Here, for a moment, she stopped. The streets were busy in both directions, at least busy for Chickentown. There were four or five cars waiting at the lights every time they turned red. One of the drivers was Frank Wrightson, who had been a drinking buddy of her father’s until six months before, when they’d had a big falling-out. It had ended in a shouting match outside the house and a few blows half-heartedly exchanged. The men had not spoken to each other since.
“Hey, Candy!” Frank yelled as he drove by.
She waved, trying not to look too guilty for being out in the street in the middle of a Thursday morning.
“No school today?” Frank yelled.
Candy was just trying to figure out a way to answer this without lying to Frank Wrightson, when the woman in the car behind his truck honked her horn to hurry him on his way. Returning Candy’s wave, he drove off.
“Oh really?” said Candy, looking up at the sign. Beyond it, there was just rolling prairie and the cloud. It had grown in size in the time that Candy had taken to walk the length of Lincoln Street, and it was no longer moving away from town. The wind had changed direction, and now seemed to be coming from the north. It had a curious tang to it, which was not the smell of the factory and its clotted drains. She didn’t know what it was.
She glanced back over her shoulder down the length of Lincoln Street. From here it was a half-hour walk home, at least. If the great gilded cloud was bringing rain, then she was going to get wet on her way back to Followell Street. But she had no desire to start the homeward trek, not for a little while, at least. She had no idea of what lay ahead of her besides the wild hills and the long grass, and the orange milkweed, the larkspur, and prairie lilies in among the grass.
But walking for a while where nobody (except the Widow White) knew she’d gone was better than going home to listen to her father in the first stages of the day’s drinking, raging on about the injustices of his life.
Without another thought she walked on past the STREET ENDS sign, catching it with her palm as she went so that it rocked in the shallow hole some lazy workman had made for it, and headed out into the gently swaying grass.
Butterflies and bees wove ahead of her, as if they were showing her the way. She followed them, happily. When next she looked back, the shoulder-high grass had almost obscured Chickentown from sight. She didn’t care. She had a good sense of direction. When the time came for her to find her way back, she’d be able to do just that. Her eyes glued to the great swelling mass of the cloud, she walked on, her griefs and humiliations left somewhere behind her, where the road ended and the ocean of grass and flowers began.
5. A Shore Without a Sea
After perhaps ten minutes of walking, Candy glanced back over her shoulder to see that the gentle swells and gullies she’d crossed to get to her present position had put Chickentown out of sight completely. Even the spire on the church on Hawthorne Street and the five stories of the town hall had vanished.
She took a moment and turned on the spot, three hundred and sixty degrees. In every direction the landscape presented the same unremarkable vista of wind-blown grass, with two exceptions. Some way off to her right lay a small copse of trees, and nearly dead ahead of her was a much more curious sight: a kind of skeletal tower, set in the middle of this wilderness of grass and flowers.
What was it? Some kind of watchtower? If it had been a watchtower then those who’d occupied it must have been very bored, with nothing to watch.
Though it promised to be nothing more than a near ruin, she decided to make it her destination. She’d get there, sit for a while, and then head back. She was getting thirsty, for one thing. She wanted a glass of water. Maybe on the return journey she’d pick up some soda from Niles’ Drug Store. She dug in her pocket, just to see what she had. Two singles, one five- and one ten-dollar bill. She pushed them down to the very bottom of her pocket, so they wouldn’t slip out.
The wind had become stronger in the time since she’d left the limits of Chickentown, and a little more bracing. There was still the smell of spring green in the air, but there was something else besides, something Candy couldn’t quite name, but which teased her nevertheless.
She walked toward the tower, her mind becoming pleasantly devoid of troubling thoughts. Miss Schwartz; letters threatening expulsion; her father in his drinking chair, staring up at her with that look of his, the look she knew meant trouble: all of it was left behind, where the street ended.
Then her toe caught some object so that it skipped ahead of her through the grass. Just a stone, surely. Nevertheless, she bent down to take a closer look, and to her surprise she saw that it was not a stone at all, but a shell. It was large too: about the size of her balled fist, and there were a number of short spikes on it. It wasn’t, she knew, a snail’s shell. For one thing it was too big, and she had never seen a snail’s shell with spikes. No, this was a
“Keep your distance from her, John Mischief,” the head advised its big brother. “She may
, John Serpent,” the man said. “And I mean it.”
The head made a face and muttered something under its breath. But it finally stopped talking.
“What’s your name?” John Mischief asked Candy.
“Me?” Candy said, as though there was anybody else in the vicinity to whom the question might be directed.
“Oh Lordy Lou!” another of the heads remarked. “Yes,
Then, having hushed his companion, John Mischief said: “I do apologize for my brother, lady.”
Then—of all things—he
lady
And the impish man called John Mischief, along with five of his seven siblings, smiled back.
“Please,” he said. “I don’t wish to alarm you, lady. Believe me, that is the very last thing I wish to do. But there is somebody in this vicinity by the name of Shape.”
“Mendelson Shape,” the smallest of the heads said.
“As John Moot says:
.”
Before Candy could deal with any more information she needed a question answered. So she asked it.
“Are you all called John?” she said.
“Oh yes,” said Mischief. “Tell her, brothers, left to right. Tell her what we are called.”
So they did.
“John Fillet.”
“John Sallow.”
“John Moot.”
“John Drowze.”
“John Pluckitt.”
“John Serpent.”
“John Slop.”
“And I’m the head brother,” the eighth wonder replied. “John Mischief.”
“Yes, I heard that part. I’m Candy Quackenbush.”
“I am extremely pleased to make your acquaintance,” John Mischief said.
He sounded completely sincere in this, and with good reason. To judge by his appearance, things had not gone well for him—or them—of late.
Mischief’s striped blue shirt was full of holes and there were stains on his loosely knotted tie, which were either food or blood; she guessed the latter. Then there was his smell. He was less than sweet, to say the least. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked with pungent sweat.