the girl’s dismay, he flew out the window and’ — rats!” She stopped midsentence. “I forgot to say that he’d already changed the land into the sea.”
“Just say ‘out the window and over a magical sea he’d created with the potion.’ That ought to take care of it,” said Oscar.
“Good idea.” Lucy added Oscar’s suggestion, then paused. So far she hadn’t written anything that hadn’t already happened. The paragraph glared at her, waiting for the next sentence. “Here goes,” she said, and wrote: Her father flew over the white-capped waves until he was tired and hungry. Being a crow, he wanted corn. And the best place to find corn was the barn near his house. His wings carried him swiftly home and he flew down to the feedlot.
“Hey!” she yelped.
“What is it?”
“My writing! It’s disappearing.”
Sure enough, the last sentences she had written, starting with Her father flew over the white-capped waves until he was tired and hungry, were rapidly disappearing. Letter by letter, word by word, an invisible eraser was rubbing its way across the page. Oscar and Lucy stared as the end of the last sentence, flew down to the feedlot, vanished completely. Lucy’s story beginning now ended with the sentence To the girl’s dismay, he flew out the window and over a magical sea he’d created with the potion.
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br /> Lucy took the pencil and rewrote the sentences as best as she could remember them. They watched as the invisible eraser chased the point of the pencil across the page. Lucy didn’t even have time to cross the t on feedlot before the word disappeared.
“Let me see the book,” said Oscar. He flipped back to the start and read aloud:
“That’s it, Lucy!” he exclaimed. “The book must have judged your story beginning and decided it wasn’t going to make a good tale. How do you like that? It’s kind of funny, in a way!”
“I don’t think it’s funny! What are we supposed to do now?”
“Come up with a more interesting beginning. Something that makes you want to hear more,” said Oscar. “You came up with one yourself earlier. Having your father fly to the island — having him get caught by the Queen of Birds. That’s the sort of thing we need. Not that idea exactly, but something like it —”
“Why not that idea?” Lucy interrupted. “You said yourself it would be an interesting story.”
“A bit too interesting for me, thank you! Don’t forget how long I was on that island. It sounds like you want to consign your father to the same fate.”
“Who said anything about consigning him to the same fate? All I said was he could get caught by the queen. I never said he had to stay there. We could go rescue him.”
“And how would we do that?”
“Well — I have a plan,” said Lucy. But she didn’t have a plan.
“Yes?” said Oscar, waiting.
“Well, we’ve got a boat.” A plan began to construct itself in Lucy’s mind. “And we’ve got The Book of Story Beginnings. We could write that my father gets captured by the queen —”
“That’s crazy!”
“What’s crazy?” said a voice from the hall, and they both jumped. Neither of them had heard Lucy’s mother come up the stairs.
“Nothing.” Lucy wondered how much her mother had heard. “We’re just looking at books.”
“Are you as much of a reader as Lucy, Earl?” said her mother, sounding pleased.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Oscar. “I love books. I want to be a writer someday.”
“That’s a wonderful goal. Don’t lose sight of it,” said Lucy’s mother. “I wanted to be a writer myself once. . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. Then she said briskly, “Lucy — I’m going to have to shut myself up in my office today or I’ll never get through the stack of work on my desk. I know you’ll help yourself to lunch. Earl, you’re welcome to eat here if you like.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Your mother’s nice,” said Oscar when Lucy’s mother was gone. “What’s the stack of work on her desk?”
“She’s an editor.”
“For a newspaper?” Oscar sounded surprised.
“No.” Lucy shook her head. “She edits articles for books and journals. People send her things, she edits them, then sends them back. Science stuff mostly — aerospace, genetics, biotech, that sort of thing.” She rattled off a few of the subject areas she had heard her mother mention.
Oscar was looking at Lucy with a blank expression, and she realized that he couldn’t possibly have heard of the things she’d just described. In fact, he looked tired suddenly — and sad. His eyes flickered over the photographs on the bookcase. He’s thinking of his family, thought Lucy. He knows he doesn’t belong here. “What about my plan?” she said, filling the silence, trying to draw him back to the present. “What do you think?”
“Sure, Lucy,” said Oscar.
But she could tell he hadn’t really heard her. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Oscar looked at her then. “I’m fine. Just tired is all.” He smiled a little. “I think I must still be on cat time,” he said. “I used to take a nap every morning about this time.”
It didn’t take long to get Oscar settled on the floor of the smokehouse with a blanket and a pillow. “Don’t worry! We’ll think of something,” he told Lucy.
But Lucy was already thinking of something, and when she returned to the house, she stood in the front hall, thinking about it even more. She listened for a moment to the whispery sound of her mother typing at her computer. Then she climbed upstairs to Oscar’s room, where she sat down and read what she had written in The Book of Story Beginnings:
Once upon a time, there was a girl whose father was a magician. The girl’s father invented a potion that could transform one thing into another — a mouse into a salamander, the land into sea, a cat into a boy. One night the girl’s father used the potion to change himself into a bird. To the girl’s dismay, he flew out the window and over a magical sea he’d created with the potion.
Lucy’s hand closed around the pencil, and she could almost feel herself writing. “Just a few more sentences,” she murmured, imagining Oscar’s voice rising in protest. The pencil joined the paper, and she began to write.
The bird flew across the sea to a strange island ruled by a king who loved cats and a queen who loved birds. The queen took the girl’s father and kept him prisoner. When the girl learned what had happened, she knew she must free her father. She and her . . .
Lucy hesitated, not sure what to call Oscar. She and her great-uncle set off in a boat to rescue him, she wrote. Best to be exact, she decided. She didn’t want there to be any confusion.
Then a wave of panic swept over her. How were she and Oscar going to find their way to the island? Writing hastily, as if to make up for careless planning, Lucy added one more sentence: They knew they could get to the island by following the path made by the moon on the water.
Lucy waited breathlessly. She closed the book, then opened it again. She closed it and opened it again and again, just to make sure. The new beginning — the better beginning, she reminded herself — had not vanished this time.
A noise — the steady tread of feet on the stairs — made Lucy snap shut The Book of Story Beginnings. She slid it into the bookcase just as her mother looked in from the hallway.
“Did Earl go home?” said her mother.
“Yes.” Technically speaking, it was true — Oscar was home. “He was tired,” Lucy added.
“I should think so!” said her mother. She turned and opened the door to the attic closet. Lucy listened to her mother’s feet on the attic stairs, then jumped up to follow. Why was her mother going to the attic?
When Lucy reached the top of the stairs, she looked across the attic floor. It was littered with paper and broken glass. The window was still open from the night before. Her mother was gazing out, and Lucy moved to her side, hit by a sudden flash of hope and fear that she would see an ocean outside. But there were only the tops of the oak trees below the slope of the hill, and far beyond, the distant fields of glittering green corn.
It will happen tonight, she promised herself. Tonight the sea would appear, and she and Oscar would find the island by following the path made by the moon on the water.
Then she began to worry. For all she knew, it could be tonight, tomorrow night, or some night a year from now — or never.
It will be tonight, she admonished herself. She couldn’t let herself believe anything else.
Lucy’s mother leaned over to peer into the mouse cage on the table. The mouse — the familiar, thought Lucy — was curled up asleep in the sawdust at the bottom of the cage.
Lucy’s mother straightened, surveying the chaos on the table and floor. “This place is a mess,” she said. “Was it like this when you were up here last night, Lucy?”
“Walter got into the attic. He jumped on the worktable and knocked some things down.” Lucy blushed at telling only half the truth.
Her mother stooped down and picked up a sheaf of papers from the floor. She shook them, and a black feather drifted and twirled in the air. She watched it absently for a moment, then looked down at the pages in her hand. Lucy strained to see the rows of Aunt Lavonne’s lacy handwriting. She saw that her father had written in red pen in the margins of the paper.
Her mother r
ead aloud: “‘Notes on a Theory of Transformation. The sleeper dreams of an egg and knows an egg. He dreams the egg is hatched and . . .’” She frowned and set the pages down on the table. She picked up another pile of papers, read silently, then glanced down. For the first time, Lucy noticed a round gold medallion with a pentagon-shaped hole in its center. Her mother scooped up the medallion by its silver chain, then let it clatter back onto the table.
“Lucy — last night — did your father seem upset about anything?” she asked. Her mother’s face looked troubled, and Lucy wondered if she was remembering the argument she had had yesterday with her father.
Lucy picked up the medallion. She put it around her neck and held it in front of her, studying the intricate design around its center so that she didn’t have to look at her mother. “Dad seemed okay,” she said. Another half-truth — maybe even a complete lie this time.
Her mother began shuffling the papers, tapping them methodically on the table, first on one side, then on the other until they were straight. She laid them down carefully.
“Mom . . .”
“Lucy . . .” They had spoken at exactly the same time.
“You first.” Her mother smiled, her dark eyes like two wet stones.
“No, you,” said Lucy.
“I was just thinking it would be fun to do something different for dinner tonight,” said her mother. “We can all go to the burger place in town when your father gets home.”
“Sure,” said Lucy, feeling relieved and disappointed at the same time. For a moment, she’d had the wild idea that her mother had guessed the truth after all.
“We can do more as a family here. I’ve been so busy — it’s silly of me. There’s so much more time in the country. Time to be a family.” Her mother smiled. “Let’s surprise your father and clean this up, shall we?”
While she laid out papers and equipment on the table in rows as neat as city blocks, Lucy’s mother chattered blithely. Mostly she repeated things Aunt Helen must have told her — about the town of Martin, about school, about the church youth group. Lucy swept the floor, wishing her mother would stop talking so she could tell her what had happened.
The Book of Story Beginnings Page 8
