Birdie's Book Read online

  The wind swept the clouds away. I watched the constellations appear, like Dad and I used to do on camping trips. There was Orion and there was Andromeda, and then … the stars began to move. Really! The stars from Orion’s belt zipped along in a trio, Andromeda played with the Northern Crown, and hundreds, maybe thousands of stars danced right there in the yard. I shut my eyes tight, and when I opened them, I looked back up to the sky. Every constellation and every star except for one sparkled back in their proper places.

  A sense of foreboding creeped across my skin. I stuffed the edges of the blanket into the window frame, and then turned back to the bed.

  At the end of the bed, where I had just taken away the blanket, was a book—a huge book, the size of a really big dictionary. It was clearly handmade, and so yellowed and tattered it could be a thousand years old. How could I not have seen it?

  I spun around, expecting Granny Mo to be in the room, even though I’d shut the door. How did she get this book into my room? There was no doubt in my mind that she’d put it there. “Don’t stay up too late reading,” she’d warned.

  I picked up the book, which weighed more than Willowby, and snuggled down under the comforter. I stared at the ornate cover: The Book of Dreams. The size of the book made it clear that the author had sure dreamed a lot. I ran my fingers along the silver, shimmering script, and then along the thick binding. I took a deep breath, opened the cover, and began leafing through the pages.

  Violets, roses, and four-leaf clovers were pressed onto yellowed pages. There were poetic entries, musical notations, recipes, crocheted bookmarks with girls’ names on them, and what looked like mathematical equations. Some pages were stuck together as if the years had sealed them tight, and still others were indecipherable, as if rain had run the words together.

  I took my hands off the book. I didn’t know where to begin. That’s when I made my decision to let the book show me the way. I shut the book, closed my eyes, and opened the book to a random page.

  Gong! Buzz! Cuckoo!

  I bolted upright in the dark. It sounded like all the clocks in the living room were going off at once! I jumped out of bed, remembering the book when my feet touched the cold floor. I turned back to see if the book was still there or if I had dreamed it. There it was, right on my pillow. Wow.

  I pulled a pair of socks from my suitcase, put them on, and tiptoed down the stairs in the dark. The second I walked into the living room, the clocks fell silent.

  I squinted to read the time on an old carved clock on the mantel. Three a.m.! I shivered and was just turning to go back upstairs when another clock caught my eye. It read 12:00. It wasn’t noon, and it couldn’t be midnight, because the sun’s rays were just peeking in the window. I looked around. The cuckoo clock said 1:05. The grandfather clock, its brass pendulum still swinging, said 9:27.

  Lilium tigrinum obviously didn’t give a hoot about keeping time. Just then, Granny Mo shuffled out from the kitchen, wearing a flowered apron over her sweater and jeans.

  “Didn’t you hear the clocks?” I asked.

  “Oh! Those crazy old things; I always ignore them,” Mo said, dismissing the problem with a wave of her spatula. “But I should have warned you. They all chime at seven a.m., sharp. Never fail! No matter what time they say. Oh yes, and at two in the afternoon on Leap Day—February twenty-ninth, every fourth year. Never knew why. Still don’t. Well, anyway, come to the kitchen. I’m making breakfast.” With that, she sailed back to the kitchen and turned up the music.

  I followed in time to catch her singing: “Oh, you better not pout, I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is comin’ …”

  Mo sang along with the radio (and why were they playing Christmas songs after Christmas?), her voice cracking on the high notes. Willowby, sitting on the kitchen table, joined in with an occasional meow.

  “I hope you like blueberry pancakes,” Mo said while she ladled big disks of batter onto a skillet, leaving a trail of drips on the stove.

  “I sure do,” I said.

  “And elderberry tea,” she added. I didn’t answer. Mo chuckled. “I’ll get you to be a real tea drinker sooner or later. But you’re young still. In the meantime, pour yourself some orange juice. Fresh picked and squeezed this morning!” I got a glass of juice but didn’t ask how she could have picked the oranges this morning.

  Mo started setting the kitchen table, singing about being good, for goodness’ sake. I liked it. We didn’t sing much around our house, and it felt kind of good to hear her just belting it out. I noticed smoke pouring from the iron skillet, so I grabbed the spatula, flipped the pancakes, and turned off the burner. Singing right along with Mo and the radio now, I tossed the hot pancakes onto our plates.

  “So, tell me something about The Book of Dreams,” I said as I sat down and poured syrup on my pancakes. I thought Granny Mo was going to choke on her blueberries when I said it. “You put that book in my room, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “It’s not from me,” she said. A big grin was growing on her face. “But it has the most beautiful writing on the cover, doesn’t it?”

  “But if you didn’t put it there,” I said, “then how … who?”

  “It must be the fairies,” Mo said. Her eyes were sparkling in a way that I hadn’t seen before.

  “Excuse me?” I said. “Fairies?”

  Mo leaned over. Her green eyes were so close to mine that I started going cross-eyed. I sat back in my chair a bit. “The fairies are the keepers of the book. Don’t you see?” she asked.

  I shook my head. I didn’t see, but I could feel myself starting to get excited anyway. I couldn’t help it—what would you do if someone told you fairies were real, and clearly believed it themselves?

  “Fairies?” I asked again, trying hard to sound normal.

  “Oh, there’s so much ahead of you,” Mo said. “The last time—” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “Where is the book?”

  “In my room,” I said. I was feeling a little tense, like, what do I do now? I decided that I’d just follow Mo’s lead. I was clearly in over my head on this one.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Mo asked, cramming the last of her pancakes into her mouth like a little kid.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I raced upstairs with Mo right behind me. I admit it: I had given in to the excitement and the idea of fairies being real! I threw open the bedroom door. The room was filled with the scent of lilacs.

  “Fairy magic almost always brings that smell!” whispered Mo, sniffing the air.

  I glanced around the room but saw no flowers or fairies. There was something else I didn’t see either.

  “It’s gone!” I said. It wasn’t where I’d left it. I checked under the pillow and then threw back the covers. It was absolutely, positively gone! I looked over at Mo; her expression had turned thoughtful, but I wanted to know what had happened!

  Rustle, rustle, I heard. I went toward the window where the sound was coming from. I ripped down the blanket I’d stuffed into the cracks last night and threw it on the bed. There, fluttering in the cold breeze, stuck between the window and the sill, was a cream-colored envelope. I pulled it out. I recognized it; it had been tucked inside the front cover of The Book of Dreams.

  I looked from the gray sky out toward the Glimmer Tree. I held up the envelope.

  “Oh, yes … the tree,” Mo whispered.

  “The … tree?” I asked. Carefully, I ran my fingernail along the silver wax seal. When it loosened, I held my breath and opened the flap.

  “Yes, we have many things to talk about, Birdie dear. But I’ve got a couple of guys coming to deliver fertilizer and potting soil in a few minutes,” she said. “Believe it or not, the fairies can wait while we take care of some present responsibilities. Come out to the greenhouse with me?”

  “Ummm, yeah. Sure,” I said. I didn’t want to wait at all, but I didn’t know Mo well enough to argue with her—not yet.

  “Bring the letter,” said Mo
.

  Totally curious, I put on my jeans right over my thermals and put the envelope into my back pocket. Mo had been so serious, I was a little afraid of it now. Maybe the whole thing was a joke or something cute Mo had thought I’d like because I was a kid. Or what if my mother was right, and Mo was certifiable? In that case, I guess the worst I’d have to do was play along with the fairies game. Or was it a game? I really didn’t know.

  I caught up with Mo by the snake hooks. I pulled on my boots, then grabbed the long scarf, a ski hat, and my gloves. I threw on Mo’s big green coat again and managed to follow in her footsteps as she clomped through the kitchen. Willowby joined us as we walked out and along the path.

  The steamy double doors of the greenhouse opened into a heaven of green and glass and stillness. A table of succulents sat inside the doorway next to another coatrack, this one with butterfly hooks. I followed Mo and hung up my coat and scarf, then replaced my winter gloves with the gardening gloves that she handed me.

  Unseen droplets of water echoed as I gazed at aisles of plants that reached to the right and left. Orchids and bromeliads hung from ceiling wires. There were long tables of hothouse tomatoes and special areas for baby tea plants. Ten full-sized orange trees stood together. Behind the orange trees was a small room.

  “What’s that room for?” I asked, pointing.

  “That’s where I live a lot of the spring and summer,” said Mo. “There’s a little kitchen, a cot, my favorite reading chair, and all my favorite books. Go take a look.”

  As she cut a few white lilies and arranged them in a vase, I wandered into the alcove, rolling up my sleeves in the warmth. The books were all about organic farming and composting, herbs and teas and exotic spices (nothing about fairies). On a table beside the chair upholstered with a giant-leaf-patterned fabric sat a real bird’s nest with an egg inside.

  I gently lifted the egg out and saw it was not an egg at all, but a smooth, grayish-blue stone that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Half of it was missing, leaving a jagged edge along the side. I turned the stone over in my hand and found a drawing in black on the other side. Even though it was only half an image, it was clear it was a maze.

  I brushed the carving with one finger. A tingle spread through my body. I hummed the little melody that came to my mind. Beyond the rhythm I could feel a whole tune coming from inside me.

  From her lily-arranging table, Mo started to hum along with me. It was as if we had both known this song our whole lives. Suddenly the tune petered out in my head. It must have petered out in Mo’s head, too, because she stopped humming at the same time.

  “That song comes from the Singing Stone,” said Mo.

  “This?” I asked, holding up the broken stone.

  Mo glanced over and nodded. “Exactly.”

  I waited quietly to hear more. This trip was turning out to be anything but your typical weekend over-the-river-and-through-the-woods-to-Grandmother’s-house-we-go.

  “Used to be a seed, actually, that stone,” Mo said, her eyes on the lilies in the vase. “It was a special acorn that fell from a tree in a place called Aventurine.”

  I turned it over in my hand. A petrified seed, I thought. “The name of your old violin?” I asked.

  Mo seemed pleased that I had noticed. “Yes,” she said with a little smile. She stood back to admire her lilies. “You can see that the stone is broken in half,” Mo went on. “I’ve been getting the feeling that soon it will be whole again.”

  “Do I have something to do with that feeling you’re getting?” I asked, staring at the half-stone and feeling light-headed and slightly queasy. Was I ready for the answer? I had read Harry Potter along with all my friends, but that was a book. This was my life!

  Suddenly Mo was at the doorway of the little room. “Yes, my Birdie, my very special granddaughter, you do,” she answered.

  My gaze shot up to meet hers, and I stood straighter when I saw the pride there.

  “You know you’ve come here for a reason, don’t you?” she asked. “And it wasn’t just to meet me.” Mo motioned to me, and I followed her, the stone cradled in my hand. She led me to a long work counter that was covered with odd mechanical devices and what looked like dried tea leaves.

  “I don’t suppose you have a tea potion that might fix the rot on that tree?” I said.

  Mo let out a little chuckle. “Oh, if it were only that easy!” she said.

  “So why am I here, Granny Mo?” I asked, looking at the stone again.

  “To heal that wound you found yesterday in the Glimmer Tree. The rotting,” she said. She started sweeping dried tea leaves into neat little mounds with a piece of white paper. “And to find the other half of the Singing Stone, and to help put our family back together.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” I whispered. Suddenly I felt more worried than I ever had in my whole life. This whole business of fairies, Mom, Mo, the book, and the stone was all a jumble. Something important was happening to me, I could feel it.

  I leaned against a small tree beside the long table, then looked up as its bark caught at my shirt. Its bark was scarlet and peeling, and its brilliant green leaves were shaped like clubs and hearts on playing cards. “Gumbo-limbo,” I said automatically. “Bursera simaruba.”

  Mo nodded. “A miracle healer when made into tea,” she said, picking up a handful of the leaves and tossing them into one of her contraptions. “By the way,” she added, packing the gumbo-limbo leaves down with her thumb, “that letter the fairies left will probably help explain some of this.”

  “Oh, the envelope!” I exclaimed. I put down the Singing Stone (how easily I had accepted the name!) and dug in my pocket. But just as I pulled out the envelope, a flatbed truck pulled up, its brakes making an earsplitting screech.

  “Hold that thought,” said Mo, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she dashed to the door. “It’s my delivery guys.”

  She waved to two burly men dressed in thick woolen hats and jackets, their complexions rosy. They lumbered inside to greet her with hearty hugs. I pushed the envelope back into my pocket.

  “Travis, I want you to meet my granddaughter, Birdie,” Mo announced proudly.

  The guy named Travis shook hands with me. “Hey, Birdie, so glad to meet you,” he said. His big hand swallowed mine as cold air poured off his woolly clothes. “Your grandmother is one of our favorite people in all of Colts Ridge. This here’s Hank.”

  “Kind of a chip off the old block, ain’t she?” said Hank, speaking to Mo. “She’s got your eyes and hair.” Then he turned to me and vigorously shook my hand as well. “You got her green thumb, too?”

  “I guess so,” I said. I tried to act friendly, but I didn’t know what to say, and I certainly wasn’t going to smile enough for my braces to show.

  “Hank and Travis will be helping me for a few hours, so it’s fine to wander off and explore,” said Mo.

  “I promised your grandma we’d help out if she’d let me take her out tonight for New Year’s Eve,” Hank announced, grinning at me. I actually saw a blush come over my grandmother’s face.

  The guys started hauling bags of soil over their shoulders and heaving them onto the floor of the entryway.

  Mo pulled me aside before she went to join them. “You might want to take a stroll up to the waterfall,” she whispered.

  Cold air was blasting in through the door, so Mo went over and pulled a big sheet of plastic down at the end of the entry. “Meet me at the house for a cup of tea around four o’clock, Birdie,” she called, counting the bags. “How’s that sound?”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling anything but okay. “See you at four.” What could I do? I bundled back up, wrapping the long, long scarf around my neck. I slipped the stone into one of the pockets of my jeans and headed out into the frosty air, Willowby on my heels.

  “See ya soon, Birdie!” called Hank.

  “And, Birdie?” called Mo.

  I turned around in the open doorway.

  “Open tha
t letter while you’re in the gardens. I think you were meant to,” said Mo. “Good luck!”

  “And stay out of trouble, now, you hear?” Travis joked. “Your grandmother causes plenty of trouble for all of us already!”

  I believe you’re right about that, I thought. I crunched along the gravel path, forgetting both the stone and the envelope for a while as I took in the gardens.

  There was the weedy butterfly garden and then the edge of the ravine, where I had the same tingly feeling in my hands and feet as I viewed the Ha-Ha Valley, the maze, and the Glimmer Tree. There, the path forked. I could cross the bridge down to the valley or I could head toward the waterfall Granny Mo had pointed out yesterday.

  Willowby circled my boots once and then headed over the bridge, glancing back at me as if to see where I was headed. The sun was high in the sky, so I knew I had lots of time. I decided to look for the waterfall as Mo had suggested.

  I passed a pond, which was frozen solid, and saw the apple orchard by the distant back fence. A trail meandered up into the rocky hills and cliffs, far to the edge of the property. Hiking up the trail, I breathed in the sharp, clean air. Maple trees with their bare branches stood tall against the blue sky, and a patch of willows hung their long, thin branches sadly. Soon I entered an evergreen grove.

  I twisted and turned along the path, breathing in its Christmas pine scent, until it broke open to an area covered with enormous boulders, all glazed with a layer of ice. Behind them, as tall as a two-story house, the waterfall came into view. I couldn’t hear any splashing water, probably because it was still quite far away. If I wanted to continue on the path, I’d have to climb the boulders.

  I sighed. Now that I’d be living through northeast winters, I figured I’d have to learn how to walk on snow and ice. I loved being outdoors, and I wasn’t exactly planning to spend November through March inside our city apartment.