 35 Chris had always known, tucked away somewhere out of sight at the back of his heart and his mind, that he loved his country and his city. But he had never given it much thought. It had been something as taken for granted as the air he breathed, so that he found himself overwhelmed by the gust of emotion sweeping through him when he stood beside Captain Blizzard as the Mirabella sailed slowly up the Potomac. Chris stood there with Amos on his other side, looking at the shores that were both familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar when he saw Mount Vernon on its imposing bluff. Unfamiliar, because no domes or obelisks were to be seen, no airfield and no pentagon. But the sweet Greenland itself was there, holding out its welcoming and individual scent of fields and rich American soil. However the Georgetown-Ned Siley and Amos remembered, the little town from which they had all sailed in secrecy and haste so many months before, was there awaiting them. The noonsun was bright over the few slate roofs and red brick chimneys, and Chris felt a choke of happiness binding his throat, like a scarf too tightly drawn, and a constriction at his heart as if it were too firmly held in a welcoming hand. An excited happiness shook him as the Mirabella was eased to the wharfside and at last after dangers and adventures beyond his imagining, Chris not only knew that he was home again, but saw a familiar black-dressed figure and a plump woman in a monstrous hat waiting for him to disembark. What a day that was! The greetings and handshaking, the enveloping hug for Chris and Amos from Becky Boozer, her eyes filled with happy tears and her bonnet trembling with agitation. Her roguish glances and coy giggles flew out like a flock of doves at the sight of swaggering Ned Siley, who came down the gang-plate carrying a macaw and a cage from Mistress Boozer, and hustled her behind some bells to kiss her warmly. But most of all, and best of the day, that first look from Mr. Wicker that spoke more than any gesture or carefully chosen words could have done. He had no need to speak. This could see the pride and pleasure shining in his face, and Mr. Wicker, so solitary all his life, could see in the boy's eyes an affection his own son might have shown him. In due time a well-created object was carefully hauled by Cart to Mr. Wicker's back door and taken inside. The ship's carpenter had made a case to the measurements given him without knowing what it was to hold, and when Chris saw it at last set in the corner of Mr. Wicker's well-remembered study, he knew a likeness of mind he had not had since first he had been told of the jewel-tree and his long journey. There were long hours of talk with Mr. Wicker before the fire, telling him of every detail. Mr. Wicker's fine dark head nodded from time to time, interspersing Chris's account with an occasional, quite so. You did perfectly right. Or, indeed, I did not see that too clearly, and so I was not sure. At last all was told every tale unfolded. Then Mr. Wicker rose, smiling at Chris, Go have your supper, lad, and come back. I have some other things to say. The candlelit kitchen, the blazing hearth and the hissing spit on which wood pigeons were roasted, the steaming pots where savory things were cooking, Amos laughing and chattering and swinging his legs from the cane-bottom chair, Becky Boozer alternating between bursts of happy songs and jokes directed at Amos or Ned Siley. Everything seemed beautiful to Chris, and the room was the gayest he had ever known. Yet he was conscious of a heavy feeling inside himself in spite of the laughter in the talk, and sat quietly staring at the rosy firelight that flowed up Becky's white apron and starched fit shoe to her hot, flushed face and kind blue eyes. The reflection of the sparks went even higher to gill the twenty-four roses and twelve waving black plumes, and when they passed on, found a kindred spark in the large, contented eyes of his friend Amos. Ned Siley was going through the usual formula of pretending that he could not stay to supper, and that even if he did, he had no appetite at all. Ah, now, Master Siley, coaxed Becky, her hands on her hips and the soup ladle she held, still standing out at right angles. You'll fade away into a wraith, my good man, so you will. Do you not eat a morsel nor a mouthful and die in the night? How shall I bear to live with my conscience thereafter? Tell me that! Ned Siley seated at the table near the water-street windows, his legs sprawled out, and his rough hands folded over his round little punch, twiddled his thumbs and wagged his head in a doleful manner, drawing the corners of his mouth down, though it was plain that this was an effort. Eh, like a day, he sighed. The life of a sailor, it is that hard, is not me, boys. He wagged his head again. The vitals is hard on his stomach, as delicate nor what mine be. Amos put his hand over his mouth to stifle some sound that broke through in spite of him. Ned gave him a reproving glance. Or else he entered his root by that galley cook of ours. He sighed and nodded in reminiscence sorrow. Ah, sweet bruiser, were you to sample but a spoonful of what us poor sailors must face week after week, and month after month, and us on the high seas. You be in such a delicate cook, so to speak. Your heart's blood would curdle on the instant that it would, by, by, cap and buttons. Tears of pity streamed down Becky Boozer's face, and pulling out a bandana handkerchief from her apron pocket, she blew her nose with a hawk that would have blown a less sturdy man than Ned Siley off his chair. Dairy me, the saints preserve and defend us, she cried, I must do all in my poor weak woman's power to tempt you as best I may. Draw up, lads, for here it comes! She announced without ceremony, and the three watching her needed no second invitation. Then such a feast as was heaped upon their plates and crowded on the table. Using vegetable soup, roasted pigeons, roasted ducks, several boiled fowl with wild rice, cold beef pie, several kinds of cheese, tarts and pies, jams and preserves. A blissful silence fell over the cheerful room, and Becky Boozer stood back to survey the two busy boys, an engrossed silent man. Silent, if one can call Ned Siley's chomping jaws, smacking lips, great size after a draft of ale, or loud appreciative belches, a silent meal. When everyone had finished at last, and they had pushed back their chairs and looked about them again with dozy smiles, Chris remembered Mr. Wicker's request. He rose, not without difficulty. Mr. Wicker asked me to see him for a moment. He moved to the passageway. That was a superb supper, Becky. I'm stuffed. Becky looked around, genuinely surprised. Why, a mere mouthful, a taste, a tidbit was all any of you had. See, there's a pigeon or two left, and half a duck, and part of the beef pie. Why, you do peck at your food, all of you, like poor birds. She insisted. Chris laughed, Ned Siley picking his teeth with his habitual ship snail, was already falling asleep, and Amos, his head on one hand, propped himself up amid a jumble of empty plates. Peacefulness and content lay everywhere in the room, warm as the firelight and as pervasive. Chris turned, anyhow, thanks again. I'll be back. And he went along to knock at Mr. Wicker's door. Inside, the ruby-dum-mass curtains were drawn close across the windows. For it was nearly dark, and the fire here, too, was as red as the rose that was the joy of a princess of China. Chris closed the door behind him, looking around with a smile at the familiar walls and objects he had missed and dreamed of many a time. The table with its flowers in a fine china bowl, the desk between the windows with the long feathered quill pens, and the papers marked by Mr. Wicker's meticulous hand, the cracked cupboard at the end of the room, and the indian rug of many colors under his feet. Last of all, he brought his look back to Mr. Wicker sitting in the winged leather chair. Mr. Wicker had a strange expression on his face. He was smiling, but at the same time he looked sad. And for the first time, Chris saw some curious-looking garments folded neatly on a stool before the fire. Mr. Wicker, watching him as he gazed about, saw the question in his eyes. Do you not recognize these things, Christopher? He asked. Chris looked more closely, touching nothing. His voice was bewildered. Well, it seems to me I may have seen them before. They sort of look familiar, but I couldn't be sure. His master's voice was gentle. They are your 20th century clothes, my lad, the ones you wear in your own time. And deeply as it hurts me to say it, the moment has come for you to put them on. Chris Ray startled worried eyes to the dark penetrating ones watching him so quietly from the highback chair. Not yet. I don't have to go now, do I, sir? And as he saw insistence in Mr. Wicker's face, he began to expostulate, as a child does, when it wants to retard its bedtime. But I've scarcely got back. I mean, here. And we've only had one talk. I'm sure there'll be other things I've forgotten to say that you should know. He threw out his hands as if to grasp at something that might hold him there. And, and, I didn't say goodbye to Captain Lizard or Mr. Finney. They were wonderful to me. Really, they were. And his voice suddenly became very small and high, disappearing to a whisper at the end, and Becky, and Ned, and dear Amos. He stood there against the door swallowing hard with his head down. His stomach and his throat a mass of hateful knots, and the whole of him swamped with unhappiness. Mr. Wicker had never moved. His elbows on the arms of his chair and his folded hands just touching his chin. At last Chris whispered, Does it have to be? It has to be, said Mr. Wicker. Without a word, Chris took the folded clothes that seemed so unfamiliar off the stool and dressed behind the other leather chair, his lower lip trembling. Mechanically, as boys will, he shifted everything from his pockets to those of the trousers he had just put on. With careful slow gestures, he folded up the knee breeches, the full sleeve shirt, the long white hose and silver buckled shoes, a flare backed jacket last of all, and put them where his clothes had been. Mr. Wicker then spoke, getting slowly to his feet and standing with his back to the fire. I am afraid I shall have to have the leather pouch, Christopher. He said, holding out his hand. Chris took it off and put it in the long, strong hand of the magician. More than that, Mr. Wicker said, putting the pouch in his pocket, I shall have to take everything from you that you have gained here, Christopher. He paused. All but one thing which you may choose and keep, one ability. He waited. Choose well. Chris looked up at the man he admired and respected and had grown to love and pondered deeply. To make a boat or eagle or dolphin out of rope. Very tempting. How the kids would envy him. Or change himself into other shapes. So useful. He hesitated. I'd like to be able to come back, sir, he said, and his growing grief at those he must leave prevented him from saying anything else. Mr. Wicker's face broken to a radiant smile, and he held out his firm hand. So you shall, Christopher, so you shall, and you shall remember it all, I promise you. That too you can have. He stepped forward and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. His eyes were deeply sad, although his lips still smiled. And now, said Mr. Wicker, good soldier that you are for General Washington and for your country. All that you learned must leave you and remain with me. Mr. Wicker put his hand briefly on Chris's head, let it slip to cover his eyes so lightly it was scarcely felt. And then to cover his mouth. Chris waited, but he felt no different. Be a fly, commanded the magician. Chris searched his mind. There were words to say, and you thought hard. Tried once more, and a third time, and then wordlessly shook his head. Make a rope boat, said Mr. Wicker. Chris took the rope, and as it hung from his hands he wondered how one said about it. He had known how once upon a time. He let the inert rope fall to the floor. Mr. Wicker put a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the door. Come, my boy, he said. End of Chapter 35. Recording by Lorbeth Davis, Texas, USA. Chapter 36 of Mr. Wicker's Window This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 36. The shop was dark, but headlights flashed by out on Wisconsin Avenue, glaring over the meager display of objects in Mr. Wicker's Window. There seemed even fewer objects than before, Chris thought, for the card figure of the newbie and boy was gone, and so was the coil of dusty rope. The ship in the glass bottle was still there, however. Mr. Wicker went forward in the darkness and leaned over, took up the bottle with care from where it had lain for so many years, dusted and polished only by the loving eyes of a boy who had often pressed his nose against the Georgian panes. You are to have this, Mr. Wicker said, putting the bottle with its delicate contents in both Chris's hands. Both Ned and I would like to know that it is yours. He turned to put his hand on the doorknob. Chris found his voice. What about the job, sir? He broke out. Can Jakey Harris apply for it? Mr. Wicker smiled, and it was strange. In that dim room, inconsistently lit by the lights of passing cars, Mr. Wicker looked exactly like a venerable, wise and old man. When Chris knew perfectly well he was not. It's peculiar, he thought. The tricks your eyes play on you. Guess I'm tired. Jakey Harris for the job, Mr. Wicker remarked. Why no, there is no job to fill. You filled it, Christopher. All at once, without any good-bye, Chris found himself outside on the top step. The din of cars and honking horns rushed at him like a gape-mouth monster. The drumming wine and roar from the freeway shook the ground, and up ahead, the lights from the people's drugstore looked garish but friendly. Across the way, as he turned to go home, Chris glanced at the two tumble-down storehouses opposite, the winch and tackle broken, and panes of glass missing from the windows. As he reached the corner of Wisconsin and M Street, Mike rushed breathlessly up. Hey, here I am! Not much later than I said it be, either. What you got, he asked, falling into step beside Chris and looking down at the bottle. Mr. Wicker gave it to me. Chris replied in a colorless voice. What for? I don't know. I guess he didn't need it. A silence fell, and then Mike said as they passed the strong light of the shop window, returning down bustling M Street toward 28th. Say, you've been running or sitting by a fire? You look almost sunburnt. And look, they stopped dead while Mike put a grubby forefinger on a mark on Chris's jaw. I never noticed that before. It shows up white and plain. Must have been a pretty deep cut you had there. For the first time in what felt like hours, Chris smiled, and the smile became a grin. It sure was, he said reminiscently. Oh, and by the way, Mike said much farther along as he left Chris to go on to his own house. Your Aunt Rachel called my ma and told her your mother was so much better, she could come home soon. Seems that your father's on his way back, too. He walked off and then turned to call from a quarter block away. But you'll be glad to have your own folks at home. Chris's grin deepened, but he did not reply, nor even wave, for fear of dropping the bottle. N Street, then Dumbarton Avenue, dropped behind him, and he came to Happy's grocery store with the bookstore on the opposite corner. He stood looking at his lighted windows, the lighted windows of his house, remembering a time when he and Amos had seen only a wooded ridge and a burnt out campfire. Something stirred in his mind, and after finding the front door unlatched, he eased himself in and up the stairs as quietly as he could. He did not want to face his Aunt Rachel for a few minutes longer. In his own room, he shut the door and carefully lifted the mirror bell in its bottle to the place of honor on top of his chest of drawers. Then he stood looking at his reflection in the small mirror hung a skew near the window. He looked the same, well, not quite. The tiny scar was there to prove it was not a dream. And he quickly undid his shirt and pulled it off, got up on a chair to peer over his shoulder to see how his back looked in the square of glass. A whiplash like a long, clean briar tear lay across his shoulders. And as he looked, he almost felt again the searing cut. Chris grinned, buttoning up his shirt. Then it had been no dream, no childish imagining. A voice soared up the stairs. Chris, Chris, darling, are you home? Aunt Rachel had news for him of his mother's imminent return. Chris opened his bedroom door, pulling out from his pocket the first thing his fingers hit on. And as he went downstairs whistling farewell and adieu to you Spanish ladies, he tossed and caught and tossed and caught again an old silver button burnt black in a fire. End of Chapter 36. Recording by Ian Gray. End of Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson.