Read Online Left at the Mango Tree by Stephanie Siciarz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Siciarz
Ads: Link
a dime a dozen on Oh, but a rare and red-eyed almond? That’s worth fighting over, and definitely worth figuring out.
Finally back at the library, seated at his table in the corner, Raoul felt relieved. Despite the daunting research that lay before him, he was comfortable for the first time that day, a pearl nestled in the oyster of all those shelves lined with books. He breathed in, relishing the scent of the library air in his nose, a mélange of paper stock, lead pencil, and Miss Partridge’s honey-flavored eau de toilette. He closed his eyes, but soon the crinkles of his worried forehead tugged upward on his brow. Somewhere behind it, a bluebottle buzzed. Raoul opened his eyes and listened a minute. Then he sighed a honey dew onto his reading glasses, polished them up, and got to work.
5
P romises aren’t contracts to be entered into lightly. Not anywhere. And especially not on Oh. They imply a pledge, which in turn implies some measure of honor, and an expectation, some rightful return on an investment of trust. Promises on Oh, like in many places, are the currency on which the economy was built. Once, you could promise your day’s catch of mahi mahi to the widow Corinna and she would wash and iron your three shirts. A bushel of spinach could get you hair tonic and a bobbin of thread, and a boon of butter would buy you a nice scrap of leather or a wooden chair for your little one. A chair of your own would cost you some cream and cake as well.
But unlike in many places, where currencies of gold and silver, or rainbow notes with profiled presidents or kings, replaced the devalued promise, on Oh it’s still legal tender—just about, for there never seem to be quite enough of those rainbow bills to go around. Many of the islanders, when they do get their hands on one, prefer to save it for a rainy day. So a promise on Oh is always taken very seriously—by the islanders blessed with all the rainbow bills they need, by those without, and by the characters in our story, most of whom fall somewhere in between—even when the promise is for promise’s sake, and for nothing in return.
So far, Raoul has promised to find an explanation for missing pineapples (and for anything else that smells of magic); Pedro and Gustave have promised possible trouble if he tries; Wilbur has pledged his heart to Edda; Edda has pledged hers to a red-eyed, cheek-stained baby girl; Bang, his lucky harmonica to Raoul; and I, I have said you would hear the story of Raoul’s first meeting with Gustave, the one that inspired the ad in the
Morning Crier
.
It happened about a week before Puymute’s pineapples disappeared. I was just a few days old and had yet to venture outside the house where I was born, but the steady stream of visitors continued. They came with jams and jellies and bedcovers, and they left with theories and verdicts, and some nice, juicy fat to chew while they strung up their washing and peeled their potatoes. It was clear to everyone but my mother (“blind little dumpling,” the islanders said) that I was a Vilder. It was also common knowledge that up to then Gustave was the only Vilder left on Oh, and thus the only one who could be my father. But the science behind my mother’s pregnancy was a matter that divided the islanders into two factions.
Some accepted Edda’s denials (Why
did
they keep asking her who had shared her bed?) and admitted to an indefinable magic, some trickery on the part of Gustave. Among these were my father Wilbur (“poor little dumpling, too”), who wasn’t so bothered as long as his wife was happy, and Gustave himself. Gustave was as certain that he hadn’t fathered me as he was uncertain about his own magic powers. He had mustered enough to kill his mother, that’s true, and Miss Peacock had unleashed something inside him, that was true, too. But magic-wise he hadn’t really accomplished much since then.
Had he?
Others denied Edda’s acceptance (Did she
really
expect them to
Finally back at the library, seated at his table in the corner, Raoul felt relieved. Despite the daunting research that lay before him, he was comfortable for the first time that day, a pearl nestled in the oyster of all those shelves lined with books. He breathed in, relishing the scent of the library air in his nose, a mélange of paper stock, lead pencil, and Miss Partridge’s honey-flavored eau de toilette. He closed his eyes, but soon the crinkles of his worried forehead tugged upward on his brow. Somewhere behind it, a bluebottle buzzed. Raoul opened his eyes and listened a minute. Then he sighed a honey dew onto his reading glasses, polished them up, and got to work.
5
P romises aren’t contracts to be entered into lightly. Not anywhere. And especially not on Oh. They imply a pledge, which in turn implies some measure of honor, and an expectation, some rightful return on an investment of trust. Promises on Oh, like in many places, are the currency on which the economy was built. Once, you could promise your day’s catch of mahi mahi to the widow Corinna and she would wash and iron your three shirts. A bushel of spinach could get you hair tonic and a bobbin of thread, and a boon of butter would buy you a nice scrap of leather or a wooden chair for your little one. A chair of your own would cost you some cream and cake as well.
But unlike in many places, where currencies of gold and silver, or rainbow notes with profiled presidents or kings, replaced the devalued promise, on Oh it’s still legal tender—just about, for there never seem to be quite enough of those rainbow bills to go around. Many of the islanders, when they do get their hands on one, prefer to save it for a rainy day. So a promise on Oh is always taken very seriously—by the islanders blessed with all the rainbow bills they need, by those without, and by the characters in our story, most of whom fall somewhere in between—even when the promise is for promise’s sake, and for nothing in return.
So far, Raoul has promised to find an explanation for missing pineapples (and for anything else that smells of magic); Pedro and Gustave have promised possible trouble if he tries; Wilbur has pledged his heart to Edda; Edda has pledged hers to a red-eyed, cheek-stained baby girl; Bang, his lucky harmonica to Raoul; and I, I have said you would hear the story of Raoul’s first meeting with Gustave, the one that inspired the ad in the
Morning Crier
.
It happened about a week before Puymute’s pineapples disappeared. I was just a few days old and had yet to venture outside the house where I was born, but the steady stream of visitors continued. They came with jams and jellies and bedcovers, and they left with theories and verdicts, and some nice, juicy fat to chew while they strung up their washing and peeled their potatoes. It was clear to everyone but my mother (“blind little dumpling,” the islanders said) that I was a Vilder. It was also common knowledge that up to then Gustave was the only Vilder left on Oh, and thus the only one who could be my father. But the science behind my mother’s pregnancy was a matter that divided the islanders into two factions.
Some accepted Edda’s denials (Why
did
they keep asking her who had shared her bed?) and admitted to an indefinable magic, some trickery on the part of Gustave. Among these were my father Wilbur (“poor little dumpling, too”), who wasn’t so bothered as long as his wife was happy, and Gustave himself. Gustave was as certain that he hadn’t fathered me as he was uncertain about his own magic powers. He had mustered enough to kill his mother, that’s true, and Miss Peacock had unleashed something inside him, that was true, too. But magic-wise he hadn’t really accomplished much since then.
Had he?
Others denied Edda’s acceptance (Did she
really
expect them to
Similar Books
