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Authors: Kristin Kladstrup
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followed before. Was he not, he wondered, somehow different from other magpies?
Occasionally in his travels away from Hortensia’s mountain, he had come across others of his kind — bold, black-and-white birds, almost always a group of them together.
Hello,
he would say. Depending on their mood, they would squawk back
Hello!
or
Go away!
If they seemed friendly, Krazo would try to start a conversation. He might ask if they knew of a good place to get food. Or, because he was usually on a scouting expedition for Hortensia, he might ask if they had ever heard of such-and-such a girl, and was she as pretty as was rumored? It didn’t matter what he said.
Hello,
the other magpies would say, or
Go away,
as if they were incapable of saying anything else.
I’m not like them, Krazo realized.
But surely that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. He had the same plumage, the same long tail, the same black beak. He could understand their language, limited though it was. And this nest he had built — wasn’t it just like theirs? Wasn’t it a true magpie nest?
A nest that was too dark. Darker even than that room with the woman in it.
Krazo shuddered, ruffling his feathers. He had dreamed about the woman last night. “Oh, Neddy! Neddy, what are we to do?” she had cried, looking right at him, and Krazo had woken with a start, his heart pounding.
Who was Neddy, and what did Neddy have to do with him?
Krazo shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the woman. He looked around his nest again. If I pull off the roof, he told himself, it will be light in here. I’ll be able to see.
And so he started in. He tugged at the diamond earrings and the necklace with the blue stone, loosening them from the underside of the roof. After laying them carefully on the floor, he began pulling at the twigs above the entrance on the east side of his nest. First one, then another — Krazo pushed the twigs out of the nest. He yanked at a large twig, and a chunk of roof caved in on his head. He shook himself free of debris, pulled the belt buckle aside, moved the pearl earring to a safer location, and set to work in earnest.
Yank! Crash!
Out went chunks of roof. Krazo hopped from side to side, yanking and tossing. In his enthusiasm, he nearly threw the emerald brooch out with the rubbish. He snatched it back just in time and dropped it onto his pile of treasure.
Oh, what a difference it made to let the sunshine in!
Stop crying,
he felt like telling the woman in his dream.
Stop crying! We’re rich!
Was Garth under a magic spell? He certainly acted like it. Adela told him again what she had seen (or thought she had seen), and she showed him the daisy that might (or might not) be Marguerite. “You don’t say,” Garth commented, and went right back to the subject of Hortensia — how kind and beautiful she was, and how she had let him hold her hand — until Adela was tempted to hit him on the head with the shovel in his wheelbarrow. It was only after he had toddled off, humming “The Bee and the Rose,” that it occurred to her that he might actually use his new tools. What if he felt inclined to prune something? Or rather, some
one.
She was about to run after him when she heard a sound coming from the other direction. Just in time, she dove behind a forsythia. She couldn’t see who was coming, but she could hear footsteps. And then, “Good morning, my pretty little daisy!” said Hortensia. She continued along without stopping or looking back.
Adela peeked out from her hiding place. Hortensia was beautiful even from behind! Her dark hair hung loose down the back of her white lace gown. She was slender and graceful. How could anyone so lovely be a wicked witch? And what was that she was carrying under her arm? It looked like a portable writing desk. Cecile had one made of lacquered wood; it had a compartment under a hinged lid for storing paper and pen and a bottle of ink. Was Hortensia planning on writing? Was that something witches
Occasionally in his travels away from Hortensia’s mountain, he had come across others of his kind — bold, black-and-white birds, almost always a group of them together.
Hello,
he would say. Depending on their mood, they would squawk back
Hello!
or
Go away!
If they seemed friendly, Krazo would try to start a conversation. He might ask if they knew of a good place to get food. Or, because he was usually on a scouting expedition for Hortensia, he might ask if they had ever heard of such-and-such a girl, and was she as pretty as was rumored? It didn’t matter what he said.
Hello,
the other magpies would say, or
Go away,
as if they were incapable of saying anything else.
I’m not like them, Krazo realized.
But surely that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. He had the same plumage, the same long tail, the same black beak. He could understand their language, limited though it was. And this nest he had built — wasn’t it just like theirs? Wasn’t it a true magpie nest?
A nest that was too dark. Darker even than that room with the woman in it.
Krazo shuddered, ruffling his feathers. He had dreamed about the woman last night. “Oh, Neddy! Neddy, what are we to do?” she had cried, looking right at him, and Krazo had woken with a start, his heart pounding.
Who was Neddy, and what did Neddy have to do with him?
Krazo shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the woman. He looked around his nest again. If I pull off the roof, he told himself, it will be light in here. I’ll be able to see.
And so he started in. He tugged at the diamond earrings and the necklace with the blue stone, loosening them from the underside of the roof. After laying them carefully on the floor, he began pulling at the twigs above the entrance on the east side of his nest. First one, then another — Krazo pushed the twigs out of the nest. He yanked at a large twig, and a chunk of roof caved in on his head. He shook himself free of debris, pulled the belt buckle aside, moved the pearl earring to a safer location, and set to work in earnest.
Yank! Crash!
Out went chunks of roof. Krazo hopped from side to side, yanking and tossing. In his enthusiasm, he nearly threw the emerald brooch out with the rubbish. He snatched it back just in time and dropped it onto his pile of treasure.
Oh, what a difference it made to let the sunshine in!
Stop crying,
he felt like telling the woman in his dream.
Stop crying! We’re rich!
Was Garth under a magic spell? He certainly acted like it. Adela told him again what she had seen (or thought she had seen), and she showed him the daisy that might (or might not) be Marguerite. “You don’t say,” Garth commented, and went right back to the subject of Hortensia — how kind and beautiful she was, and how she had let him hold her hand — until Adela was tempted to hit him on the head with the shovel in his wheelbarrow. It was only after he had toddled off, humming “The Bee and the Rose,” that it occurred to her that he might actually use his new tools. What if he felt inclined to prune something? Or rather, some
one.
She was about to run after him when she heard a sound coming from the other direction. Just in time, she dove behind a forsythia. She couldn’t see who was coming, but she could hear footsteps. And then, “Good morning, my pretty little daisy!” said Hortensia. She continued along without stopping or looking back.
Adela peeked out from her hiding place. Hortensia was beautiful even from behind! Her dark hair hung loose down the back of her white lace gown. She was slender and graceful. How could anyone so lovely be a wicked witch? And what was that she was carrying under her arm? It looked like a portable writing desk. Cecile had one made of lacquered wood; it had a compartment under a hinged lid for storing paper and pen and a bottle of ink. Was Hortensia planning on writing? Was that something witches
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