Carole turned from the trail with a heavy heart, only to leap back with a horrified gasp.
Standing not five feet from her was the tallest, thinnest, palest man she'd ever seen. His hair
stuck out from the top of his head like a white bush glowing eerily in the moonlight. His
eyebrows, just as bushy and white, almost totally covered his eyes; eyes which stared down at
her so fiercely that she suddenly knew how a mouse felt when looking into the face of a hungry
owl.
She noted with alarm that he was definitely solid. She gulped once and waited for him to
make the first move, hoping he wasn't hungry for a late night snack. The stick man lifted one
long arm and pointed a spider-like finger at her chest. In a very nasally voice he said, "Do you
communicate in a similar conversational fashion with all porcine quadrupeds, or do the ungulates
require specific evolutionary adaptation to reciprocate in kind?"
"Huh?" Carole gaped.
"Those ungulates, even-toed are they not? Are they also equipped with the essential
vocal apparatus to articulate phonetic speech rhythm patterns?"
It sounded like he was speaking English. She just had no idea what he was saying, but at
least one thing was obvious. At the moment he didn't seem hungry. In fact the more she stared at
him, the less predatory and more comical he began to look.
Carole realized he was still waiting for her to answer. "I'm sorry, but I didn't quite get
what you're saying."
"Are you not in middle school? I admit your name escapes me at this moment, but then I
rarely acquaint myself with lower or middle grade students. Still and nonetheless, there is a
distinctly familiar look about you."
"I do go to Piedmont Elementary. Grade six."
"Piedmont? A monobrain establishment?! But..." The man's face took on a quizzical
expression. "Those quadra... I mean those...pigs? You gave them specific verbal instructions and
sent them away."
She was getting nervous again. How much did he know? "Yes." She decided not to lie
but also not to reveal more than was necessary.
"You obviously frequent porcine environs."
"What?"
"You live with the pigs."
"Oh, I suppose I do. Most of the time, anyway."
"Then would you be so kind as to answer this simple question. Can you converse as
freely... That is can you talk as easily with any pig?"
"Just the brainy ones."
"Why just them?"
"Well, all pigs are smart, much smarter than people usually think, but it's only the brainy
pigs who can really understand."
"Understand what?"
"What I'm saying."
"Ah, so the less brainy pigs cannot understand you."
"No."
"But you of course can still understand them."
"No. No I can't."
"You cannot?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I just can't is all."
"You have actually tried?"
"Of course I have."
"When?"
"I don't know. When I was smaller, I suppose. What difference does it make?"
"Perhaps no difference at all. So, you were assisting two brainy pigs to escape." He
pulled at his long chin which, she suddenly realized, was actually a short pointy beard.
"Why?"
"So they won't be slaughtered by the butcher."
"...the butcher?" Spidery fingers continued exploring his beard. "Ah yes, monobrains
often consume animal flesh for nutritional supplement. Truly interesting and highly laudable of
you, child.
"Well I must be off." And with that, the strange stick-man spun about on his right heel,
took a step and vanished.
Carole blinked a couple of times to make sure, but the man was definitely gone. She
examined the grass where he'd been standing and saw that it was untouched. Shivers began
leapfrogging up and down her spine. Maybe he was a ghost after all.
Having had more than enough adventure for one night, she decided it was time to head
for home. Unfortunately there was still the problem of the ghost graveyard. Going through the
haunted field was definitely the fastest route, but was it the safest?
A piercing howl echoed off the nearby trees and she bolted for the ghosts without
another thought.
Spirits flitted across her path. Some close enough for her to look into their pale, vacant
faces, but either they didn't see her or they were ignoring her, both of which were fine by her. At
one point she stumbled into a gravestone, passing through it as she would an icy block of air. She
shuddered with revulsion but managed to keep on her feet.
Eventually she was leaning against the inside of her cottage door, winded but safe.
"So what do you think it all means?" Carole's hands were wrapped around a soothing
mug of hot chocolate.
Hal looked overtop his own steaming mug, carefully considering her words. "I think,
daughter-not, that in all likelihood our long wait will soon be at an end."
"Really? How so?"
"If what you told me is an accurate accounting of events, then something remarkable has
just happened, something which rivals your own spectacular arrival, so many years ago. All
things being considered, I believe the two are connected."
"So what do we do now?"
"We finish our hot chocolate and go to bed."
"Go to bed!?" Carole looked shocked.
"There's nothing more to be done at this time but to wait for what will happen next. We
can just as easily do that asleep as awake."
"But there must be something. Shouldn't we at least go back to the field and check on
the ghosts?"
"And what would you have us do with them, once we've checked?"
"I dunno, something. Anything!" She pushed off her chair and began to pace. "I mean, if
they do mean something, maybe we'd better keep an eye out."
"For?"
"For whatever else might turn up."
He watched Carole do another circuit of the room. "Did I ever tell you the tale of the
hungry traveler who had the misfortune of running into an even hungrier lion?"
"No."
"Care to hear it?"
"I guess so."
Hal patted the empty chair. "Care to join me while I tell it to you?"
Carole slowly walked over.
"Now then, it seems there was this solitary traveler who, because of his empty belly,
unwisely chose to leave the road and go searching the fields for roots and berries to eat.
Unfortunately, he happened across a lion who was also hoping to fill its belly. The lion did as
any sensible lion would and jumped up from its hiding place in the grass to chase after the man.
He did as any sensible man would and ran for his life. Now it just so happened that there was
absolutely nowhere for the man to go except over the edge of a cliff. However, as luck would
have it, there was a long root trailing over the cliff, which the man managed to catch hold of as
he jumped. And so there he was, hanging by this meager lifeline. Certain death waited below,
should he lose his grip and fall, and the jaws of the lion waited above, should he climb."
"So what'd he do?" Carole said, sounding interested despite herself.
"Not yet." Hal smiled. "It gets better. For you see there was this tiny hole in the side of
the cliff, just below the pacing lion. Out of this tiny hole appeared an even tinier mouse. The
mouse began to gnaw away on that very root to which the man was so desperately clinging. He
looked about, but the only thing within reach was a single red strawberry, growing out of a thin
crack in the rock. Now you tell me, what did the man do?"
"Throw the berry at the mouse?"
"Not bad," Hal chuckled, "but the mouse was quite well protected by the root and its
hole. There was no way the man could've hit it."
"He screamed at it?"
"The mouse was also deaf."
Carole shrugged her shoulders, "I don't know."
"He picked the berry, popped it into his mouth and enjoyed every ounce of sweetness
that fruit had to offer." Hal leaned back against his chair and waited.
"So," Carole said after a few seconds of thought, "you're saying that instead of worrying
over things I can't do anything about, I should focus on stuff that I can do something about, like
enjoying my hot chocolate."
"Very good. Since you can't change the past, or do anything about the future, you might
as well enjoy the strawberry."
"I might as well," Carole agreed, lifting her drink, "since I doubt I'll be getting much
sleep tonight, anyhow."
The heavens were alive with vibrant, swirling colors. Giggling to herself, Carole pushed
off and swam towards those pulsing rainbows. A ribbon snaked past and as she caught hold,
pulling it close, she inhaled deeply, and sneezed.
She winced as streaks of orange light splashed across her eyes, bleaching the familiar
dream from her mind. Pulling the blanket from her face, she sat up and groggily rubbed her nose.
From the next room over, the sound of her father-not's regular breathing tugged hypnotically,
lulling her back towards slumber. She flopped onto her pillow, turning away from the window,
and closed her eyes. But instead of sleep, her mind flooded with images of the previous evening,
and seeping in with them came the bitter realization that today was butcher day and Runt and
Smoky were gone.
A cold lump formed in her belly. She pulled her knees to her chest but the mass
remained. Despite her fatigue, she struggled to her feet, dressed quietly and left the cottage. Hal
would understand.
Outside a chorus of birds were welcoming the dawn, but Carole scarcely heard as she
turned her back to the barnyard. The Murtzes wouldn't notice her absence. They'd be thinking
only about pork and profit today. Besides, what more could Beatrice do?
She reached the orchard almost without realizing it. The trees, left untended for years,
were mostly dead, buried beneath an impassable growth of brambles and vines. Carole didn't
even bother to see if she was being watched, just sprinted towards the nearest clump and leaped
at it, feet first.
She slid overtop the thorns as smoothly as if she were surfing a wave, barely an inch of
air separating the soles of her feet from the sharp spines beneath. Cresting, she kicked out with
easy strokes and skated off, dipping and rising with the contours of the overgrowth and springing
effortlessly across large gaps in the foliage. The weight in her stomach began to lessen, and soon
melted away completely. Gliding was pure joy.
She flew over a particularly high tangle, dropped to near ground level on the other side
and banked hard trying to avoid a forgotten patch of grass, but her left foot caught the turf and
she went down in a tumble. "Just what I needed," she muttered, rubbing her elbows and jumping
back onto the thicket.
Minutes later she reached a more defined break in the brambles. This time she slid
gracefully down to a carpet of velvety green moss growing beneath a gnarled willow perched on
the bank of a small brook. The branches of the willow hung low over the water, so she was
completely hidden after stepping beneath.
This was her thinking spot, shady in the summer and sheltered in the winter. Only she
knew about it and only she could reach it. She arched back to stare at the patches of golden sky
shining through the yellow-green canopy. She pulled a small bar of perfumed soap, which she'd
recently liberated from the farmhouse from her pocket, turned it over in her hand a number of
times.
Although still very early, the air already had a heaviness to it that promised the day
would be another scorcher. She pulled off her clothes, crouched on the edge of the stream and
scrubbed her dress clean. Then throwing it over a branch to dry, she slipped into the frigid water
and gave herself a thorough washing. Afterwards, as she sat drying on the mossy ground
watching striders dart over the water's surface, she tried to make sense of the previous evening's
events.
They all seemed so far away and unreal in the morning light: the ghosts, the howling
creature and that skeletal man. Could they really be connected to her past, as her father-not
thought? It had all been so strange.
She put her hands to her head and pressed, "Think, think, think." She searched for a
memory, tried to recall anything from her early years but as usual came up empty. "I'm not a
freak." She sighed as she got to her feet and massaged her empty and now grumbling belly.
A fried egg on buttered toast would've been nice about now, but it was too late to go
back to the farm. She chose to head for school, instead. If she walked slowly and avoided most
of the dangerous places along the way, she wouldn't arrive too early.
Some time later, Carole stood overlooking the abandoned works yard. This was
where she'd made the first discovery. In a bizarre sort of way it was all thanks to Beatrice
Murtz.
She raced down the craggy slope and slid up and over a rusting pile of scrap metal and
shattered glass. She kicked up speed, skating a complete circuit around the junk-filled yard, just
for the fun of it. If Beatrice only knew. Of course if Beatrice and her gang were to find out about
her gifts they'd undoubtedly do more than just call her names, like Jason had.
She slid into the sandpile at the far edge of the yard, her feet wedging into the damp,
coarse grit. For a long time she stood there, staring at nothing. Finally, without really thinking
about what she was doing, she clambered over the mound and started cross-country.
Surprisingly, the shack was still standing. No one had lived in the place for years, not
since Jason's family. She herself hadn't been back since...
The door was long gone, the window glass all busted out. Inside it was empty, except
for piles of raccoon scat and mouse droppings.
Carole tiptoed across the floor and peeked out the back. Something was partially buried
in the grass. She hopped out the window, waded through the weeds and pulled up the rotted
remains of a homemade rocking horse. Jason's or his little sister's? She couldn't remember.