by Kathi Appelt
Indeed, the old homestead was filled with artifacts, both gainfully acquired and not. A stroll through its many rooms was like a trip to the museum. There were shelves filled with crystal and silver and objets d’art. There were silk tapestries hung on the dining room walls. And there were bronze and marble sculptures in the sculpture garden.
Above the fireplace in the library there was a commanding portrait of the family founder, Alouicious Beaucoup, leering down at his descendants from his perch above the mantel. Upon close inspection, it was obvious that the frame was made of an old ship’s railing. How apt.
And just beneath the portrait, resting on the mantel, was the framed deal he had supposedly struck with the Sugar Man, written in the ancient mariner’s blood, the same deal that had, according to legend, saved Alouicious’s life.
Sonny Boy used to revel in his ancestor’s impressive gaze, but lately he found it unsettling. He couldn’t escape the feeling that the eyes in the portrait were watching him. So he covered the painting up with a fine linen tablecloth. As for the bloody deal, he simply turned it over, facedown on the mantel. The deal remained on its face, but the cloth over the portrait wouldn’t stay put. It kept slipping off.
Sonny Boy tried stapling it, but the wood of the frame was too hard for the staples. Then he used superglue, but that didn’t hold either. Even after he fastened it with duct tape, the cloth came free and slid down onto the hearth in a heap. After that, Sonny Boy stopped going into the library and locked the door.
That didn’t work either. Every time he passed by, the door hung open, and the portrait stared at him. Sonny Boy got to where whenever he had to walk past the library, he picked up his pace and ran, so as to avoid the room and the painting altogether. Instead he sought refuge in the study. Unlike the formal setting of the library, with all of those leather-bound tomes and the austere gaze of this great-great-greater-greatest-grandfather, not to mention the promise struck in blood, the study felt cozy. He also liked the glass cases that lined the walls. He particularly liked the aged brandy in the crystal decanter. “Perfect,” he said.
The Beaucoups were known far and wide as collectors, and some of the things they collected were specimens. Animal and bird specimens. As a child, Sonny Boy had ignored the specimens. In fact, he had refused to look at them. The old, dead animals with their glass eyes gave him the creeps. But tonight, a glass of aged brandy in his hand, he studied them with admiration. He could tell they were as fine as those in the Smithsonian. And just as rare.
And that’s when his eye fell on the bird.
“Lord God,” he said, splashing his brandy on his seersucker sleeve and dripping it onto the mahogany floorboards. How had he missed it in all these years? Even he knew, by its red crown, that it was a fully grown male. Its impressive black wings, with their trailing white feathers, were spread out to their full three-foot-wide span. It seemed to soar in place. Ghost bird.
Sonny Boy threw back the rest of his brandy in one huge gulp. It burned on the way down. He leaned in to get a better look. That’s when he noticed the faded handwritten note. “Collected in September 1949, by Quenton Beaucoup, in the Sugar Man Swamp.”
For the second time that night, Sonny Boy grimaced. His father, Quenton Beaucoup, had died in a freak accident in the swamp. One day, he went out hunting with his bird dogs, Sam and Pete. Several days later, the dogs returned without him. And several days after that, Quenton’s body was found in the top of a tree. The autopsy said “heart attack,” but no one could explain why he was so far up in the tree. “Scouting for birds,” was the official line. Afterwards, his mother had packed Sonny Boy up and moved to Houston, which was fine by Sonny Boy. He preferred the big city to the remote swamp.
He didn’t have much memory of his father. Sonny Boy was barely a toddler when his father had died. And besides, what he remembered of his father wasn’t all that pleasant. Quenton Beaucoup seemed to like his dogs more than he liked his son. As Sonny Boy recalled, he himself liked the dogs more than he liked his father.
Sonny Boy reached for the decanter of brandy and refilled his glass. So, he thought, Audie Brayburn’s tale of taking a photo of the bird in 1949 wasn’t so far-fetched after all. He looked at the specimen in front of him. The infamous lost photo might even have been of this very bird.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter. Just because the bird had been alive in 1949 didn’t mean there were any left now, more than sixty years later.
He took another sip of brandy and let it rest on his tongue. It tasted sour. If, by some miracle, another ivory-billed woodpecker were to show up, the plans he and Jaeger Stitch were making would be doomed. Only a few years ago, rumors of a ghost bird had been reported in Arkansas, and suddenly the area had been besieged by birders and environmentalists and scientists and reporters and tourists.
While the Sugar Man Swamp belonged to him, Sonny Boy Beaucoup, the protests of the twitchers would be so loud and strong, he’d never be allowed to build even so much as a boat shed on his land, much less a theme park.
Sonny Boy looked at the mounted bird in the back of the glass case. Its golden brown eyes glistened. As he swallowed his sour brandy, a small bundle of old-fashioned jitters rose up inside Sonny Boy Beaucoup, starting at the bottom of his thin socks until it hissed through the top of his yellow-gray head. And for the second time in one night, another crystal glass went flying through the air.
54
IN THEIR DEEP, DARK LAIR, Gertrude stirred, but not enough to open her eyes. She knew all about the “official” line about Quenton, the one about “heart attack.” But she also knew about the unofficial line: “wrath of the Sugar Man.”
A deal was a deal, after all.
55
AS SOON AS THE SCOUTS scampered back through the entryway of the DeSoto, the rain took on a kind of fury.
“Just in time,” Bingo said. Making his wish had definitely made him feel better. He raised his front paws, yawned, and stretched. He was so ready for a nice, long nap.
What Bingo didn’t know was that J’miah had also made a wish. He wished that climbing didn’t make him feel so much like throwing up. He didn’t know how effective his wish could be, since he didn’t have a personal star like his brother did. His wish hadn’t made him feel better.
He crossed his paws and sulked.
What did make J’miah feel better was . . . art. J’miah loved the art he had found of the surprised armadillo. It still sat perched on the dashboard, and every time he looked at it, it made him feel happy. Happier, at any rate. As happy as he could feel in the face of the temporary suspension of Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble.
Thinking about Operation Rumble-Rumble-Rumble made him think about the canebrake rattlers. He knew that when the sun rose again, he and Bingo would have to figure out a way to acquire some sugar without getting snip-snap-zip-zapped. His invisible thinking cap was squeezing his head. Moreover, a queasy feeling gurgled in his belly. Then the gurgling turned into a growl. That made him realize that he was hungry. He and Bingo had gone all day, and now part of the night, without eating. Those crawdads were only a distant memory.
He thought about slipping out to find something, but just as he did, he heard the rain pelting the roof of the car. In times of rain, Information Officers needed to stand by in case of lightning strikes.
He rubbed his tummy. Oh well, he thought. He could wait. He knew if he kept busy, he might forget about his grumbling stomach.
He glanced again at the picture of the armadillo and remembered the strange box underneath the front seat. Maybe, he thought . . . So, he squeezed under there, nose first. Raccoons have extrasensory paws, and soon his felt the hard, metallic box with the spring latch. He pried it open again, but only enough to slip a single paw inside the box.
He reached in, and sure enough, he touched something . . . something hard. It was cool to his touch, and thick, not at all like the art he had found earlier. He tugged on the mystery object, but it got stuck in the opening of the box. It
was too thick. He tried to pry open the lid a little more, but the way the box was jammed underneath the seat prevented the lid from opening wide enough to get the hard thick thing out.
He tugged some more.
And some more.
And some mmmooooorrrrre!
He finally braced his back feet against the seat and gave a giant ttttuuuuuugggg!
Oooomph!
He fell backwards in a furry ball, never letting the odd object out of his possession. He had his prize, right there between his two front paws. The thing was long and flat. It had shiny chrome on the top and bottom and wood in the middle. It had holes on both of the long sides.
Considering the holes, maybe it was a special kind of spyglass? He held it up to look through the holes, but he couldn’t see anything. If it was a spyglass, it wasn’t very useful. Still, it’s the job of a Scout to figure these things out.
All five senses went into action:
1. Sight—He turned it over and over, admiring its shiny chrome plates. He noticed that it had a bunch of curlicues inscribed on those plates, and little screws on the ends that held the plates to the wood.
2. Smell—Seriously, it was a little musty and dusty. No telling how long it had been in that box.
3. Touch—The metal parts were smooth and cool. The wooden part was also smooth, but not as cool.
4. Taste—He tried biting it. But it was definitely too hard for chewing. He touched it with his tongue. It didn’t really have a taste per se, but because of the aforementioned must and dust, it began to tickle his nose, and before he knew it . . . Aaaachoooo! And that is when he discovered . . .
5. Sound!
56
AVAILABLE IN TWELVE MAJOR KEYS, the Hohner Marine Band Harmonica was a favorite for blues harp players of all stripes. Bob Dylan. Bruce Springsteen. Neil Young. But before all of them, came Snooky Pryor.
According to Audie Brayburn, “Snooky Pryor could blow the socks off those lightweights.” Back in 1949, Bob and Bruce and Neil were just babies. But when they grew up, they surely knew about Snooky Pryor, and so did Audie Brayburn. After listening to Snooky Pryor play his harp, Audie was determined to learn how to play the blues, so he bought a Hohner Marine Band Harmonica, key of C major. Found it in Kresge’s in downtown Houston. Lost it in the Sugar Man Swamp.
57
IT’S SAFE TO SAY THAT when J’miah sneezed and heard the resulting noise, he was startled, but not in a bad way. In fact, he was rather charmed by it. In his paws was a . . . a . . . music thingie. J’miah had a genuine music thingie. He gave it another sniff, which resulted in another Aaachooo! And sure enough, another note flew out, this one a little higher than the last. He closed his eyes and savored the sound. The purity of the note floated into his ears, and for a moment it lifted him right into the air of the car. His thoughts floated along with him. First art. And now music. To J’miah the box underneath the passenger’s seat was becoming a source of cultural wonder. Who knew what else he might find in there. Sculpture? Poetry? Film noir?
But while he was basking in his reverie, someone snatched—yes, you heard me, snatched—the music thingie right out of his paws!
Bingo! (Hah, did it again.)
“Mine,” said J’miah.
“I just want to try it,” said Bingo.
“But I found it first,” said J’miah.
Tug.
Whine.
Tug tug.
Whine whine.
Tug tug tug.
At this point, if Little Mama and Daddy-O had been present, it’s highly likely that our Scouts would have been relieved of the music thingie until they could shake and make up.
But seeing as how Little Mama and Daddy-O weren’t there, the argument went on and on and on, and it might still be going on had it not been for a very loud ZIP! A huge bolt of lightning slipped out of the clouds, and POW! It hit the ground right next to the old DeSoto. Ssssshhhhh-sssshhhh . . . weee . . . oooooohhhhoooo . . . blip bloop blip . . . In the same moment that a gush of rain pelted the windshield, the lights on the dash began to glow, and once again the Voice of Intelligence slipped into the humid air of the DeSoto. To the raccoons’ surprise, here is what it said: “. . . so come on down to Paradise Pies Café on the Beaten Track Road. You can’t buy a finer fried sugar pie, made out of pure canebrake sugar. Yessirree, Bob, those pies will Kick. Your. Booty!”
And with that, the Voice faded, but before it died out, the raccoons heard, “Have a good day and a good idea,” followed by a long, deep “Arrrooooo!” All of that was ended with a click, and the lights flickered off again.
Bingo and J’miah sat in the silence for a good long while, the music thingie all but forgotten. The Voice had told them many things in the past, things about the weather, about fishing, about the price of corn. And even though the price of corn meant nothing to them, everything the Voice had ever said had been true, including the terrible news about the Farrow Gang. But the Voice had never told them anything about Paradise Pies. Or about kicking booty, either.
What could it all mean? they wondered.
But then Bingo thought about the Sugar Man.
Pies.
Sugar Man.
Pies.
Sugar Man.
Pies. Made out of pure canebrake sugar. And all at once, our Information Officer had a good idea. “J’miah,” he said, “I think we need some Paradise Pies.”
58
SOMEONE ELSE WAS LISTENING TO Coyoteman Jim in the middle of the night—Chap and Sweetums. When Chap heard that ad, he grinned from ear to ear.
“Genius,” he told the cat.
When people heard that ad, they’d be lined up all the way down Beaten Track Road. Yessirree, Chap just knew it.
“It won’t be long now,” he told Sweetums. And with that, he rubbed the cat between the ears and turned off the light. “Wait,” said Sweetums, “I have something to tell you.” But of course the boy paid no heed. Heed cannot be paid if you don’t know the language. Chap just rolled over and pulled up the covers.
59
“HOW MUCH LONGER? HOW MUCH longer? How much longer till canebrake sugar?” the fifteen Farrow hoglets chanted, over and over.
“Not long now, my bad little Farrows,” said Clydine, grinding her teeth in annoyance. Then she glared at Buzzie and asked, “Exactly how much longer, my dearie dear?” She tapped her cloven hoof in impatience. They had been on the go for a couple of hours, and they didn’t seem any nearer to the canebrake than they had when they first woke up.
The chant from the hoglets was driving Clydine mad. She could tolerate bickering and snickering. She could manage head-butting and tusk-tangling. But she absolutely couldn’t abide chanting, especially that insidious question that drives all parents mad, “How much longer?”
Buzzie knew that Clydine’s skin was getting perilously thin. He tried to calm her with a diversion. “I know,” he said. “Let’s wallow some more.”
He led them all to a shallow pond that normally would have served as drinking water for a herd of cattle that had vamoosed ahead of the hogs’ approach. Buzzie could see that it was the perfect place to stop.
“Yay!” squealed the little Farrows.
“You wallow,” said Clydine. “I’m going to go beat my head against a tree.” Which is exactly what she did. And while it made Clydine feel so much better, it destroyed the poor tree. By the time she was done beating her head against it, there wasn’t a single leaf left on its branches, and all its bark had popped completely off.
Buzzie watched her in admiration. “That’s my girl,” he said.
And while all fifteen of his piggy brood watched, he did a huge belly flop in the now-mucked-up pond. Smack! “Hooray!” they cried.
There were happy hogs aplenty. At least until the smallest one chanted, “How much longer? How much longer?”
60
BINGO AND J’MIAH KNEW THEY were running out of time. They could feel the increasing strength of the rumble-rumble-rumble-rumbles.
&nbs
p; But it took them a while to figure out where the Paradise Pies Café was actually located. The Voice had said “Beaten Track Road.” They had no idea what that meant. They didn’t have GPS like Steve had on his lost cell phone, nor did they have a paper napkin map. But they figured it couldn’t be too far away, or the Voice wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. So even while the rain continued, the two of them bounded out into the evening.
And they might not ever have found the little café, except that J’miah got tired of going around in large circles and finally stopped to ask a skunk for directions. Skunks get a bad rap for their propensity to spray others with their fowl musk, but their noses are highly regarded. And as long as they weren’t scared or angry, they kept their musks to themselves. J’miah figured that a skunk would be able to point them in the direction of the pies just by virtue of his schnoz. The first skunk he saw, he approached very cautiously. The skunk was happy to oblige. The musk alarm was left untripped.
As it turned out, the café wasn’t all that far from the DeSoto, maybe only a mile or so. Who knew?
Sure enough, before Bingo and J’miah even saw the sign, their noses started tingling. My, oh my, those pies smelled good. Bingo didn’t even have to open his eyes to see that he was on the right track. His mouth watered, and he even drooled a little bit.
J’miah had to shake him out of his trance. “There it is,” he said.
Bingo opened his eyes at the same time that the rain finally came to a close. Sure enough, right in front of them, was a small building, sitting up on stilts so that if the water from the nearby Bayou Tourterelle ever came out of its banks, it would just flow right underneath it, no harm done. The building had a front porch and a back porch. There was only one light coming through the windows, and while they stood there, that light went out.
