 CHAPTER 1 Christopher Mason felt numb. It seemed to him that he was as good as an orphan already, for his father, a commander in the Navy, was far away at sea, and Chris's mother was in a hospital not expected to live. Chris scuffed along the brick pavements of Georgetown, but he did not, as he usually did, look about at its familiar houses. This friendly core of the growing city of Washington, D.C. today seemed to him almost hostile. Georgetown, where Chris lived, is the oldest part of the capital city, built by early English settlers long years before Washington itself was even planned, grouped at the head of the navigable part of the Potomac River, above Georgetown's bluffs, the Potomac foams and dashes over wild rocks and waterfalls, and across the river the country starts. Chris had just left his mother's sister, his Aunt Rachel. Aunt Rachel, white-faced, was preparing to go to the hospital to be with his mother, and had asked him, don't you want to come to Chris for a little while? But a cold-edged wing of fear had brushed the boy like a batwing in the night. He had shaken his head, speechless, grabbed his sweater, and slammed the front door. Now he hesitated on a corner, suddenly dismayed, not knowing quite where to go or what to do. The whole city with its white marble buildings and temple memorials, its elm-lined avenues, seemed all at once very empty. He looked down to the Potomac, always for Chris just the river, where it glinted distantly blue and silver at the end of the street. Factories along the riverbank cut off all but the farthest stretches of water as the river moved under bridge after bridge beside the banks of Maryland and Virginia. Chris made up his mind to see what might be in the Pep Boys' store, far down the hill and along traffic-filled M Street. Somehow the tawdry bustle of the street with its many shops appealed to the boy who carried misery inside him like a cold heavy stone. Running he started down the hill between the lines of old brick houses, left Rock Creek Park behind him, and turning to the right, up M Street, reached the hardware glitter of the Pep Boys. And it was there as he stood staring at the chromium bicycle lamps, red glass taillights, and wire baskets that Mike Duggan found him. Mike was in his class at public school, the 8th grade. Mike was alright, Chris liked him. Hey Chris, hi Mike. Whatcha doing? Nothing much, just looking. Say, you know something? Mike wiggled himself across part of Pep Boys' window to gain Chris' attention. Old Rick has got a sign in his window, he needs a boy, far off the school I guess. Think it way, huh? Why not try? Chris looked from a nickel-plated flashlight to a car check and spark plug. Oh, I don't know. Mike persisted. Well, I'll tell you what, no one needs a chop bed? It's Jackie Harris, his mother's sick, and he's got that bad foot. Why not ask him, huh? You sit next to him at school. All Chris heard was, needs a chop bed, mother's sick. Okay, he said. Only why didn't you ask him yourself? Mike became uneasy and fished an elastic band out of his pocket, made a flick of paper, and sent it soaring into M Street. Well, he admitted, I did, because such a queer old guy, an old antique shop is dark and spooky and, well, I went in, and there wasn't nobody there. Only him and me. Mike stopped, and after a pause, Chris said, So what? So, Mike swallowed, so he said, I was there about the chop, and do you know what he said? He said, he went on without urging, but with the frown of perplexity rigging his forehead, he said, Turn round and look out the window, son, and tell me what you see. Mike stopped and looked at Chris with a comical expression. Everybody knows what's outside his window he burst out, of all the silly things, but the turn round and looked like he told me to, and of course, there was the traffic going by, and trucks and cabs and people crossing the street, and the freeway overhead, and, you know. So what did he say? Chris asked, and for the first time that day, the heavy weight he carried with him lifted and lightened a little, Mike examined the toe of his one shoe, oh, he just smiled. That funny little crackly smile and said, I'm sorry young man, you won't do. For a moment, both boys stared into each other's eyes, each questioning, wondering, neither being able to supply the answer. At last, Chris broke the silence. Queerest thing I ever heard, Gee, what do you suppose? Mike took heart, his experience believed, and his bafflement shared. He spoke cheerfully. It doesn't make sense, but old vicar so old, he may be adult. Don't you reckon? Who else would keep an antique store where nobody ever looks? All the other antique places are along Wisconsin Avenue, where people go to shop. You reckon? Check he rarely could use the job? Chris asked, his courage ebbing as he pictured to himself the dark little shop with its bow-window of small paints, and Mr. vicar so thin and wesson, he seemed only bones and wrinkles. Think he rarely needs it? He perused, but Mike was certain, or perhaps he needed a companion in this curious experiment. You bet he does. He told me at noon today, he wished he could find something that would help bring some money in. His mother's sick, he repeated, and check it on look so good himself. Well, Chris said, half agreeing, I'll go with you, Mike announced, as if that finished the argument, which as a matter of fact it did. Chris did not feel too happy about his mission and hung back a moment longer, looking in the pep boys window at things he'd already seen. He would have liked to get the job for check he needed it, but somehow the task of facing Mr. vicar, especially now that the light was going and dusk edging into the streets, was not what Chris had intended for ending the afternoon. Although he had not been quite certain how he had meant to spend the rest of the remaining day light, Mike's plan did not seem to fit his present mood. Are you coming? Mike challenged with the hint of the reason? Yes, the Chris family. I'm coming. I'll ask for checkie. Mike's expression changed at once to one of triumph, but Chris was only partly encouraged. The two boys walked to the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, traffic right up the first short block of Wisconsin from under the high street freeway down to the left. Chris glanced down the slope of Wisconsin. Houses and shops didn't suddenly on both sides of the street. Far down the very end on his side could see the brick walls and slate roof of Mr. vicar's house. Chris knew it well. For times without number, he had pressed his nose to the square Georgian paints of Mr. vicar's window to gaze at the strangely fascinating jumble of ornaments that were displayed. Now, however, he felt in no mood to visit the curiosity shop and stood shifting his feet and looking aimlessly about. Mike beside him was becoming restive and gave him a poke. Bet you aren't going after all. Chris turned on him. I am too. Mike looked disdainful. Oh, you are telling. Not any such a thing. I am going now. Okay, let's see you. Chris turned his back on Mike and sat it down the hill. After a step or two, not finding his friend beside him, he turned. Mike was standing on the corner. Hi, Chris called indignant. You said you were coming with me. Well, I was, Mike called back. But I just remembered. My mother told me to bring her some stuff from Safeway. I'll run all the way and come back and meet you. Oh, shucks. Chris kicked at a non-existent pebble and scald, but the chore was a chore and was never a worse discussion. I'll meet you in 15 or 20 minutes. Mike shouted, it won't take me long in throwing out his hands to signify that there was nothing he could do about it. He disappeared. Chris started off at once, passing the bleak little Victorian church poached on the hellebuff Mr. Wicker's house. An empty lot cut into a church lane gave a look of isolation to the air-shaped brick building that served Mr. Wicker as both house and place of business. Chris paused to look below him. Even from where he stood 50 feet above the house, the slope to the hill was sharp and the plane of the house below him could be plainly seen. It was built like an inverted air, the short wing facing towards the street and the draft of Wisconsin Avenue. The longer wing toward the back had a back door that opened onto Water Street. The space between the house and Wisconsin Avenue had been made into a neat oblong flower garden, fenced off from the sidewalk, the box-shraps, and the wide picket fence. Behind it, along the other side of the long wing, lay a meticulously arranged stretch table garden and a few apple trees. His gaze moved back to the house itself. It seemed to have been burped at about the same time as the vacant storehouse is opposite. For they had a similar look of design and age. The windows of Mr. Wicker's house had smaller panes of glass than were used nowadays. And like the warehouses across from it, Mr. Wicker's had many dormant windows chatting out from this lended roof. And like the warehouses, however, which were cut here and down until, Mr. Wicker's home was well cared for. The windows, except for the bow window of the shop, to the right of the front door had shutters painted a pleasing blue crane and that their sights could be seen the edges of gray curtains. The traffic freeway was high above the roof, driving the old house and casting a deepening shadow over the whole length of Water Street, shading even Mr. Wicker's back door. So close did it rise beside the house. The air was filled with mechanical sounds, the roar of cars speeding up the hell, the kind of gear, the shattering swap of wheels along the freeway, and the clanking bang of chains and weights, the factories along the shore. The sun was dropping and the sky behind the crest made a sinister promise for the following day. A livid yellow streamed the horizon beyond the factories and clay clouds lowered and tumbled above. The air was growing chill and crest decided to finish his job. All at once he wondered how his mother was and everything in him pinched and tightened itself. At the foot of the hill he reached the house. As he came to the bow front, the old familiar excitement had always discussed when he looked in Mr. Wicker's window touched him again and he stopped to look at its well memorized display. For as long as he had stopped back to look into Mr. Wicker's window it was as far back as he could remember, crest had never known the objects to vary or be changed. There were three things that always caught his eye amid the litter of dusty pieces. On the left the coal of rope, in the center the model of a sailing ship in a green glass bottle, and on the right the wooden statue of a necropoam baggy trousers, Turkish jacket and white turban. The figure was holding up a wooden bouquet of yellow paint peeling from the carved flowers. The figure's mouth was open and engaging to see smile and its right hand was on one hip. On the cheap dried paint of the baggy trousers. The ship so often contemplated by crest that he knew every tiny thread and delicately joined board was his remastered schooner, sleeker-flying painted at one time a dazzling white. Now with dust falling the green sides of the bottle its sails looked loose, its sides creamed. But the name still shorted to pro and many a time crest safe at home in bed had feel imaginary voyage in the Mirabelle. It lay there snug and captured as if at the bottom of a tropical sea seen through the clear sides of the bottle and crest never tired of looking at it. But perhaps the color of rope so meaningless, so meaningful held his imagination by an even stronger hold via a color of rope in an antique shop. Who would want it? People bought rope in a hardware store and there was one further along M Street near the old deserted little theater. But here in an antique shop crest shook his head as he stared he had never seen anyone going to Mr. Wicker shop. Now he thought of it. How then did he live and what did he ever sell? A sudden car horn walking from his dream he looked up seeing for the first time the small card hung at eye level in the window in a beautiful script such as Chris had never seen before but very legible the card read Boy Wanted, Good Pay, W Wicker. Jackie Harris came back into Chris's thoughts and looked over his shoulder at the darkening sky where clearly his citrus strokes noticed the willing tackle high up at the loft door of the warehouse opposite and put his hand on the door knob. The last flicker of light scattered across the stillsides of the freeway to pick up the lettering above the shop window WLLM Wicker, Curiosities. Chris opened the door in the barrel jungle very faintly but with persistence far away in some distant part of the house. End of Chapter 2, Recording by Ellie, August 2009 Chapter 3 of Mr. Wicker's Window This is a LibraVox Recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org Recording by Ellie, Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson Chapter 3 The last reverberations of sound hung in the air and jangled in Chris's head. After many times he had examined Mr. Wicker's window and poured over the robe of the ship and the Noobian boy he had never gone into Mr. Wicker's shop. So now, alone until someone should answer the bell, he looked eagerly, if uneasily, around him. But with the one window and the lowering day outside, the long narrow shop was somber, the ceiling seemed too close above Chris's head. Heavy hand-groomed beams crossed it from one side to the other. A few dusty pieces of furniture stood about. Whether for sale or for use, Chris could not determine. And almost lost in the black shadows at the far end, where what appeared to be boxes and bays piled one upon the other. The growing silence, now the bell had stopped, gripped Chris. The chill made itself felt in his feet and spread rapidly over his body, so that he gave a convulsive shiver. He was about to turn and go out when, at the farthest end of the gloomy shop, a small, brimless oblong of light seared for a little way along the floor and the door opened. Fascinated, Chris stared. As into its distant parlor stepped a short and remarkable spidery figure of a man. Mr. Wicker's back being toward the source of light, Chris could not see his face. The figure passed with the fragile hands scarcely bigger than that of a child on the door handle, and then came forward. The silent Chris noticed was still unbroken as Mr. Wicker advanced toward him, and Chris shattered again as he stood waiting and watching. But whether it was with cold or with fear, and the room was indeed very dank and unerred, it would have been hard to say. When Mr. Wicker had come within a few feet of Chris, the final vestiges of daylight from outside reached the extraordinary man facing the boy. And for the first time, Chris was able to examine the old man, who was more legend than fact throughout Georgetown. William Wicker's face itself was not forbidding. What made an icy mouse seem to handle the length of Chris's spine was the impression of enormous age and the appearance of the man confronting him. The thin lips crackled the wittered and multi-wrinkled cheeks in the ghost of what had once been a smile. The nose once hawk-like and proud and denoting strength of character and purpose was now pinched by the ever-tightening fingers of the progression of years. The double-fence of minute wrinkles breaking from eye corner to temper and joining with those of the cheekbones were drawn into horizontal lines across the domed forehead. Little tufts of fight fast above the ears were all that remained from the antiquarian's hair, but what drew and held Chris' gaze were the old man's eyes. Mr. Wicker's eyes were not those of an old man at all. They had the vigor of a man in the prime of life and the presence in the puckered face of age, which confronted Chris, was horribly disconcerting. Chris blinked and looked again. Yes, they were still there. Eyes so deeply brown, they might have verbed in black, but clear, sparkling, and with the decidedly interfume and mischief. While the boy had been too frightened to move at the sight of Mr. Wicker's ancient cheeks and pinched nose and hairless head, he was encouraged by the friendly eyes. Chris could not help but like those eyes, even though it was hard to believe they belonged to the man before him. As though from a great distance, Mr. Wicker's voice came to his ears, and these two Chris found difficult to credit. They are not four feet in front of him was the old shopkeeper, and yet the high-seen voice might have come from anywhere else, the rafters to whom beyond the lighted door, anywhere. Well, my boy, you wanted something? Chris swallowed and his voice came back to him. Yes, sir, he said. I saw your sign, and I know a boy who needs a job. He looked at Mr. Wicker as though he were unable to look elsewhere. He's a schoolmate of mine. Checkie-Harris, his name is. And he really needs the job, I wondered. Mr. Wicker's eyes, loving at him, chest a little, confused Chris, and he began to stem a eye. I just wondered if the place was still open. Mr. Wicker started Chris for a moment or two before he replied. What he saw was a fresh-cheeked lead, tall for certain, sturdy, his sincerity and kuduma in his face, and something sensitive and appealing about his eyes. His chin showed obstinacy and tenacity, his nose would shape itself well as he grew older. Unruly turner hair was blown and ruffled in every direction, and his hands, even younger than he was, showed agility and strength. Hmm, said Mr. Wicker, and his remote smile broadened while his eyes sparkled with the warmth of a fire on a winter's night. Yes, the job is still open, young man, but while you are here, why not apply for it yourself? Chris, somewhat less ill at ease, now had got his message out, shifted his feet and gave a sort of laugh. Oh no, thank you, sir. You see, I don't really need it, and check it out. It wouldn't be fair for me to take it if Checkie really has a chance. He looked away and saw that the light from the distant room was champion flickering on the shadowed walls. He guessed there must be a lively fire in that room beyond. Of course, Chris added anxiously, I don't know what the job is, you don't say on the sign. And Checkie isn't awfully well. He has twisted foot and it makes him slow in walking. Would that interfere with Checkie's getting the job, sir? Chris inquired, the reply was slow in coming, and Chris heard it as if the words had been spoken, not before him by the black outline figure still stood, but as if it is very ear. Soft but clear the word sounded. It would not interfere, Christopher, my boy. But now that you are here, you must take the test. Checkie will be cared for, never fear. Almost as in a dream, Chris felt an atmosphere drenching him as though a powerful scent filled the air. His head swam a little, and he realized that it was a long time since he had had lunch. He started to touch the pleasant smell of herbs, like the potpourri his mother had in balls in their house. A sharp black outline of Mr. Wicker impressed itself on his eyeballs, and the home now totally dark except for the light that streamed from the far away open door. Mr. Wicker's body seemed to radiate a bright edge, like a carbon paper held up to the sun. The voice at his ear once more felt his head in searing. Will you make the test, my boy? Now, just turn around and tell me what you see at my window. Chris, in spite of the strangeness rising about him like a mist, remembered very well what lay outside the window. But even as he slowly turned, the sword pierced his mind. Why had he not seen the reflection of the headlights of the cars moving up around the corner of Water Street and up the hill toward the traffic signals? And why had the sound of feels of gears and of horns insocompletely muffled out? The room seemed overly still. Then, in that second, he turned and faced about. The wide-bow window was there before him. The three objects he liked best showing frosty and the moonlight that poured in from across the water. Across the water? Where was the freeway? It was no longer there. Nor were the high walls and smokestacks of factory to be seen. The warehouses were still there. They were the very same for Chris, who'd make out the windshield tackle he had noticed as he opened the door. But instead of factories, instead of the freeways, the river flickered silver under the moon. The highs and masts of countless ships broke the starry sky. Flapper gasped and pressed less. Chris was unaware that he moved closer to be out the window in every direction. No electric signs, no lamplit streets. Going as far as the wall to his left and leaning forward, Chris looked up to an M Street. Where the people's drugstore it stood but half an hour before, rose the roofs of what was evidently an inn. The courtyard was sparsely lit by a flaring torture tool, showing a swinging sign hung on the post. The post was planted at the edge of what was now a broad and muddy road. Even as Chris stared, not knowing whether to believe what his eyes saw or not, there was a great sound of roofs and a cracking whip. A coach with its top piled high with luggage stemmed to a hole beside the flagged courtyard. Ostlers ran out to hold the team of horses steaming in the cold air, and Link Boys carrying torches and orange lanterns ran out to help the travelers in. The coachmen wore knee breeches and a crooked head to buckle us on their shoes. Their full-backed coats were slightly lifted on the left by the tips of the rapiers, and the front of fight, laser muslin, fell from the necks on the set-in waistcoats. They moved into the inn. The coach rattled off to the stable, before the window, farm-cut, rumbled by. And instead of the crowded outline of Georgetown roofs, Chris could only see a few chimneys against the stars and many lofty trees. What do you see, Boy? Ask the voice so gently at his ear. Chris frightened and unfounded truly said, I will tell you, Mr. Vickers said, My window has a power for those few who are to see. You are looking back into the past, my boy, the way it used to be. Then the coldness, the strangeness, the flattering of the light was too much for Chris. Blackness descended on him as if a hood had been dropped over his head. But before he was quite gone he heard what he thought was Mr. Vickers' voice, seeing kindly. You will do. End of Chapter 3, Recording by Ellie, August 2009 When Chris came to himself, he woke from sleep and lay for a moment without opening his eyes. He waited with his usual sense of irritation for Aunt Rachel's step at the door and her voice saying, Get up, Chris, you're late again. But the step did not come, and feeling rested and hungry, Chris opened his eyes. What was this? The high rectangular walls of his bedroom were not around him, nor the familiar furniture. Chris sat up, rubbing at his eyes as if this would help to clear his vision, and looked about him. He was in a narrow bed in a small sunny room, an attic room it would seem to be, for the walls slanted down in different sharp angles from the low ceiling to the broad wood planks of the floor. The two dormer windows projected from the room beyond the roof, making two niches in the wall across from where Chris lay, and a third window in the wall above his head showed that the room, as well as being at the top of the house, was also at a corner of it. A door was just beyond the foot of the bed, a chest of drawers and a table with a blue and white porcelain wash bowl and pitcher stood along the farther side. Wooden pegs were placed at hand level here and there, and a rag rug and bright colors lay on the floor by the bed. The walls were white, and the sunlight poured in to dash itself up on the floor and splash up the walls in an irresistible gaiety. There was no doubt about it, bear though it was, it was a pleasing room, snug, clean and cheerful, and somehow well suited to a thirteen-year-old boy. Chris half smiled as he looked, leaning on one elbow, and then his smile faded as he caught sight of the chair and what it held. The only chair in the room was laid with carefully folded clothes, but they were not Chris's clothes. Chris jumped out of bed and then looked down with a quick startled intake of his breath. He was wearing a white night-shirt, something he had never even seen before and barely heard of. The sleeves were long and cuffed, and the night-shirt fell in linen lines to his feet. Golly Moses, Chris exclaimed, completely baffled. He returned to the examination of the clothes that were obviously laid out for him. There was a fine white shirt with full sleeves and turn-back cuffs, white cotton stockings, knee-breaches of a blue-gray-worsted material, and matching frock coat with silver-carbed buttons. Below the chair, Chris saw, was a pair of black leather shoes with polished silver buckles. Fancy dress, huh? Chris murmured, and then, as if he had been slapped into full awareness, came the remembrance of the evening before, of Mr. Wicker, and of the dark flickering shop. Chris sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, his mouth, in spite of all his efforts, drawn down at the corners, and his eyes blank with confusion and misery. Oh, my golly! Chris said, and stared at the clothes he still held in his hands. Then another idea struck him, and he jumped up to run to the nearest door-mer window, the floorboards where the sun had lain on them, warm under his bare feet. But no, no freeway, no factories. The window looked out over Water Street, skirting the edge of the Potomac Banks, and there below Chris's amazed eyes rose a forest of masts and spars of ships at anchor along the shore. Water Street below him was swarming with activity, but not the activity that Chris had previously known. Men dressed in the same sort of clothes as those laid out for him pushed at cotton bales, rolled hogs' heads along to the docks, or rode out to ships anchored in the midstream. Most of the stevedores were hatless, and Chris snickered at the side of the short braid of hair at the nape of their necks. Many wore brilliant scarves tied around their heads, red or mustard yellow or green, and the sound of deep voices swearing, laughing, or raising in unfamiliar sea shanties excited Chris and sent the blood tingling along his veins. He rushed to the high-placed window overlooking Wisconsin Avenue. No key bridge was to be seen in the distance, only stretches of fields and orchards, scattered with occasional houses of russet brick, and when he craned his neck there was the inn where the people's drugstore ought to be, the sign swinging high above the road. Wisconsin Avenue, Chris had to laugh. If it could see itself, only a wide muddy road full of ruts and puddles along which someone's line of geese was waddling, impervious to the cursing of passing carters and riders on horseback. A little below him Chris could see the two old warehouses he remembered from the night before, but now they looked quite new, their bricks bright and their walls solid. Barrels were being lifted by the wench and tackle into the upper loft, and Chris watched the busy scene for quite some time. His rolling stomach and a simultaneous smell of food reminded him of his hunger. Dressing quickly in the strange new clothes, he opened the door and peered outside. His bedroom door was at the top of a narrow curling stair that twisted away to the left out of sight. It was steep and Chris stood silent and intent on the top step listening. A deep woman's voice loudly singing, farewell and adieu to you Spanish ladies, came rolling up the stairwell to the accompaniment of a brisk clatter of pots and pans. What rose also to Chris's nostrils was a smell of newly baked bread, frying bacon and wood smoke, and the combination put an end to his indecision. For a while he decided to call a truce to any attempt at solving the mystery in which he found himself, and following his nose went softly down the stairs. Rounding the last turn of the staircase, Chris remained in its shadow while he stared with unbelieving eyes at the room and figure before him. If this was a dream, he said in himself, it's the best one I've ever had, the very best. What confronted Chris was Mr. Wicker's kitchen. This room took up almost all of the side wing of the house. Across from Chris two casement windows showed the shrubs and flowers and white picket fence of Mr. Wicker's garden, and at his left was the back door opening on to Water Street, flanked by two smaller windows. They seemed most inviting, each possessing a window seat from which one could watch the busy comings and goings of the docks with a view of the ships beyond. But what drew Chris's eyes and made them grow round with wonder was the extraordinary figure in front of the fireplace. The vast, deeply set fireplace was in the wall that faced the back door. So deep it was that there was even a bench on one side of it, and over the smoking logs were hung all manner of trivets, spits, and cooking-irons. It was, in short, a fireplace such as Chris had never dreamed of, yet the tall, buxom woman stirring the hissing pots and singing to herself was what held Chris rooted to the last step of the attic stair. The woman stood easily six feet, broad and brawny enough to be a match for almost any man. Countless yards of sprigged cotton must have gone into the making of her dress to say nothing of her apron. A massive fissue of freshly laundered muslin went around her neck and was tucked into her bodice. A white turban was on her head, but on top of the turban, Chris simply could not believe his eyes as he counted rapidly. On top of this amazing woman's head was a gigantic hat supporting 24 roses and 12 waving black plumes. Chris's jaw dropped at the side of the turban-headed head, the flowers bobbing and swaying, the ostrich plumes blowing and curtsying with every slightest movement. As if blissfully unaware that her costume was not the usual one for cooking, the woman hummed and stirred, tasted, and hung up her ladle. But the sight was too much for Chris. Before he could stop it, a shout of laughter exploded from his lips. He laughed and laughed, and the indignant expression on the woman's face when she turned to stand glaring at him with her hands on her jutting hips only added to Chris's laughter. At last, sobering up somewhat, as he realized that his behavior was rude to put it mildly, Chris stopped and caught his breath, shaken only now and again by a diminishing paroxysm. Seeing the spark of bad temper in the red face of the enormous woman, Chris decided to pour oil on the troubled waters. Good morning, ma'am. I—I'm Chris Mason from upstairs. And I'm sorry I laughed so loud, I— he floundered and grabbed desperately at any passing idea. I saw something comical out the window there. He pointed wildly. And it just set me off. I hope I didn't disturb you. Bollified, though not entirely, the woman accepted this effort at peacemaking, and her face eased a little. Well, now, so you are awake at the last, eh? And hungry being a boy, I don't doubt. She moved to the dresser and took down a mug and plate, the roses and ostrich plumes nodding in evident agreement. So you are Chris, did you say? Christopher, that would be? And I am Mistress Rebecca Boozer, should you be wanting to know? Becky Boozer, they call me. She bustled over to a covered bowl, dipped out creamy milk with a long-handled dipper, and set bread, butter, and bacon in front of Chris at a table pulled up to one of the window seats. Eat up, now, young man, Becky Boozer advised, every red rose and feather accenting her words. For Mr. Wicker will be wanting to see you when you have done. It's late, past eight o' the clock. She glanced out the window. It might be just possible that Master Silly will be passing before long for a mid-morning snack, and here I am gossiping with you instead of getting on with my work. Chris ate with a will, looking around as he chewed. The spotless brick floor and the starched curtains at the windows, the shining copper pans hung beside the huge fireplace, were proof of Becky Boozer's housekeeping. Don't you have an ice-box? Chris asked, his mouth full. What may that be? Becky asked sharply. To keep the food cool, Chris answered. Becky stopped to consider this, her hands on her hips. We have a larder on the cool side of the house, if that be what you mean, she told him nodding. Keeps the food pretty well up to April or May. Then the heat makes everything go. Oh, this heat! Prosperity Maryland where I come from, and on the sea coast as it is, was never like this. A table with a wooden tub and dishes stacked nearby caught Chris's eye. Buckets of water stood beneath the table, and presently Becky Boozer took off a small pot of steaming water from the hook above the fire, poured it in the tub, and dipped cold water from one of the buckets into it. What a system Chris thought as he watched Becky busy with her dishes, thinking of the neat white kitchen he knew at home. A loud he said. If you had a little wooden trough that led from that tub out through the window there, you could pull out a bung when you were ready and the water would run outdoors. It would save you carrying that great tub about when you're in a hurry. Becky Boozer rusted her soapy hands on the edge of the tub and looked at him admiringly over her shoulder. I would never have thought it, she said, by the look of you, never in this world. You have brains, young lad. That's what you have. A better idea than that I never heard. Indeed it is just what I have been a needon since years, and that simple I might have thought it out myself. I shall set Mr. Silly to work on it when he comes. He's right handy with tools, is Nudd Silly. At this moment a short knock sounded on the back door, and an instant change came over Becky Boozer. It was impossible to imagine that anyone as ponderous as Becky could be coy, but at the sound of the knock this is what she became. Wiping her hands hastily on one of many petticoats, she pushed and pulled at her hat, which remained immovable, straightened her fissue, and smoothing her dress she minced her huge bulk to the door with a welcoming smile. A little man scarcely higher than Becky's barrel waist, with a rolling seagate and twinkling blue eyes, bounced into the room and strained up on tiptoe towards Miss Boozer's blushing cheek. Chris, behind the open door, had not yet been perceived. Come now, Becky my love, shouted Silly the sailor in a good humor roar. How can I start the day right that took kiss from my Boozer? Becky blushed and simpered and cast down her eyes. Get along with you, Silly. What a way to behave, she admonished, delighted and abashed. See, there's company here. She pushed her sooter off with an elephantine shove, and gestured to Chris. Chris was feeling the contagion of laughter catching up with him again at the scene he had watched, and was glad when the sailor turned and came over to where he sat. A visitor, eh? Well, well. Off a ship? No, no, Becky put in quickly and gave Chris a look. No, he is a friend of the masters from—she searched her mind—from another part of the country. He got here last night and slept late, as you see. Indeed and indeed, said the sailor, settling himself comfortably and as if for a long stay, in his chair and observing Chris through his keen blue eyes. While young man, he announced genially, I am silly, he said, and stretched out a hard brown hand. Christopher Mason, Chris said in return, and they solemnly shook hands, taking account of each other as men do when they meet. I shall sit here, Mistress Becky, by your leave. Silly called out, as if Becky Boozer were a mile away, to keep this lad company, as it were. So you shall, Becky answered warmly, smiling broadly, wrinkles of pleasure at the corners of your eyes. And could I tempt you with a morsel, Master Silly? Ned Silly appeared to consider this invitation from all sides before he gave his reply, cocking his head on one side like a parrot, as he reflected. Finally he answered. How could I refuse when I know you're famous a cook, he said, with a smile at Becky and a wink at Chris, and put his horny forefinger and thumb the distance of a thread apart. But a crumb, Mistress Becky, a morsel, a taste, just pay my respects to your art, as it were. Then such a commotion took place in the kitchen. Chris watched flabbergasted, as Becky set before Silly, a beet pie, a large cheese, fruit preserves, two kinds of bread, cakes and cookies, lattice tarts, and pickles and jars. And with a beaming smile, Becky drew from a cask a jug full of ale, which she sat down on the table with a thud. Just a morsel, Master Silly, she said, adding in a coaxing tone. Try just a taste, to please me. Ned Silly, his eyes winking with anticipation and smacking his lips, attacked the meat pie and the cheese tarts and pickles with a will. Here, try this, he urged Chris, heaping the boy's plate as lavishly as his own, and the two ate in silence and gusto while Becky stood by with roses and feathers bobbing. You must keep your strength up, Ned Silly, she admonished, for it is a hard life that you lead, she warned him. Ned paused long enough to swallow. I, that it is, that it is. He agreed, wagging his head, champing his jaws, and digging into the food. A hard life has a sailor, Ned said with an effort at sorrow, which failed signally, and he took a great draft of the ale. After a while Silly slowed, wiped his mouth with his hand, and leaned back in his chair, rolling a dazed eye at the anxious face of the waiting Becky Boozer. Mistress Boozer, he announced. I am a new man. He heaved a sigh of repletion. You have saved me again. Ah, Mistress Becky, what a treasure you are. Becky curtsied and giggled, her fabulous hat shaking as if with a secret all its own. Just then a bell tinkled at the end of the kitchen passage. That will be the master, Becky said, bustling away. Then she turned. I shall be back, Master Silly. I pray you do not leave. Chris seized his opportunity. Please, Master Silly, he asked, leaning across the empty plates in his interest. Why does she wear that queer hat? Master Silly cocked an eye at the boy before him, picked comfortably at his teeth with an iron nail which he took from his pocket, and loosened his belt buckle. Ah, he said. So you've not heard? Quick, then, I shall tell you. For that is truly a tale. The sailor stretched back in his chair, one hand holding the mug of ale. His short nose and red wind-burned cheeks seemed to share the joke with his eyes as he finally leaned forward across the table with an air of conspiracy. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Patty Cunningham Chapter 5 Of Mr. Ricker's Widow This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by May. Mr. Ricker's Window by Carly Dawson. Well now, began Silly. That's a tale that not everyone knows, don't you see? And Mistress Becky would not care to be reminded of it, mark you, for reasons I shall shortly tell. His eyes, humorous as they were, took on a shrewdness under their sandy brows, as if judging the character of the boy before him and his ability to keep a secret. First and foremost, he said, you had best know who I am. He leaned back and hooked his thumbs under his armpits in a prideful gesture. My lad, said Ned Silly, thrusting out his chin. I'm a member of the Mirabelle's crew. The Mirabelle, Chris exclaimed. Why, that's the ship in the bottle. I agreed Silly, nodding sagely. The model of it's in the bottle right enough, since it's myself that made it the last trip home from the Chinese seas. You made it yourself, Chris breathed, looking aghast at the gnarled, knotted fingers, thick and roughened by work and weather, picturing to himself the delicacy of the miniature ship that lay so snugly in its transparent walls. How in the world could you get it inside? he asked. Ned wagged his head. Ah, it is a trick and a tedious thing, no mistaking. But there's time and despair for it coming home from China. China? You've been there? What's it like? Chris wanted to know, his eyes eager. Silly smiled at him. A snaggle-toothed, friendly grin. That's a tale for another time, my boy. For there's much telling there. You wanted the story of Becky's fine hat. Yes, yes, urged Chris, before she comes back. Well now, began Silly. Being a member of the Mirabelle and all, means I see quite a bit of this port when we're home. He looked arch as if Chris must know the reason for that. And seeing it's how Mr. Becky and me are fast friends, well, she's told me a thing or two that not everyone knows. He took a pull on the mug and wiped the froth from his lips. It seems, he began, that in her younger days, Mr. Becky had one craving. She'd seen this hat that she now wears in a milliner's, and have it she must. Now, and the sailor leaned forward as the story held its own interest. Now, how'd of that sort costs many a shilling? And Becky worked and saved for that bonnet for over a year. He eyed Chris again closely. If you tell what I tell ye, Chris lad, Silly conjured him. I shall get even with ye, I swear I will. For I would never want to hurt the feelings of Becky Boozer on my oath. I'll not tell, sir, not to anyone, Chris assured him. Ned Silly seemed satisfied. Well, now, hunching closer with his chair, it seems at long last she paid for that bonnet, and decided to wear it to the spectacle that very afternoon. The spectacle, Chris questioned, his forehead wrinkled. What's that? Ho, ho, cackled Silly, you are a country boy. Why, the spectacle, where the players are? The theatre, what else? Oh, Chris said shortly, and thought of television in the movies, and held his tongue. He was beginning to try to fit himself into two centuries before his own time. Yes, took up Silly. Zaza was saying, Mr. Boozer, being young and flighty in them days, and rightful proud of that bonnet she had took so long to earn, wore it to the spectacle, together with her best gown. Now, as you seem not acquainted with the theatre, lad, let me tell you that we give it here in any hall standing vacant, and out of doors in fair weather, and we set the benches in rows for those that pay for seats. He pulled out an evil-smelling clay pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, tamping it down with one grubby forefinger. And when it was well lit, pointed the stem at Chris by way of emphasis. Mr. Specky gets herself a good place on this occasion, and sits herself down a tossing of her feathers and her flowers, and as proud as a peacock, every inch of her. The people pack the benches, and the performance then begins. Rightly, and Silly jabbed the pipe stem at Chris. Rightly, only ladies of quality wear such hats as Specky wore, and should they go to the spectacle, which would be doubtful, for the crowd makes it no place for a gentle woman. They would be sitting off apart, don't you see? But Specky sat spang in the centre of the hall, and, you've seen the hat, it is big enough for two and no mistake, and spreads along as well as up. Well, the time came to begin. Players came out on their stage just speaking of their parts and a brandishing of their arms, as they do. When all at once a gentleman sitting behind Becky Boozer leaned forward and asked her, ever so politely, Madam, says he, please be so good as to remove your bonnet. Here Silly leaned forward, one hand on his stomach to facilitate a bow. Aping, as best he could, the speech in manners of a gentleman. In a flash he resumed his own character and turned to Chris. Well, did she take it off, in a demand of Chris, frowning with concentration? Twas asked with rare politeness. Anyone would agree to that. He shook his head solemnly. Why, no, Master Christopher, that she did not. Our Becky had just paid the final pence upon that hat, and after a year, seven months, and eighteen days, that hat was hers. She wanted all beholders to admire it. What cared she if the gentleman seated on the bench behind her saw more of her bonnet than of the play? And Becky Boozer's opinion, to has a more than fair exchange. So she tossed her head, did Becky, and an eye not even a reply. Silly tossed his own sun-bleached thatch and pursed up his mouth in imitation of Becky. Then, with another rapid change of grimace, he squinted up his eyes to signify the growing intensity of the situation, and leaned half way across the table. Shoved the dishes, pies, and pickles out of his way with his elbows. His deep voice sank to a husky whisper. So the performance went on, and never a glimpse of it did the poor gentleman see, seated as he was behind our Becky Boozer. So once more he bends forward, and he speaks at her ear, urgent like. Silly's eyebrows rose and fell with his agitation. So strong was the grip of the story upon him that it was evident that he fancied himself at the play, and could see the whole thing before him as plain as day. The poor gentleman says again, he took up. Madam, he says, I beg of you, please to be so kind. Nothing of the spectacle can I see. Please and be so good as to remove your hat. And would you believe it, my lad? No. Ned silly shook his head from side to side. No, no, no you would not. He leaned back, waving his hand as if to wipe away any lingering doubt in Chris's mind. Mistress Rebecca Boozer was that proud, that proud, he dropped his voice, that not for the world would she remove her bonnet. Dear me, no. She tossed her head again, feeling all of them plumes a toss and two, and sat up straighter than before, and she a tall woman. Master silly took a red bandana handkerchief from his coattail pocket, and mopped his face. So excited and heated had he become at his own telling of the tale. Then once more he leaned forward confidentially. Well, little did she dream, our Becky Boozer. For when she tossed her head a second time, and made no motion to remove her hat, the gentleman bent toward her, and, no doubt, his words were for her alone. And this is what he said. Ned silly's blue eyes popped, and he cupped his hand by the side of his mouth, so that his words could carry no further than the few inches dividing the boy and the man. He said, and so she told me, it did sound like a roar of thunder, though no one else did seem aware of it. So then, Rebecca Boozer, wear your hat, the gentleman said. The devil himself shall have no power to take it off in you. And do you know, whispered silly in a low rumble, his eyes starting out of his head as were Chris's own, to sour belief it must have been the devil himself who sat behind her there. For from that very time, Rebecca Boozer has been unable to remove that hat, neither by pushing, pulling, prying, steaming, cutting, tearing, nor by any method how some ever. The devil it was, the devil it must have been. Master silly, exhausted by his recital, fell back in his chair, with just strength enough left to replenish his pewter mug from the jug of ale. Then, refreshed, he set the mug down, wiped his lips, and cocked an eye at Chris, who sat staring at him open-mouthed. Try it yourself, he suggested wagging his head. I have. You'll not be able to heave it off, that I promise you. That hat is there for good in all. Mr. Boozer would doubtless be buried in that bonnet. He cocked his head the other way. And what do you think of that? Ned silly inquired. After a long and thoughtful pause, Chris found his voice. Master silly, he said respectfully. Does she, does she sleep in it? he asked. The picture of the elephantine Becky Boozer with a counterpane under her chin, and the hat with twenty-four red roses and twelve raving black plumes rising above the pillow, took hold of the sailor's fancy. He tipped back in his chair and laughed till he cried, and as he was coughing and spluttering, Mr. Boozer herself came rustling out of the passageway and across the kitchen to the table. Be off with you, boy, she cried. You and silly, you're two of a kind that is plain to be seen. She looked from one to the other as Chris decided that it was a good thing for him that Becky likened him to the object of her doting, Master silly. Get along with you, she cried again, pulling Chris up out of his chair by his coat collar. You were wanted by the master in his study, so look sharp. It's down the passage and to your right, Becky said, and knock before you go in. Chris started off, but in the dusk of the passage he looked back in time to see Becky Boozer lost in tittering giggles and wild blushes as Master silly, reaching up as high as his arm would go, chucked her under the chin. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 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 Elaine Tweddle Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson Chapter 6 Chris stood for a moment before the closed door of Mr. Wicker's study. His head was full of the story of Becky Boozer's hat, or he might have glimpsed the room beside him, for the passage stopped at this point. Beyond the passage lay the dimly glimmering shop with its bow-window at the far end, and the door to the street beside it. He might have been able, had he not been so intent on Becky's story, to slip past the dusty bails and cases and out into what. But Chris's head was ringing with Ned's silly tail, and with all the things so different and so absorbing that surrounded him. He put at his hand, knocked, and on hearing a low reply, stepped inside. The room Chris entered, his eyes round in order to take in every new sight was a small study. It stretched across the back of the house. The kitchen fireplace had its echo and a fireplace on this side of the wall, and facing Chris, three windows looked out into the bleached pair at Apple Trees, the ordered rows of the vegetable and herb garden. A final window, at the end of the room, at Chris's left, looked out on a little hill behind the house. Chris, without thinking, stepped forward a pace or two in order to look at the familiar ugly red and grey church at the end of Church Lane. It was not to be seen. There was only a pasture hemmed by woods and fine trees with, in the distance where M Street should be, a roof or two. A thin voice that came from nowhere and was everywhere broke into Chris. No, my boy, the church is not yet built. That will come in seventy years, in 1860, to be exact. Confusing, is it not? Chris whipped around at the sound of the antiquarian's voice, but for a moment longer he could not see him, and looked toward the other end of the room with interest. Mr. Wicker's study was cozy and bright, well warmed by a cheerfully burning fire. The heavy curtains, drawn back now from the windows to let in the morning sun, were of a fine ruby damask. The furniture consisted, as far as Chris was concerned, of antiques. Two wing-chairs covered in red leather, tacked at the edges with brass-headed nails, looked invitingly comfortable. One had its back to Chris, and the door and the other was empty. Both were drawn close to the snapping logs. A grandfather clock stood in the corner between the fireplace and the first window, and gave out a steady, deep talk. The carpet was a soft Indian rug of fine texture and many colors, red, blue, and gold, predominating. Most surprisingly, a steep spiral staircase of polished wood came down into the room in the right-hand corner, near where Chris stood, and Chris wondered for a moment if Mr. Wicker's voice had come from the top of the stair. Turning back, he saw that a desk opposite him stood between the two windows that face the garden. It seemed very old-fashioned to Chris. No neat-folded writing paper, but large, bold sheets covered in Mr. Wicker's delicate handwriting lay on the open top, with several goose-quill pens standing at the back in a pen-holder. Chris noticed prints of sailing ships on the walls and candlesticks holding candles and candle snuffers on the desk, table, and mantelpiece, a closed cupboard with carved doors stood at the far end of the room. Once again, Chris turned back to look for Mr. Wicker, and to his astonishment, now saw him in the chair that he had thought empty a moment before. Mr. Wicker, his elbows on the arms of the chair and his fingertips touched lightly together, was watching Chris with interest and amusement. When the boy caught sight of him, Mr. Wicker nodded, smiling, and motioned Chris towards the other leather chair across from him. Good morning, my boy, said the old man. I trust you slept well. Chris slowly let himself down into the offered chair. Oh yes, thank you, sir, he replied. I don't even know how I got to bed. Mr. Wicker made a sound that seemed to indicate that that did not matter. And breakfast, Mr. Wicker asked, Becky fed you? Yes, sir, and Mr. Silly, he fed me too. Indeed, Mr. Wicker's eyebrows went up in an inverted V above his bright dark eyes. Ned Silly so early? Well, he's a loyal soul, is Silly. You shall know more of him. He fell silent, observing the boys sitting on the edge of the big chair. Mr. Wicker looked as if casually at the clothes Chris now wore, and which fitted him as though made to his measure. What he saw seemed to please the old man, for he nodded his bald head and his wrinkles multiplied themselves across his face, in a way Chris took to be his smile. At last he spoke again, and his voice was strangely gentle and kind. So kind that the forlorness Chris had momentarily forgotten that the mystery of his position, the puzzlement and lost feeling that reclaimed him instantly should he allow himself to wonder at how he could get back again into his own life and time, was reawakened by the something he heard in Mr. Wicker's voice. The tears gathered in his throat, and he had to swallow and cough several times before he could reply with any degree of clearness. Feel, well, all right, I guess, in a way, but there's a sort of spinning in my head and my stomach if I try to figure any of this out. I just don't get it. He shook his head dubiously. I feel alive all right, and the food tasted good just now, but how in the world can all the changes come about, or be? And there's something I should see to at home. All at once he needed desperately to know how his mother was that morning. He stood up abruptly. If I can just go now, please? Chris asked politely but firmly. It's been very interesting, but I— his throat tightened up again, and he made a helpless gesture with his hand, and looking toward the window wondered if he could jump out into the flower-beds and be off. Mr. Wicker's voice, soft but with such authority that one did not question it, came again, and it had a healing in its sound. Sit down, Christopher, my lad, he said, and his eyes were kind, intent, and eager. We have much to talk of, you and I, but first your mind and heart should be put at ease. Do you know who I am? Restive and anxious to be off, Chris nevertheless found it necessary to reply. You sell old stuff, that's all I know, he answered, beginning to feel a trifle, surly. Mr. Wicker nodded, tapping his fingertips together. Yes, he agreed, I sell old things in your time. But now, in this time, what do you know of me? As he spoke, there was a change of tone, as if a younger man was speaking, and in spite of his impatience to get home, Chris looked up sharply. Mr. Wicker was leaning forward, and Chris felt himself immovable under the vigor of those dark eyes. Nothing, sir, he heard himself saying, not taking his eyes from those of the man before him. I am a ship-owner, Christopher, for one thing. Mr. Wicker drew a slow breath. A merchant trading in tobacco, cotton, corn, and flour. But I am also— he paused as if to give Chris time to hear each word. I am also quite a fine magician, said Mr. Wicker. Chris leaned back, disappointed and scornful. Rabbits out of hats, he inquired. No, young man, Mr. Wicker answered with no sure of annoyance. Not rabbits out of hats. That, as you would say, is for toddlers. Suppose I prove to you just how good. Go ahead, said Chris, whose only thought was still to get home, but who admitted to himself a faint stir of curiosity. Watch closely, then, commanded Mr. Wicker. I have been in my twentieth-century shape so that you would recognize me. Now I shall regain my appearance of this time. Not a great change, I grant you, but there will be a difference. Watch me closely. Chris leaned forward in his chair. The room was well lit from three sides. Sunlight and firelight mingled to wash Mr. Wicker in their joined apricot glow. Added to this the two chairs, Chris's and Mr. Wicker's, were not more than four feet apart. Chris hunched forward, yet a little, more to lessen this space and watch for any movement, however swift. He had seen magicians before, he told himself. But what he saw was so amazing that Chris's lips parted in astonishment, and his eyes stared unblinkingly. For the tiny figure of the old man before him, wizened with age and wrinkled past belief before his eyes shook off not ten or twenty years, but one hundred and fifty. It left him, while not a young man, middle-aged, a vigorous man of forty years. The face was smoothed out and firm, thick chestnut hair was caught back with a black ribbon bow, dark eyebrows were level above steady eyes. I don't believe it! Chris breathed. You looked almost like a mummy before, and now Mr. Wicker rose from his chair, and now he stood six feet, no longer wizened, no longer feeble. Fascinating, is it not? he remarked, with sardonic smile. A good trick, do you not agree? Chris sat looking at him, amazed, but still incredulous. Well, yes, he admitted. But maybe with makeup or something? Ah! said Mr. Wicker, and his voice was deeper and more vigorous too. Ah! Then we shall try another. See if you can find me. And before Chris's eyes, Mr. Wicker vanished into thin air. Chris looked about and got up. He looked under the chairs, under the table, behind the curtains, up the chimney, up the spiral staircase, out the windows, in short, everywhere and anywhere a man might hide, and in a great many places where it was impossible for him to be. Finally he stood in the middle of the room. You're not here! he said aloud. Oh yes I am! said Mr. Wicker's voice. Look on the table. Chris looked on the table. A bowl of flour stood in the centre, a small silver tray with a finely blown glass and a round-bellied silver picture of water stood at one side. A few leather-bound books were all else to be seen, except, if one could count that, a blue bottle fly that buzzed, lit on the flowers and buzzed again. It's not fair! Chris challenged aloud. You've got some trick hiding place! You're just not here! Yes I am! came the voice. I am within reach of your hand, Christopher, Mr. Wicker told him, and I will reappear in whatever part of the room you wish. Choose. Chris looked round him and then pointed at the end window. There, he said, by the window, there's nothing anywhere round it. Come back there. Very well, sounded Mr. Wicker's deep new voice. The blue bottle fly buzzed upward from the table, flew directly at Chris's nose, hit it, flew around his head and bumped into his ear. Darn that old fly! Chris muttered and made a grab at it. The blue bottle buzzed towards the window, swirled about, hit Chris on the nose again with remarkable stupidity, and blundered off once more towards the window. Chris ran after it, saw it on the pane of glass, swooped down and felt the angry wings and heard the enraged buzz in his cupped hand. But before he could either squeeze the fly or open his hand to let it free, Mr. Wicker stood before him, and Chris found himself holding on to the tail of Mr. Wicker's coat. And what do you think of that trick? asked Mr. Wicker, smiling. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Elaine Tweddle Sterling, Ontario Please visit LibraVox.org Recording by Ellie Mr. Wicker's window by Kylie Dawson Chapter 7 Chris was speechless and Mr. Wicker answered himself. Yes, it is a good trick, but before we talk, I should like to show you one more. He dropped his hand on Chris's shoulder, and somehow the firm touch was wonderfully comforting to the boy. You want to be at home, do you not, Christopher? Mr. Wicker asked. Yes, sir, please. Well, that cannot be for a time, Mr. Wicker replied. For you have important work to do. Mr. Wicker turned and walked back to the two leather chairs, with his hands still on Chris's shoulder. He stopped near the table and looked down. I noted all this. He waved a hand to take in not only the room, but Chris thought a different time as well. All this seems impossible to understand. He paused wondering. Perhaps we have better sit down, and we will try to make it understandable. Let me put it this way. Mr. Wicker began when they were seated once more in their chairs before the fire. You have a television set at home? Oh, yes. Chris agreed enthusiastically, and, say, some of the programs. Yes, they are splendid, I know. Mr. Wicker broke in. But will you please explain to me how television works? Chris stared at his questioner for a moment, and then settled back in his chair, his forehead puckered with concentration. Well, gee, he stopped. Well, he began again. I think it has to do with light rays passing through a, well, there's an electric impulse, see. I guess it's that that sends out. He stopped altogether. Well, golly Moses, Mr. Wicker, he ended lamely. It seems to be pretty complicated to go into. Mr. Wicker smiled, a wide-engaging smile showing strong white teeth. It is, he agreed warmly, his eyes twinkling. Is it not? Very complicated. You probably would not be able to describe to me the details of how the radio-along-distance telephone worked, either. Would you, young man? Chris had to come back when he saw Mr. Wicker was not loving at him, but rather at the complexity of such mechanical things. No, sir, I guess not. We are just glad to be able to use them, I expect. Ah, said Mr. Wicker, in a tone of immense satisfaction. Quite so. We are just glad to be able to use and enjoy them. Well then, my boy, the things I've just shown you and what I am about to show you are parts of knowledge which are yet to be discovered and learned in a time beyond your own. And the ability to move within time, within time, Mr. Wicker stressed leaning forward toward Chris, that faculty is also still in the future. In the meantime, it remains a rare gift. Mr. Wicker put out the lean, strong hand and tapped Chris's knee. You have it, Christopher. You were born with the ability to move backward into time that has passed. Whether or not you will master the gift of moving into the future that, of course, Mr. Wicker shrugged is impossible to tell. You may, but for my purposes, that you have been able to return this far is enough. He looked surgingly at Chris. Have you understood what I've been saying to you now? He asked. I think so, sir. Chris answered slowly. This ability to move back and forth in time, Mr. Wicker continued, is no more far-fetched than the ability to send colored images and sound across the land into your own house, where you can see and hear them. It is something which, so far, I mean, of course, in your time, has not yet been discovered. But it will be. Used Mr. Wicker thoughtfully, pulling at his underlip with some been forefinger. Yes, it will be. He looked across at Chris as if returning from a great distance. But until it has been, it appears fantastic. Does it not? It certainly does, replied Chris, further. If it weren't happening to me, I wouldn't believe it. No, not at Mr. Wicker. And I would not blame you. But now he announced, rising and turning toward the table. You must have your mind set at rest regarding your mother. He motioned for Chris to join him. You will need to know only once, and they say. He smiled down at the boy beside him. They say that seeing is believing. So you shall see for yourself. Mr. Wicker picked up a round-bellied silver picture and set it in front of Chris. They say, too, Mr. Wicker said squarefully, the crystal balls are the things to look into. Perfect, Tommy Rott. This will do equally well. Look and see. Chris bent to be at the polished silver side of the picture. At first it shown as no doubt it always did from Becky Buse's powerful rubbing. Then as he watched the round side of the picture missed it over, as if it had been filled with ice water. Next, the center of the missed portion cleared away, and as he cleared the picture formed, welling up into his side as if from within the picture, so they saw off its sides. What Chris saw was a hospital home. On a wide bed lay his mother, and beside her were his aunt Rachel and a white-coated man. Chris took to be a doctor. Then, as if inside his head, for he was not conscious of sound within the home, which had grown deeply still, he heard voices and words, and saw the lips of the doctor and his aunt Rachel move. The doctor said, the turn has come, she will pull through, but she will need watchful care. Oh, thank God! Thank God! His aunt Rachel cried, covering her face with her hands. She burst into tears. The scene missed it over once again, and then it cleared. The picture was merely a picture on the table in Mr. Wicker's room. Chris looked up at the man who regarded him gravely. Is that the trick too, he asked? Just to make me stay, he demanded more loudly. No, son, the man replied, and his eyes confirmed his words. That is how it really is, my word of honor. And to Chris great surprise all at once he felt tears in his cheeks, while simultaneously a great lightness invaded him, and a wild wish to laugh. Mr. Wicker put him a glass of water and held it out. Drink this, he said. All is well, you can be at peace. And now he went on in a brisk tone, replacing the glass Chris had trained. Let us begin our talk. End of Chapter 7, Recording by Ellie, October 2009 Chapter 8 of Mr. Wicker's window This is a LibraVox recording, and LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org, Recording by Ellie, Mr. Wicker's window, by Carly Dawson, Chapter 8 Chris returned happily to his chair, and called up in it as if he were at home. Even Mr. Wicker's expression seemed to have changed, and as a matter of fact it had, for the relief and portion of content that showed now in the boy's face, was reflected in some mesh and that of the man. Before sitting himself, Mr. Wicker rang his silver bell on the tray by the picture. In a moment Becky Boozer knocked on the door, and stuck a gigantic head through the opening. You rang, sir? She inquired. The feathers and roses bobbing as cheerily as life sings around the sweeping brim. I did, Becky. It occurred to me, said Mr. Wicker, looking sideways at Chris, that some hot chocolate for Master Christopher and coffee for me would not be a mess at this hour of the morning. And, he added, seeing the interested spark in the boy's eyes. Some of your delicious little cakes, perhaps? Most certainly. Bimp Becky. Most certainly, sir. I have the chocolate hot, as it so happens, and some cakes, new baked. She bustled off, and in no time returned with a tray of china cups, matching flower pots for coffee and for chocolate, a bowl of sugar, and a plate piled high with cakes. From one corner Becky pulled out a small table, which she placed between the two chairs. The tray was safely settled, the fire given a poke and a fresh lock before Mr. Spoozer removed herself in her starred stress and apron and her outrageous head from her Master's study. Now, said Mr. Wicker, pouring out the steaming drinks, we shall refresh ourselves, and you shall listen, if you will. Chris took a sip of hot chocolate and a bite of golden cake, decided that he had never tasted better. This point decided on which in himself he gave his attention to the man across from him. I told you, Mr. Wicker said, that there was a ship owner in the merchant. That is true, but these are troubled times. The revolution has had their land in its grasp. Times are bad and this vast land is now conviced with the births of democracy. Money is hard to come by and much needed for General Washington's troops for farmers called away from the harvesting or sowing. The period of healing for them and for the land will be long and costly. He paused to sip his coffee and then put the cup down. Destruction is so vast and to construct and build. Mr. Wicker said staring at the fire, that is what is slow. He turned to Chris, without financial help, without money for the beginning of this new land, and this new government that is struggling to be born, this free place, this fine democratic experiment will fail. I know a way to save it, and you have been sent back into the past from our future, my future and yours, and that of the land, to help us and make it rare. You will not disappoint me, Christopher. Mr. Wicker turned burning eyes on Chris' face. You will help your country get its dad? A wave of excitement, such as he had never known, searched over Chris and he started to his feet, almost upsetting the table and making the cups rattle on the saucers. Oh yes, sir, you bet, if I can, I'll help. Mr. Wicker's face expressed his satisfaction. He rose too and held out his hand. I knew you would, he said. It had to be, for it could be no other way, but there is always doubt. You're hand, my boy, for we have worked to do together. The two hands, large and small, were firm, one in the other, and Chris felt a new power coming to him from the man whose hand he grasped. Listen closely. Mr. Wicker said in Chris' throne era, there is a wondrous thing, unique in the world, and which for the benefit of this growing country we must obtain. Its possession will mean that we can pay for many things, and use it to hear tools building materials. This wonderful object is the jewel tree, belonged to the princes of China. Chris waited, listening. This jewel tree, Mr. Wicker went on, is a tree that grows, that puts out leaves and flowers and bears fruit, but here's the wonder of it. And he bent his piercing eyes on Chris' intent face. This growing tree is made of chores, leaves and flowers, and even seeded fruit. The leaves are emeralds, the flower's diamonds, and sapphires. The fruit's huge rubies seeded sick with pearls. Imagine such a treasure if you can. He spread his arms wide, and Chris' eyes were shining with excitement. Imagine the possession of such a plant. Mr. Wicker went on, break off a branch of it. Another grows, and flowers and fruit, much like your orange trees. We both stir fruit and flowers at the same time. They set down again. The better to continue the conversation. The taking of such a price would be hard enough. Mr. Wicker continued, for it is well guarded. But there is a greater hazard. He rose from his chair to walk about in his nervousness and eagerness, at what lay ahead. Then he went on. There's a man here, posing as a merchant, clutched two. You will see him in the town when you walk there, which you shall do presently. But he has some magic powers, and knows me well, too well. Mr. Wicker shook his head, and his eyes became slits of rage. You have been enemies for long, Mr. Wicker said, but he is yet to get the better of me. Is he after the jewel tree, too? Chris wanted to know. He is. He heard of it by power of magic, certainly. For it is a secret so well guarded, that those who carry knowledge of it, all but myself, up to this time, or others have died before they could make use of it. You can well imagine Mr. Wicker enlarged, turning his gaze on Chris, that the treasure that replenishes itself is beyond price. The Chinese emperor knows it well, so do the gods about his palaces, and so does Kledger too. Mr. Wicker strode about, striking the closed fist of one hand into the palm of the other, and Chris scrambled out of his chair to stand watching the pacing figure. And it came to Chris as he followed with his eyes the black swinging coat, the silver-buckled black knee-bridges, the neat white stock, the black-procaded waistcoat of the magician. It came to him that he had a great confidence in the facture for this man. Even knowing him as little as he did, having to make so much on trust, still in Chris' mind there was not the smallest grain of doubt, suspicion or distrust. He knew, without having to think it out that Mr. Wicker was a great man, great in knowledge and in heart, reliable and kind and wise. In that moment Chris put his whole face in a man he had not yet known for a day. There is one way, Mr. Wicker said, willing about the standing still. And that is where I need your help. He strode back across the room towards Chris. This villain clutched two. For that is what he is, no better. This villain knows me, and he knows my power. But if my power were in a boy, a lad he never would suspect, then Mr. Wicker put both hands on Chris' shoulders and looked surgingly at him, then only would he have the opportunity to see the jewel tree. Can you learn what I know? Demanded Mr. Wicker, can you learn my magic? Magic? Chris dimmed. Those tricks? The fly and others? Yes, said Mr. Wicker quietly, many more. Well, answered Chris, after a moment's thought. I've got here, didn't I? I've gone back all these years, so I guess I could. He looked up to see grin. At least I can try, he said. Mr. Wicker gave Chris shoulder a little shake of pride and acceptance. Good lad, he said, I know that you can learn. For you it will not be hard. There's just one thing, Chris said, with puzzlement in his voice. You say, sir, see's the tree. That means just stealing it? Must we do that? Mr. Wicker looked at Chris and his face was serene and smooth with the great satisfaction of his feelings. You're the lad for me, he cried, and Chris felt himself coloring with pleasure the tone of Mr. Wicker's voice. I knew it from the first. It would be stealing boy, but for one thing. When, and having willing if, you reach the tree, you will break a branch from it and stick it in the ground. It will rot itself and grow in strife, and the princess will still have delicate jewel flowers for her hair. And now, he said, I smell a polling chicken. Of you go and eat your lunch, and later we shall talk again. Chris went out smiling. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ian Gray. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson Chapter 9 In the kitchen, Chris leaned against the corner of the passage and kitchen wall to watch Becky edit tasks, how different from the compact white kitchen they had at home. And yet there was a cozy feeling about the huge room in front of him with its ruddy copper utensils, tub-sized wicker basket of vegetables, steaming pots hung over the fire, and the browning row of four chickens on a revolving spit that gave out a friendliness and welcome modern kitchens did not have. Becky finally paused in her work long enough to glance out from under her hat at Chris. Now then, my lad, it is not yet time to eat. That young belly of yours takes a bit of filling and no mistake. Be off now, and do you not go a bother in Becky for a bit. I will soon call you when all is done. Chris would have liked to go outside and put his hand on the handle of the back door when a momentary confusion overtook him. He wondered if, in going out, he would step back into his own time before he had completed the work Mr. Wicker wanted him to do, and suddenly, unsure, turned away regretfully. Not knowing where else to go, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Becky had made his bed, and the little room looked spruce. Chris walked into one of the niches made by the projecting windows, pushed up the sash, and leaned perilously out. This was to be the first of many times that Chris was to lean out so. King of his new world spread out below him as far as the eye could reach. A vast and absorbing panorama lay beneath and beyond him. Immediately below turned Water Street, narrow and muddy, while the broadwarfs and wooden storehouses spaced themselves at intervals along the shore. Beyond, the sailing ships of all kinds that he had admired that morning pointed their bowsprits along the docks or swung at anchor along the river. Chris looked down at the many vessels. He could not tell one from another, but names began to drift into his mind from some forgotten trip to a museum or from the pages of a book read long ago. Frigate. Schooner. Brigantine. Good ships all. The creek of rigging sounded in their names, the harsh whip of salty winds, and the heartlifting sight of white sails cutting across the blue water. Chris leaned on his arms, his eyes shining. If he should ever go to sea in a sailing ship, what a day that would be! And then he remembered that he must do so if he were ever to obtain the fabulous jewelry. All at once the dangers of such a quest were terrifying, and Chris turned his thoughts away from them to look at the view. Where the city of Washington lay in his time were only woods and marshlands, no monument, no Lincoln Memorial, no houses. Lying in the river like a great green ship, he could see the island which had once belonged to his ancestor, George Mason. Once, now it probably still did. He could make out figures moving at the bank of it, and a ferry pushing off from the shore. What fun this was, Chris gave a chuckle out loud. What a chance to see what once had been. He was enjoying himself increasingly as he glanced down at the activity along the river banks. So close to noon, the sailors and stevedores had vanished to eat their meal, and passersby were few. The street was nearly deserted when, along the hardened muddy ruts of Water Street, Chris heard a wailing cry. Pity the blind! Pity the poor blind! The boy looked down, and the drop below him to the road made his head swim, until he refused to think of it. He saw below him a grotesque figure making its way, turning its head toward the houses as it made its cry. It was a hunched back man with a wooden peg leg and a crutch. Tied Chris Cross over his snarled hair were two black eye patches. He was unshaven and in a rare state of filth. His coat, green with age, and speckled with greasy stains, the stocking on his one good leg wrinkled down over his shoe, and his hands gnarled with long-nailed fingers. Chris gave an involuntary shudder. But the sight of the man held his gaze, for he had never seen anyone quite like him before. As the cripple advanced slowly past the few houses of Water Street, here and there a window was opened and a coin tossed out, which the cripple held his cap for, or grubbed with his filthy hands where he heard it fall. Watching his progress, Chris became fascinated with the accuracy with which the blind man caught the coins or found them in the road. After a passing gentleman on horseback had tossed a silver piece in his direction, the hunchback made off around the corner of the stables beyond Mr. Wicker's garden. The boy hung out even farther and cranked his neck to see what the blind man would do, for from his determined gait he seemed to have a purpose. Feeling along the side of the barn to guide himself, when he came to the back of it, the cripple darted around and then, to Chris's amazement, lifted the corner of one black eye patch and peered out from under it. Seeing no one and thinking himself unobserved, the cripple nonchalantly pushed both eye patches onto his forehead, fished in his pocket, and began examining the silver piece he had just retrieved. It appeared to satisfy his scrutiny, turn it over and over though he did, but to be quite sure of its value, he bit tentatively on it with his back teeth. This seemed to be the final test, for the cripple grinned from ear to ear, disclosing even fewer teeth than Master Silly. Next, the hunchback sat down upon a heap of straw, laying his crutch beside him, and with quick movement, wriggled himself out of not only his jacket, but his humpback too. Chris could scarcely believe his eyes, but he now saw that a false hump had been cleverly sewn into the jacket from inside. The cripple untied a patch that formed a trapped door in the hump and putting his hand inside the hollow drew from its hiding place in the false hump a small bag tied at the neck with a string. Then, as Chris watched, he counted the contents of the bag, pieces of money that winked in the sun, and added to his hoard those pieces he had begged that morning. The bag was then retied, replaced, and the jacket and hump put back on its wearer with evident satisfaction. But the cripple had not yet completed his work. Holding the silver piece between the blackened stubs of his front teeth, with difficulty he managed to hoist his peg leg over his good knee. Then, after darting many a sly look all about him, he unstrapped the wooden peg off the stump of his leg. First, from the interior of the stump he pulled out an assortment of rags used for stuffing and to cushion the weight of his stump. Then, after spreading a torn bandana handkerchief near him, he tipped up the stump and from its hollow peg outreigned a shower of coins. Chris looked and looked again. Gold and silver money flashed on the crumpled handkerchief, and adding to it the last silver piece he had held in his teeth. The loathsome cripple stirred the heap around and around with one dirty forefinger, his mouth stretched in a cackle of greed. After a while he caught up the coins, counting them over, not once, but many times, and at last let them fall slowly one by one into the hollow peg of his stump, strapping it back securely. Finally, after looking about with his face close to the ground to make sure that no smallest coin had escaped him, the cripple replaced his eye patches and heaved himself up with his crutch under his arm, turning to make his way once more toward the docks and the ships. His wailing cry lagged behind him like a curr dog. Chris now noticed that his head was tilted back to enable him to see under the patches as he went. The boy was straining to see him go out of sight, when a resounding bellow from Becky Boozer let him know that dinner was ready. Hastily shutting the window and running downstairs, Chris could think of only one thing. Becky, he cried, bursting out of the bottom of the stairs. Who was the blind man that just went by the hunchback? Becky never even turned from the plate she was preparing. Oh, him! That would be Simon Gosler, one of Claggett Chew's men. How he can be a sailor beats me, but Claggett Chew has hired him for years. Plague take him. Now! And she came toward the sunny table with a beaming smile. Eat up, young man, or I shall think my cooking does not please you. Chris hurriedly set about proving his appreciation. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Ian Gray Chapter 10 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 Miss Chody777 Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson Chapter 10 The learning of magic was by no means easy. The days went by with Chris's mornings and afternoons spent in Mr. Wicker's study, reading books too heavy for him to lift, learning incantations by heart, and how to blend simple formulae over the fire. He had told his master at once about Simon Gosler, his horde of money, and his hiding places for it. Mr. Wicker, though interested and attentive, gave Chris the impression that what he had been told was not new to him. At times, Chris was allowed to run about the large vegetable garden and climb the orchard trees, but he was told that the moment had not yet come when he could wander at will in early Georgetown. Chris had tried it once, rebellious and bored at the now familiar ground, but it was as if an invisible wall kept him in the confines of Mr. Wicker's land, a slippery glass wall he could feel but not see, and in which he could discover no chink in which to put his toe to find the height of it. So there was nothing left to do but to work as fast and as well as he could. There are rumors, Mr. Wicker had told him quietly, too quietly, that Clagget Chew is preparing his ship the venture for a voyage east. There is much activity about his ship, and he is laying in stores so I am informed. We must get forward with all haste, for his ship is a fast one, faster than the Mirabelle. Chris, therefore, threw himself into all the preliminaries of his task. His head swam when he laid it on his pillow at night, and Becky Boozer would stand with her hands on her barrel-sized hips, shaking her hat until its plumes and roses waved madly over, quote, her boys, end, quote, shadowed eyes and weary air. For Chris was now as accepted a member of the household as Mr. Wicker himself, and had it not been for the robust guffaws of Ned Silly and the administrations of the now devoted Becky, Chris's days would have been tedious indeed. One afternoon, when he returned after a rest to Mr. Wicker's study, he saw that there was something new in the room. A bowl with a goldfish in it stood on the table, but Mr. Wicker was not to be seen. Now, however, Chris was not the boy he had been a few weeks before. He went straight to the bowl and addressed the fish. Sir, he said to the goldfish, I am here. What shall I do first? The goldfish might almost have been said to have changed its expression and smiled. Before, brushing a drop of water from his sleeve, Mr. Wicker stood beside the table, smiling. How you have improved, my boy, he exclaimed. It is now time for you to try, and this is as good a change as any. All at once, at the imminent prospect of really changing himself into some other form, Chris became frightened, and his hands grew cold. Oh, sir, do you really think I know how? He cried, gazing up into the face of his master. Suppose I change and can't change back. Mr. Wicker shook his head with a smile. Never fear, Christopher. You know enough to start, and I feel reasonably sure that you will be quite able to change back again. If you get stuck, I can help you. Come now, he said, putting out his hand to touch Chris's shoulder in a reassuring way. Here you go. Remember, incantation seventy-three, book one. Chris stared at the fishbowl, empty now. He remembered incantation seventy-three, book one, quite well. But his knees began to tremble, and he stood as if paralyzed. Mr. Wicker waited patiently beside him for a few minutes for Chris to get up his courage. Then, as nothing happened, with a voice like a whip, Mr. Wicker said, started once. Chris was so startled at his usually gentle master's tone that without further thought or effort on his part he began intoning to himself the words and sounds of incantation seventy-three, book one. As he went on, concentrating on becoming a goldfish in the bowl on the table, he became aware of a humming sensation in his head. This grew until it seemed that all his body was filled with the strange new vibration, tingling from his feet to the crown of his head. The sensation spread faster and faster. His head swam and he felt faint and a little sick, but he persisted through the final words. Somewhere deep inside him there seemed a sudden lurch and then a wonderfully cool liquid sensation. He felt buoyant and rested and looked about, only to get a wavery and large glimpse of Mr. Wicker looking, more like a reflection in a circus mirror than himself. With a light twist of his body, Chris voted over to see that the room looked the same and rolling back could see that Mr. Wicker was peering in at him from above and smiling broadly. Good Lord! I'm a fish! Chris said, and he heard the words muffled as they came back to him through the water of his bowl. Well, what do you know, he thought, not without a feeling of pride, and commenced experimenting with his tail and fins with such enthusiasm and delight that some little time elapsed before Mr. Wicker's voice boomed close by. Better come back now. Take it slowly, son. Seventy-four, book one, The Return. The same strange sensation flooded Chris as he made the change back to his own shape, but when he stood once more on his own two feet on the carpet in Mr. Wicker's study, he was pleased and happy despite his weakness. Mr. Wicker took hold of his arm and helped into a chair, and taking a small vial from the cupboard at the end of the room, he dropped a pellet into it and handed it to Chris. This will seem to smoke, sniff the smoke, and drink the liquid that remains, he said. Chris did as he was told, and his momentary weakness vanished, leaving him quieted and as strong as usual. There now, Mr. Wicker said, rubbing his hands with immense satisfaction. That was not so bad, was it? A peculiar feeling, but as you come to do it more often and more quickly the change will come more rapidly, and in time you will be scarcely aware of the sensations at all. He looked at his pupil with pride. You will do famously, my boy. In another moment, when you have rested, we shall try another one. From that time, Chris became increasingly proficient, and as his ability grew he began to find magic a wonderful game which he and Mr. Wicker played together. They played this new and unique form of hide and seek, each one taking a new shape, turn by turn, as a challenge to the other's powers of imagination and detection. Soon Chris could turn himself into a limited number of things, for even Mr. Wicker's magic had a limit. A singing bird in a cage, a part of the pattern in the brocaded curtains, or a section of the design in the Indian rub, the blue-bottle fly or the goldfish became as easy as saying, Eureka! And on one occasion, Chris turned himself into the chair on which Mr. Wicker was sitting, and then walked across a room on his four wooden legs carrying Mr. Wicker, who laughed more heartily than he had in years at this display on the part of his student. One day Chris wandered alone into the dusty shop. The time had nearly come when he could walk about in early Georgetown and know that it was still the Georgetown of the past, and not the one into which he had been born. This afternoon, a rainy one, he had tired of changing himself into and out of objects. Mr. Wicker was busy, and Becky Boozer had gone off to the market accompanied by Ned Silly. Chris felt somewhat forlorn and lonely as a boy might, and kicked an old piece of wood ahead of him into the darkness of the shop. Going up to the shop window, he stood with his hands thrust into his pocket, staring glumly first out the window, and then, idly at the three objects he had once loved to contemplate, the Mirabelle in her bottle, the coil of heavy rope, and the carved wooden figure of the Nubian Boy. Without interest at first, Chris stared at the little negro boy, so gaily dressed in full red trousers, gilded jacket, and white turban. The figure's shoes, carved in some eastern style, had curved, up-pointing toes. Then, all at once, the idea came to Chris. If he was to be a magician, could he make this boy come to life? The prospect excited him wildly, for he had no companion with whom to laugh and share jokes. Grown people, however gay and kind, were never quite the same. The more he thought of it, the more Chris knew that it had to be attempted. He squatted on his haunches examining the carved wooden figure attentively, and felt convinced that, once alive, the boy would be an ideal and happy companion. But how did one change inanimate to animate? Chris got up and stole back to Mr. Wicker's door. He heard the magician going up the spiral staircase to his room above, and after changing himself to a mouse to slip under the door and see that the room was really empty, Chris resumed his proper shape and opened the doors of the cupboard at the far end of the room. On its top shelf was Book Three, a book a foot thick and bound in heavy brass studded with semi-precious stones in the form of signs and symbols. With difficulty standing on tiptoe, Chris lifted it down and placing it on the floor turned over page after page. The afternoon, rainy before, increased in storm. Dusk came two hours before its time. Thunder snarled in the sky. At last Chris found it. There were the words, and there the charm. Certain elements were to be mixed and poured at the proper time. He hurried, memorizing as he closed the book and hoisted it once more to its high shelf. Looking about he found the ingredients that had been listed, and in an empty vial poured first two drops of this and then seventeen of that and ran to heat it at the fire. Mr. Wicker began moving about upstairs. The footboards creaked, and still Chris could not leave until the potion fumed and glowed. After what seemed an endless time amid a growing grind of thunder and in the almost darkened room the phial in Chris's hand gave off an arching, rosy glow. Chris, his cheeks hot from excitement and the fire, tiptoed out just as Mr. Wicker's step creaked on the topmost tread of the spiral stair. With infinite caution, Chris closed the door silently behind him and, running lightly forward, reached the figure of the negro boy. The words came out, interrupted by peals and cracks of thunder. The shop was black, except for the paler crescent of the bow window giving on to the street. With a crash of thunder, all but drowning out his words, the boy shouted in the emptiness of the shop as he poured the rosy liquid on the figure made of wood. And then, appalled at his audacity, Chris dropped the phial, which splintered on the floor. Watching there in the darkness he shook so with nerves that he had to kneel, for in the blackness lit only by the lightning and its own eerie glow the wood was changing as he watched. It was as if the stiffness melted. Under his eyes the wooden folds of cloth became rich silk. Embroidery gleamed in its reality upon the cloak. And oh, the face, the wooden grin loosened. The large eyes turned, the hand holding the hard bouquet of carved flowers moved and let the bouquet fall. The feet of the boy twitched and shifted in their pointed shoes. Aghast! Chris remained frozen as the boy moved slowly, and a final boom of thunder seemed to split the sky apart. Outside the rain poured down as if over some skyward down. The boy looked down at Chris with a radiant smile and put out his hand. I'll help you up, he said to the kneeling boy in front of him. I am Amos. And as they turned, the light and the dark hands holding firm, the firelight was streaming from the distant door and Mr. Wicker waited. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 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 Ms. Jody777. Mr. Wicker's Window by Carly Dawson. Chapter 11 From that time on, Chris and Amos were inseparable, with the exception of those times when Chris studied alone with Mr. Wicker. Amos, during these hours, soon endeared himself to Becky Boozer, to whom he became invaluable, for he took over those chores Chris had undertaken as his share. These consisted of carrying water, peeling potatoes, or watching the roasting meat in case it should burn. For Chris had less and less time for such jobs, and Amos' laughter and willing, happy nature soon made Becky spoil him as much as she did Chris. Another cot was put into Chris's room, and night after night they would hang out the two man-sard windows, watching what went on below until it was too dark to see, or else they would talk by the light of their candle until they fell asleep. Chris now knew how lonely he had been until he set Amos free from his wooden shroud. But, warned by Mr. Wicker, he did not tell his new friend that he had come from another year as yet unreached by the time they lived in. It is enough for a while, cautioned Mr. Wicker, that Amos get used to being limber and alive. That is change enough from a carved wooden figure. It would only confuse and trouble him to think you do not really belong where you are. So let him be happy, and I shall seal your lips with regard to the secret of the jewel-tree, for that must be known to no one. And so saying he rubbed the sav over Chris's lip. Now tell me what you are to journey after, commanded Mr. Wicker. But when Chris attempted to talk of the jewel-tree, the words would not pass his lips, but remained in his mouth like a handful of marbles. Good, said Mr. Wicker, rubbing his hands. Not even to me. Excellent stuff, this he added, turning the tiny case that contained the sav in his fingers. I got it in India years ago, and this is the last of it. But I hardly imagine I shall need it again. Its use is somewhat drastic, but occasionally wise. Mr. Wicker, said Chris thoughtfully one afternoon after his lessons and memorizing were over for the day. Of the three things in your shop window that I liked best, two have been explained. Yet the third, which still interests me, seem to have had, so far, no significance. I mean, of course, the rope. Ah, yes, Mr. Wicker agreed, nodding and stretching his feet out towards the fire. The rope. Very well, my boy. Sid and Sid has come into your mind again. That means that the time has come for you to discover its use. Go on, and bring it to me. Chris ran to get the coil rope. He experienced almost a shock when he touched it. It had looked harsh and coarse to the touch, of rough hemp fiber. But, on picking it up, the coils in his hand seemed almost silky. Certainly they were more than usually pliable. Returning to the study, the boy put the rope beside Mr. Wicker's chair. The magician did not move. His feet still stretched comfortably before the flame. His dark, handsome face was dreamy and remote, and Chris wondered in what far away place or time his teacher moved. The apprentice sat down cross-legged with his back to the fire. And presently Mr. Wicker took his gaze from the sparks and smoke to look thoughtfully at him. You have heard of the Indian rope trip, Christopher? Yes. And no, sir, Chris replied. I'm not sure how it works. Mr. Wicker gave a chuckle. Indeed. Well, let me tell you, my boy, no one else does either. The rope is made to go up in the air so stiffly that the faker, that is the eastern magician, can climb it. Some claim to have seen the fakers climb it and vanish from sight, and the rope disappear after them. Mr. Wicker waved one hand as much to say that those who had seen it could believe it as they pleased. A good enough trick in its way condescended Mr. Wicker. But this rope is capable of so much more remarkable possibilities as to throw the Indian rope trick completely in the shade. With one of his quick gestures, Mr. Wicker reached down for the rope and was up and out of his chair all in one move. You shall learn, last of your lessons, a new way of using a lasso. Not lassoing, Mr. Wicker held up a finger to stress this point. That, too, you shall learn. But how to use this particular rope to make the most of its, shall we say, qualities. Mr. Wicker smiled his sardonic smile, though his eyes were snapping as brightly as the fire. Now, Christopher, he began, running the rope through his long, fine hands. Just push that table and the chairs to the wall. There's a good lad, and we shall get the stiffness out of this rope. Chris cleared the room and pulled the curtains, my boy, added his master, for one never knows but that Amos or Becky Boozer might pass at critical moment. What they do not know, murmured the magician, is best for them. When the room was satisfactorily arranged and candles had been lit, Chris returned to stand by the fireplace beside his master, who was turning the rope lightly in his fingers. Now, Christopher, your attention, please, said the magician, and his tone was crisp and authoritative. Imagine that you are in need of a boat, and there is no boat. With several twists of his hands, the rope spun out into the middle of the room. It moved and twisted like a live thing, and Mr. Wicker, Chris thought, seemed to be drawing the outline of a boat in the air with the moving line. Even as this thought flickered in his mind, the rope formed in mid-air the skeleton of a dinghy, and then, mysteriously, the rope added to itself until the bare struts and sides were filled in, and there, rocking lightly from the speed of its creation, a small rowboat, hovered in the air as if it were tied up to a dock. Go and feel of it, Christopher, Mr. Wicker, urge. Climb in it, if you like. I have left the two ends of the rope long enough to make oars, if necessary. Chris ran over and felt the sides of the boat. It was sound and secure. No doubt of that. He went all around it, pounding on its sides, and at last heaved himself over to fall into its center. The boat never stirred, and stamp as he would, the rope bottom and gunnels resisted firmly. Gee, Mr. Wicker, Chris exclaimed. This is the best jet, except for Amos, golly, Moses! And as he sat down and took up the two loose ends of the rope still remaining, he found that he held not rope ends but two oars. Even oars, Chris cried in delight. Mr. Wicker stood with his hands behind his back, the firelight outlining his black clothes and neat dark head. Yes, he said in a matter of fat voice, quite so. Now climb out, and I will show you some of the other shapes of which it is capable. A ladder, Mr. Wicker remarked as Chris rejoined him, is almost too simple. We can do that any time. Grasping the end of one oar with movements too fast for Chris's eyes to follow, in an instant the boat was a rope again, coiled over Mr. Wicker's arm. Now, said Mr. Wicker, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. The rope flew out again, but this time took a strange outline, the outline of an elephant. It will have to be a small elephant, murmured Mr. Wicker, his hands flying because of the size of the room. The elephant, like the boat, took shape. The final ends of the rope hanging down at its trunk and tail. After the elephant came a horse, an eagle, and a dolphin, and Chris's admiration and zest to learn the secrets of the rope grew with every change of shape. Very well, ended Mr. Wicker, you shall learn. And placing his hands over Chris's while the boy held the rope, he began slowly to show him the magic twists and turns.