Serendipity Market (11 page)

“Seemed like Lightning and me, we'd finally come to an understanding.”

 

When Sue comes back to the waiting area, she's jubilant. Not only did she get out there and tell her story, she knows for a fact that Lightning
approved of the telling. He and Toby are standing shoulder to knee on opposite sides of the tent wall, and they're both nodding their heads. And the people in the audience? They look pleased, happy. They're even clapping. For her! Bill would be so proud.

Sue leans against Lightning, truly relaxed for the first time since she's come to the market. Rosey, the last teller, comes by and says, “No magic there. None at all. Only flying catfish, talking horses, and love, the biggest magic of all.” She laughs a small laugh. “That was wonderful.”

Rosey feels the confidence spell curled up in her mind, a little something extra just in case. She looks at Mama Inez, her grandmother, who nods encouragement. Samson swirls once around her head and then flies off to wait with Franz and Roberto. Sue smiles at her, puts her hands on her
shoulders, and turns her toward the telling area. Lightning breathes into her hair, and the next thing she knows, she's sitting on the gold teller's cushion, ready to go.

“I'
M WALKING THROUGH THE
woods on my way to my gram's house, and I'm wearing red. Bright red. Think of just-picked homegrown tomatoes. The heritage kind.

“It's midsummer. The woods are every shade of green you can imagine, and a few other greens as well. Everyone always tells you not to wander alone through the woods, because they all know, for sure, that the head choppers will get you. This is something I've never really believed, but still, head choppers or not, the woods can be a dangerous place. And here I am, decked out in my mother's best red shawl.

“I love this shawl. It's got fringe, and tiny brass bells, and even though I don't need a shawl in the middle of July, I've lifted it and left before anyone knows it's gone. Which just shows that I have no common sense.

“So—here I go to Gram's. Over the river and through the woods, sweating in a stolen shawl dyed the reddest red you've ever seen. I'm like a walking target against all that green.

“And I'm at the midpoint of my trip. The place where, if you decide to go back, it's going to take exactly the same amount of time as it'll take if you just keep moving on ahead. The sun is dappling through the trees, the butterflies are flitting through the wildflowers, a bird even sits on my shoulder. He's a cardinal, bigger than normal, with an orange beak with two yellow stripes. He stays for so long that I give him a name. I call him Samson, and I decide to sing for him. ‘The
Golden Vanity
.' It's a tedious kind of song, but there are lots of verses, which keeps your mind occupied. I've hit the point where the cabin boy dives overboard, and all this singing has kept me from digging into Gram's basket, has kept me from adding cookie theft to my sins.

“Singing. Butterflies. Sunshine. Birds. Big man in the center of the path. Which of the above doesn't belong?

“I know, right away. And not only is it a big man, it's Eric Marston, one of the nastiest guys in town. Eric is only a few years older than me, but if they'd kept him in school, he'd be a few years behind me. He works out, but he never works. And he's not just lazy, he's criminally stupid. In and out of the juvenile court system enough that I think he knows all the judges and bailiffs by name. Theft. Breaking and entering. Drinking. I'm almost positive that his last birthday dropped him out of juvie and into adult, so I'm hoping he realizes that assault is a major, go-to-jail kind of thing.

“Ignore him, or say something? I'm sweating, and now it's not just from the heat. I want to take off this dumb red shawl and tie it around my waist, but I'm not about to stop walking, put down my basket, and take
time for a little primping.

“‘Rosey,' says Eric, and I cringe. Believe me when I tell you it's not what he says, it's how he says it. Like I'm his best friend in the whole wide world. Like we could get cozy and snack on the goodies in Gram's basket, sit under a tree, and have a little party.

“‘Hey, Eric,' I say, all business, and I keep on walking.

“He steps in front of me. He moves fast. Predatory. Like a wolf. Samson, startled, flies up to an overhanging branch.

“‘Where you going?' he asks.

“I smile, a tight, forced little smile. ‘Just across the river.'

“‘I could walk with you.'

“‘Oh, gee, Eric, you don't need to do that. I mean, you must have something to do that—oh, I don't know. Needs to be done?'

“‘Rosey. Don't be silly. You can't walk through here
alone. With that red on, you stand out like a sore thumb.'

“I hate this shawl with a sudden passion. I will never steal it again. I will never steal anything again.

“My inane response to Eric is ‘It's my mom's. The shawl.'

“He grins, and now he not only moves like a wolf, he looks like one, too. ‘Looks real good on you.'

“‘Right. Well, see you, Eric. Got to get going. My gram's waiting for me.' And I speed up my walk. I look like I'm racewalking, and maybe I am. Racing to get as far away from Eric as I can.

“Eric paces me. ‘Where's your granny live?'

“‘Powton. So, see? I don't have far to go. I'll be just fine.' And I smile that tight little smile again.

“We're almost to the bridge that crosses the Spring-hill River. It's a picturesque, narrow little bridge built more for decoration than transportation, because who's stupid enough to want to walk through the woods to
actually get somewhere? But Powton—the edge of it, anyway—is in sight as soon as you get to the top of the bridge. And Gram is on the edge of town. She likes living at the edges of places, my gram.

“Not far.

“Almost there.

“Three feet.

“‘Rosey,' Eric says, and he moves fast and blocks the bridge. ‘Come on, sit and rest. You're walking real fast. You're all red, you're so hot, moving so fast. Isn't there something to drink in that basket?'

“‘No, Eric. I really don't think there is. Excuse me.'

“‘Looks real heavy. I can carry it for you.'

“‘Not necessary. I'm fine.'

“‘Aww, Rosey. I just want to keep you company.'

“When I think of it, it's like a flash of light. A flash I should have had as soon as Eric started to follow me. I put the basket down, off to the side, and stretch my arms a bit. Samson settles back on my shoulder, red
on red. ‘You know, Eric, you're right. This basket is getting kind of heavy,' and I look at him, waiting.

“As soon as he steps over to his right, steps over to pick up my basket, I hit the bridge, running like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. Samson flies ahead of me, urging me on. Behind me, I hear Eric yelling, ‘Rosey! Hey, Rosey! Wait up!' He does not sound happy.

“I do not wait. Up the bridge, down the other side, that's all I need to be safe. My feet slam against the wood of the bridge, slam so hard I raise puffs of dust.

“Eric is behind me. Unbelievably, when I grab a look over my shoulder, I see he's carrying my basket. Now I know what's clinking: the glass jars full of strawberry-rhubarb preserves, canned tomatoes, apricot jam, and Mom's prize-winning garlic dill pickles. What a mess if they break.

“But fast, Rosey, fast. Broken glass is the least of my problems. I pant, my red shawl slips, its bells
jangle, and from behind me comes the rattle of jar against jar.

“‘Gonna get you, Rosey,' breathes Eric, and he's not even trying to pretend he's my friend, not anymore.

“The curve of the ornamental bridge is higher than I remember. I grab the handrail to help pull myself along, and something digs into my palm. Splinter. Long splinter, and it hurts. I just keep going. Samson wings around my head.

“Almost to the top. Almost have Powton in view. Then, behind me, a change in the rattling. I spare a glance over my shoulder, and I'm just in time to see the thing that might save me. Eric trips, and down goes the basket. Down goes Eric. He's so much closer than I was letting myself believe. I hear him swear as he hits, full length, on his stomach. The bridge quakes. And then, for the whisper of a minute, I feel the tips of his fingers catch on the back of my soft red shoe.

“Just as those fingers start to slip down my heel,
I stomp as hard as a person can stomp while running, and I hear him swear again. Maybe those shoes aren't so soft after all.

“I reach the top of the bridge and see Powton spread out before me. I look back one more time before I start to run down the other side, the side where gravity will work in my favor. Eric is halfway up, on his hands and knees. Won't be long till he's after me again. I do a sprinter's kick, and I go. It's all downhill from here.

“
Bam!
I knock, just once, on Gram's door. When she doesn't answer immediately, I try the knob. Open. I go right on in. By the time Gram comes into her tiny living room, I'm bent double, dragging air into my lungs in hungry gulps. Samson sits on the mantel, his red chest rising and falling with fast bird breaths.

“‘Rosey! What's the matter?'

“‘Eric Marston'—gasp—‘in the woods'—gasp—‘following me.'

“‘Oh, Rosey. I…'

“I wait for the lecture; the never-go-into-the-woods-alone lecture. I wait, and I breathe.

“What I get is ‘I'm so sorry. A girl ought to be able to walk in the woods.' Gram sounds angry. But not at me.

“I take my hands off my knees. I breathe more like a regular person now. I look at Gram in disbelief and say, ‘You're not going to warn me about the head choppers?'

“Gram snorts. ‘Ridiculous. Silly stories for silly children.' She looks straight at me. ‘You, Rosey, are not a silly child. You are the kind of person smart enough to know a fairy tale when you hear one.'

“I think of all the times my mother has warned me about the dangers of life. Dangers that she sees everywhere. Believe me when I tell you that ‘head choppers' is only the smallest part of her litany. ‘Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you're related to my mother?'

“‘Positive,' Gram says, and she gives me a grin.

“Gram's door bams again, and this time I know it's not me.

“‘Rosey.' Eric's voice is low and growly. ‘You forgot your basket.'

“I cover the space between where I'm standing and the door in one balletic leap. The door's just cracking open. I shove against the wood so fast, with so much force, that the damn splinter goes even deeper into my hand. I yelp, but that's all I do. The door slams so hard, the whole cottage shakes. I twist the lock to the right and watch and wait to see what will happen next.

“‘Rosey, what are you doing?' Gram says.

“‘Keeping him out,' I breathe.

“I don't hear a thing from outside, not now, so I face Gram and say, ‘That's Eric Marston,' and it comes out like a low-level wail.

“‘Yes,' Gram agrees, ‘that's what you said earlier. Now, what's wrong with your hand?'

“‘Splinter,' I say, my disbelief even stronger than it
was during the head-chopper exchange. She's worried about my hand while I'm worried about my life? ‘But really, Gram. We have more important things to think about.' And I point, my arm straight out, at the door.

“‘A splinter can be quite dangerous.'

“‘Gram. It's Eric Marston.'

“‘I know. Eric isn't the nicest boy in the area. But I have to admit I'm baffled. When you saw Eric, why didn't you just use your protection spell?'

“‘Rosey,' says Eric. It's a hoarse whisper that floats through the planks of the door like smoke from a fire. The kind of smoke that lets you know you do not want to open that door, because you can just tell there's a raging inferno on the other side.

“‘Gram.' I whisper, too, but it's a much quieter whisper. ‘What are you talking about? What protection spell?'

“Gram sighs. ‘You don't remember? “Far away, far from me…”'

“I stare at her, eyes wide, mouth open. ‘That's a protection spell? I thought it was a jump-rope rhyme.'

“My gram looks at me with a why-do-I-bother expression on her face, and I have to agree. How could I not know I carry a protection spell? Just to make sure, I ask, ‘Umm, you told me it was a protection spell, right? When you gave it to me?'

“‘Yes.' Her voice is clear and sharp to the point of being snappish.

“‘Oh.'

“‘Rosey.' The door rattles on its hinges.

“‘Maybe I should try it.'

“‘Perhaps,' Gram agrees.

“‘Far away, far from me…'

“‘Rosey.' Angry. Mean.

“I close my eyes.

“And just like that, just like magic is supposed to work, the scratches and rattles and whispers stop. Like someone's dropped a blanket over Eric, muffling him, and all the evil he stands for.

“Gram, calm as if she's sitting on the back porch at the end of the world, says, ‘That seemed to work. Now let's open the door and get some of that summer air in here. It feels a little stuffy. And then I'll take a look at that splinter.'

“I think, What if Eric's only playing sheep now, instead of wolf?

“‘Open the door? Are you sure?' My voice sounds puny.

“When Gram looks at me now, her eyes are sharp as glass. ‘Yes. I'm quite sure,' she says, and Samson whistles in agreement.

“I open the door.

“Eric is nowhere. It's as if he's never even been here. But he has, I know. My basket is there, on the stoop, leaking pickles and jam onto Gram's petunias.

“Gram sighs when she sees the mess on her doorstep. ‘What a waste.'

“‘There was bread,' I offer. ‘Cinnamon raisin, and it was wrapped in waxed paper. There were scones, too, and cookies. All of that might still be okay.'

“‘Lovely,' says Gram, and now she sounds pleased. ‘Then I'll just make a pot of tea. And while the water boils, I'll look at your hand.' She's almost to the kitchen when she turns back to look at me. ‘And Rosey. You'll remember that spell from now on, won't you?'

“‘Oh, yeah. And—well, Gram—you couldn't teach
me any other kind of magic, could you?'

“‘I thought you'd never ask.'”

 

Mama Inez hugs Rosey again when she comes back to the waiting area, and Rosey beams at her. Toby comes over with Samson on his back. The bird settles on Rosey's shoulder as she rubs the big dog's head.

“Gram? Did I do all right?”

“Wonderful, Rosey. Perfect.”

 

Now that the stories are through, Franz and Roberto move their rings around with the speed of master chess players.

“I really think we need three rings for the flying-shoe people,” Roberto says, “and we only have the one.”