Dear Uncle Theo

A Magpie Tale

Keene Township, Ohio

May 25, 1893

Dear Uncle Theo,

     I hope this letter finds you safe and well in the big city.  We all miss you, though none so much as Archippos.  Mother mutters that he must be a faithful hound indeed to whine and howl at the absence of such a master.  She has not forgiven you for taking your journey during the planting season.  "Any able-bodied man . . . " she says when Archippos barks, glancing at Father in the corner.  "I shall never understand my brother."

     I understand, of course.  And the young man you hired to take your place on the farm is quite agreeable.  Abel speaks politely and works hard, and the crops are coming along quite well with his assistance.  Still, you had not been gone a week before Mother turned Abel out of your room and installed a lodger there.  Abel nodded and said, "Yes'm," and took his little bundle out to the hayloft.  John, though, was furious.  You know my brother's temper.  He told Mother that if Abel was to sleep outside, that he would, too.  Mother simply shrugged.  I almost envy the boys out there, with no one shushing them after prayers.  Mother would probably let out John's room, too, if she could find a soul desperate enough to live in his musty garret.  

    I do not trust the lodger, Mr. Schneeman.  He leers at Mother with his coal-black eyes and sniffs his sharp nose before every blessed thing he says.  I think Mother hoped he'd pity us and help out on the farm, but he does no such thing.  He claims to be a traveling salesman, and leaves the homestead with his mysterious painted cart every morning.  He must not travel far, though, for he returns to the supper table promptly every evening.  When we're washing up, Mother grumbles that Mr. Schneeman eats far more than his share, but she won't say a thing to him.  She is afraid to lose his money.

     Archippos is howling again.  I am sure he does miss you, but I think there is more to his distress.  The hens have been acting most peculiarly, and even placid Bossy has been skittish in the milk stall.  I think the pixies have gotten in again.  Mother won't hear anything about it, though.  What shall I do?

     Father shakes his head and says that none of this would ever have happened if Mr. Buchanan had not been reelected.  But that is what he always says, so no one pays him any mind.

     Have you found what you were seeking?  I wish I could join you and see the great Columbian Exposition, but I cannot leave Mother now.  She would likely rent my little room out to someone even more disagreeable than Mr. Schneeman.

Your faithful niece,

Susannah

P.S.:  Who wants to play the Letter Game?

Yukon Gold

A Magpie Tale

photo by Agustin Berrocal 

Hank leaned against a tree.  The rough bark bit into the flesh of his forearm as he rested his forehead on his sweaty skin.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  Air was the only thing he could still afford, air and the water that trickled mockingly past his feet.

A crunch in the leaves startled him, but he did not look up until he felt an arm around his shoulder.

"You still here, son?"  The grizzled prospector looked Hank over, shaking his head.  "How'd you come to pick this sorry ravine?"

"Mr. Wallace at the Land Office said it was a good claim, sir," Hank said, shaking old Sam's arm off.

Sam snorted.  "Wily Wallace was a snake-oil salesman long afore he joined up with the guv'ment.  He ain't changed his spots none."

Hank bit his lip, and looked down at his scruffy boots.  Sam sighed, and patted the young man's shoulder again.  "You've done your best here.  Go on home, son.  Take up a trade, find a nice girl."

"I can't," Hank whispered.  "I can't go home."

"Why not?"

Hank straightened up, pans clanking in his pack.  "Times were hard after Papa died.  Mama sent me to sell the herd, to get enough money to keep the ranch.  I met a man who made me a better offer:  trade the cattle for a prospectin' kit, head north to where the streambeds are made of gold, where a young man can dig up enough to buy the ranch and the herd five times over, all in one afternoon.  I took his tools and just kept goin'.  I thought I could make a quick fortune and be right back.  And I knew in the back of my mind that if I told Mama, she'd call me a fool."  Hank sat down on a stump, and put his face in his hands.  "She would've been right."

"Get back to your Mama, boy.  You've worried her long enough."

"But I keep thinkin' I'll find some gold in the next pan.  Or the next.  Just one more . . . And that's all I can do.  I've spent everything I had.  I can't even buy a ticket home."

Sam pursed his lips.  "Now, I might be able to help you out a bit, for your Mama's sake."

Hank stood up and adjusted his pack.  "No, sir, I've got to do this on my own.  So long," he said, tramping into the ravine.

Hank walked upstream until he was too dizzy to go on.  He unpacked his pans and sluice box, wondering when his stomach had stopped growling.  Had it given up on him, too?  He spotted a few unripe blackberries and choked them down, but felt worse than before.  He sluiced his throat with the cold mountain stream, then set to work.

Scoop, shake, sort, swat mosquitoes, repeat.  Hank's eyes grew heavy.  Scoop, shake, swat . . .

Hank woke with a jerk.  He could see stars between the pine needles.  A bat flitted across the sky.  Something skittered through the underbrush.  And what was that smell?  It was so faint he thought he must be imagining it.  Then a breeze came down the slope, bringing more of the scent.  Hank scrambled up and felt his way through the trees, following his nose.

He rounded a boulder and found himself at the entrance of a cave.  His eyes ignored the shadows and focused on the light shining a few yards inside.  Sinking to his hands and knees, Hank crawled toward the bed of gleaming nuggets.  He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks for this bonanza, then reached--

"What you think you doing?"  A gruff voice issued from the shadows.  "You burn hand.  And it not your food.  For my man."

Hank sat back on his heels as an immense woman detached herself from the darkness.  He took in her unkempt hair and robe made of rough skins.  He thought he ought to be afraid, but he blurted out, "But I'm so hungry!  Taters have never smelled so good.  Please, mayn't I just have one?"

She squatted on the other side of the fire and fixed Hank with unblinking eyes.  "He miss even one.  You eat his food, maybe he eat you instead."

Hank shivered.  He wrapped his arms around himself, but the shivering didn't stop.  He started to feel dizzy again.

The woman narrowed her eyes.  Using a stick, she pulled one of the potatoes off the bed of coals.  Leaving it in front of her left toes, she cocked her head at Hank and asked, "Why?"

Hank poured out his story once again.  He wasn't sure the woman could understand all of it, but she didn't move while he spoke.  When he finished, she nodded once.

"Eat."  She pushed the cooling potato in his direction.  He took it in both hands, closed his eyes, sniffed, then took a bite.   It tasted even better than it smelled, warm and soft and almost buttery, even though she hadn't spread anything on it.

"Oh, thank you, ma'am.  This is better than any gold."  Hank licked the crumbs off his fingers.

"True," the woman said, raising her shaggy eyebrows.  "But now you hide."

Hank heard a crashing in the trees outside the cave.  The woman pushed him toward the wall, and covered him with smelly furs.  Lying still on the stone floor, Hank lifted the fur to peek out.  He saw a massive foot, as long as Hank's whole arm, and covered in dark, matted hair.  He decided he'd seen enough.

"Where my food?" rumbled a gravelly voice.  "One gone."

"Bear steal it while I fetch water."

"What I smell?"

"Bear.  I get it.  Make rug next day."

The big foot kicked at Hank's hiding place.  Thankfully, Hank's yelp coincided with a massive sneeze.

"Bear?"

"Bear.  You eat food."

Hank listened to slurps, grunts, and a few more sneezes as the owner of the foot devoured the potatoes.  Despite his terror, and a little envy, he fell into a deep sleep.

Hank woke to early daylight.  He found himself bouncing along on a fur-clad shoulder, still wrapped in the bear skin.  "Hey!" he cried.

"Shh."

The bouncing stopped.  The huge woman set him down on the turf next to the stream.  Hank scrambled up.  There was his pack, his pans waiting on the bank.  He reached to pick up the sluice box. 

"No.  You not need."  She stuffed Hank's pack with pale yellow potatoes.  "Take these, plant at home.  No come back."

Daylight was not kind to the woman.  Now Hank could see spiders in her hair, the grayish tone of her skin.  Still, he remembered his manners.

"Yes, ma'am.  Thank you, ma'am.  This is my treasure, now."

Her granite skin crinkled around her eyes as she patted his head.

"Good boy."

She stepped back between the trees as Hank shouldered his pack.  He thought, briefly, of how much heavier it would be if it were full of gold nuggets.  A lot heavier, but not nearly as tasty.  Considering prices in town, he should be able to trade a few taters for the price of a train ticket, and still have enough to plant on the ranch.  Maybe he could even send Mama a telegram.  Hank whistled as he toted his edible gold back to civilization.

Renovations

A Magpie Tale

Central Library, Manchester, U.K., by Robin Gosnall

"Miss, what's that building there?"

The brassy voice sounded like one of those overfed businessmen upon whom Felicia had preyed in New York.  She'd traveled a long way to remove herself from that particular temptation, to get a fresh start.  But here was another one.  She glanced at him over the edge of the book she was reading.  He even looked familiar, with his sparse hair, rotund belly, and rosy face.  She hoped he wouldn't recognize her.  She tugged her cap down, set the book on her lap, and tried to ape the local accent.

"Which one, gov?"

"Across the street, there, with the columns."

"That's the library.  You know, full of books."  She waved The Life and Crimes of George C. Parker at him as an example.  She really was planning to return it, eventually.

"See, I told you.  It's just a library," Flint said to the woman on his arm.  

The woman pouted and fluffed her bleached hair.  "But I thought--"

"What're they doing to it?" Flint asked Felicia, ignoring his wife.

Felicia looked at the scaffolding on the roof, and said the first thing that came to her mind.  "They're building diving boards."

"Diving boards?"

"For the Olympics, you know.  Diving competition."  She waited for them to laugh.

"Ooh!  I love divers!" squealed the fluffy woman.

The man scowled.  "In a busy intersection?  That's ridiculous."

"No, no," Felicia warmed to her topic.  "It's austerity.  The gov'ment can't go building fancy places just for the games, so they're making do.  They'll block off the streets for the water, and set up viewing stands inside the big windows there.  Lorry drivers'll save petrol by not driving through here.  And the building heads can cut costs, too, changing from 'library' to 'lido.'  Fewer letters, see?"

"What's a lido?" the woman asked absently, stroking the tiny dog in her oversized handbag.  Her husband's face ripened to scarlet.

"Just a swimming pool, mum."

Flint let out his breath.  "They're going to do all that right here, eh?  I'd like to see that."

Felicia sat up straighter.  "Well, there you're in luck, gov.  You're looking at the exclusive dealer of tickets for the diving events."

"Really?  Oh, Horace, you have to take me!"  The wife tugged on the man's sleeve. 

"Well, I don't know..."

"Yes, you do."  A startlingly steely look appeared in her mascaraed eyes.  She turned to Felicia.  "Two tickets, please."

"How much?" Flint grumbled.  Felicia named an exorbitant price for the best seats behind the big windows.  To her surprise, he forked it over.  "What about the tickets?"

"Well, sir, they haven't been printed up yet.  Just you come back in July, and you'll get what you paid for.  What was your name again?"

Felicia wrote the names on the last page of the book, and the couple began to walk away.  "Wait, sir," she called.  "I'm puttin' you down on a receipt.  Hold on 'til I rip it off."

She handed Flint the paper, and turned the other way.  With his dough in her pocketbook, she thought it must be lunchtime.

Pecan Pie

 A Magpie Tale

 

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman

 

 

Mr. Flint grunted as he raised a napkin to his contented lips.  Let his financial colleagues dine at the Waldorf with its fancy French quee-zeen.  He knew where to have a real lunch.  Right here at Mae's, where the best roast beef came with the fluffiest mashed potatoes, the most savory gravy, every day.  And it was cheap.  The place was noisy, packed with humanity, but no one bothered him with telephone calls or messages.  He nodded as the brisk waiter whisked away his empty plate, and replaced it with a thick wedge of pie.  Yes, sir, this was how to have lunch.

 

Using his right hand to make sure the napkin was tucked securely over his starched collar, Mr. Flint reached for his fork with his left.  Somehow it slipped from his thick fingers and clattered to the floor.  He grunted again, but with less pleasure.  He scooted his chair back a bit, leaned this way and that to look for the utensil.  But he knew his girth would not permit him to reach the confounded thing, even if he could spot it.  He raised his hand to summon the waiter, but before he could call the man over, a rustling noise distracted him.  The tablecloth shifted, and a young woman's face looked up at him from beneath the table.

 

"Is this your fork?" she asked, glancing at the one in her hand.

 

"Hmmph.  I suppose, but I'll just--"

 

"I thought I'd pick yours up while I was fetching mine.  It fell, too, you see."  She showed him the fork in her other hand. 

 

"Thanks, but--"

 

"Oh, dear, which is which?"  Round-eyed, she looked between the two identical forks.  "I recognized the Adonis pattern on mine, but yours must be from the same set."

 

"It doesn't matter, I'll just ask--"

 

"No, I must give you your own fork back.  Hmm.  When mine struck the floor, I distinctly heard an A sharp."  She dropped one of the utensils, and hummed a note.  "See?  And when I drop this one--"

 

Flint flinched.

 

"This one sounds like a B flat."

 

Flint shrugged.  "They sound the same to me."

 

"Perhaps you're right.  They are very close.  There must be another way to determine which is which."

 

"Really, it doesn't matter--"

 

"No, you must have your own fork back."  She gathered both forks up, and gazed pensively at the ceiling.  It was really quite odd to see her crouched under the table that way.  "Ah," she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows.  "We were eating different meals, weren't we?  My fork should still have a trace of my salad dressing on it." 

 

The young woman extended her tongue, lifted one fork to her mouth, and licked it slowly.  "Yes, I think I detect a faint tang of bleu cheese."

 

Bleu cheese.  Ugh.  Mr. Flint had not known that was even on Mae's menu.  He began to lose his appetite.  Hoping this nuisance of a girl would go away soon, he reached for the fork in her left hand.

 

"No, no," she chided, shaking her head.  "We must be positive."  She closed her eyes and carefully licked the second fork.

 

Flint's stomach turned. 

 

"Oh, definitely gravy," the young woman announced, offering him the fork.  "This must be yours!"

 

But Flint was already fumbling for his billfold.  He slapped some cash on the tabletop and fled the restaurant.  Perhaps a walk would do him good before he returned to the office.

 

 

Felicia climbed out from under the table, a small smile curving her lips.  She slid the matching forks into her handbag, and replaced the restaurant's fork on the tablecloth.  Then she reached across the small table to the unused place setting, borrowing a fresh napkin and a clean spoon. 

 

She dug into the slice of pie.  She felt the flavors melting in her mouth.  Pecans, still slightly crunchy.  The sweet custard, the flaky crust, and hint of chocolate.  Her favorite.  She sighed with contentment, and winked as the waiter did a double-take.

 

Nothing tastes better, she thought, than freshly conned pie.

 

 

The Queen's First Mirror

A Magpie Tale

Magic Mirror, on the wall,
Who's the fairest one of all?

With more extensive face than most,

Of my own beauty I must boast.

Magic Mirror, in my hand,
Who's the smartest in the land?

For cranial capacity,

No one can compare with me.

Magic Mirror, on the floor,
Who is strongest, at the core?

More potent than a lightning flash,

I--careful with that hammer--

Smash!

Grave Goods

A Magpie Tale

A stingy old codger of yore

asked to be buried with all his ore.

His descendants agreed

there was really no need,

and inscribed his stone:

"Can't-cache-no

MOORE."