Glass, page 9
One afternoon, about a week after finding the warbler, Estrella came down to the cellar to put on a clean apron for serving dinner. She gasped with delight when she saw that the warbler was perched by the window. She had brought with her the small bits of food that she had been feeding the bird since she had found her—a handful of pine seeds and grain they had used to attract the birds to the garden, along with breadcrumbs, and any insect she could find in the house this time of year. Bugs seemed to be the warbler’s favorite.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “You want to fly, don’t you? You have flown already in this dreary room.” She looked to the corner where she had tucked the spider-silk nest. She went to the window and cranked it open. The warbler flew up onto her shoulder, then brushed her cheek with a red wing.
“You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you, dear?”
The warbler did not wait but beat its wings, and on a light billow of wind floated out the window. Did she turn her head? Estrella couldn’t tell because it had begun to snow heavily again, but she could see her bright red wings in the thickening flurries of snow.
“She is free! Would I ever dare leave? Would I dare to be free, too?” she whispered fiercely.
22
The Dog Star
If it had not been for the warm clothing and the food provided by the mysterious girl who was a friend of Ulli’s, Estrella would have frozen and starved to death. Together the owl and the girl kept her fed and warm. The girl whom Ulli called Bess could not only weave but was a very good cook as well. She sent her wonderful breads and delectable dishes of something called forest stew that had savory herbs and cheese, and often a tart. Estrella was no longer constantly hungry and dependent on the scraps from the Wickhams’ table. And, of course, the stars kept her company. The stars, the lovely constellations, were her constant friends. There was never a night that Ella did not scan the heavens with her telescope. In truth, the stars kept her alive as much as the food and warm clothing.
However, the image of those bright red wings on the tiniest of birds battling through the swelling gusts of snow took hold deep within her. Now, since the warbler had left, she was not simply hungry for freedom, she was gluttonous . . . voracious . . . greedy. She was desperate to own her life.
Oh, to be a bird, Estrella thought on a bright moonlit night as she watched Ulli leave her. She kept her telescope trained on the owl. At the edge of a far field, she watched as Ulli dissolved into a thick forest. Estrella began wondering if she could follow. Should she ask Ulli to lead her? Perhaps, but maybe not. She sensed from the few bits of information she had managed to scrounge from Ulli that the girl called Bess did not like human company. It had taken Estrella several months to even pry her mysterious benefactor’s name from Ulli. But tonight, she was thinking that maybe, just maybe, some night she might follow Ulli across the field and into the woods. I could run away. I could live with this girl called Bess. She dared not even suggest it to Ulli, for fear of what the owl would say.
Nevertheless, the owl was very protective of Estrella. She wasn’t sure why. But Ulli knew how miserably the Wickhams treated her. Perhaps Ulli was fearful that something would happen to her. Was she herself in danger? No, they need me too much, Estrella reasoned. Although they complained constantly about how she could not tend the garden as well as “the previous girl.” No, they never called her by name. Still, they needed Ella. She had brought them countless butterflies in the summer and even a wounded hummingbird one day. Rose would draw them, and after that Estrella never knew what happened to the creatures. She was only allowed in the hot shop to feed the fires and bellow the flames.
What had happened to those countless creatures she had brought for Rose’s meticulous drawings? One day she asked to see those drawings and was told sharply that the sketches were always destroyed.
“Why?” Estrella asked.
“Someone might copy them. Our work is coveted; other glassmakers want to know our methods.”
Nevertheless, the crystal hedgehog figurines began to haunt her, and those of the hummingbirds from summer, and a bright green frog she’d brought them, too. Where had they all gone once they were free? And what might happen to her if she simply ran away to that forest on the far edge of the field?
She began to think of running away constantly. It must be a moonless night, she decided. No chance of being followed. The days would be getting warmer. So possibly one night just after the last of the Worm Moon, that time of year when the earth begins to thaw, when life emerges and the ground can receive seeds. The moon is named for the worms that begin to emerge from the softening earth at that time. Well, she thought to herself, this worm is coming out! This worm is escaping!
The Worm Moon came and then began to wane, becoming thinner and thinner, and the ground softer and softer. Estrella’s anticipation grew. The weeds in the garden were easier to pull, sprouts of radishes pushed their way up, and the worms seemed to push out of the ground as well. On the night of the last sliver of the Worm Moon, the constellation of the Dog Star rose, the brightest in the March sky. But it would not be fully visible until later in the evening.
Estrella had made her own star charts and timed the rising stars and constellations as carefully as possible. First, of course, was the Big Dipper; then she found Boötes in the Herdsman constellation. Finally, she saw Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest, and its dim companion, a white dwarf star. As her grandfather had explained, A white dwarf, Estrella, is a very dense star. It is composed of what we think of as very ancient matter. Large in mass but small in volume. The memory of his musical voice filled her ears.
Estrella had a piece of paper that she scratched figures on, and with the small hourglass she had brought, she kept track of the Dog Star, Sirius. She knew precisely at what moment the brightest object in this March sky would slip away. And at that moment, she planned to open the well window in the cellar and slip out. She felt her heart beat rapidly as the sand drained. The top part of the hourglass was almost empty. She kept her eyes on it, but suddenly there was a strange green luminescence that streamed into the cellar. She looked up at the half-open well window. A savage face peered at her and growled. A wolf? The light in the creature’s eyes blazed. The fangs glistened. Then a familiar voice.
“Come, come, Arwan. Don’t wake the girl. Let her sleep. We have a lot of work for her tomorrow.”
Estrella screamed. The dog slashed at the window with its paw. The window cracked. She would not think of escape again, not for a long, long time.
23
A Letter to Greenwich
The nights flowed with stars, the shadowy clouds of unknown galaxies hung against the darkness like cobwebs in a boundless universe, daring Estrella’s imagination.
Her dream of escaping did not die, despite the presence of the vicious dog, Arwan. But something else haunted her—it was the suspicion concerning the white dwarf star. She was obsessed with it. Had she seen what her grandfather thought he had spied just a year ago, three months before he died? She hesitated for several minutes but then picked up a pen and paper and began to write a letter.
To the Keeper of the Lenses
The Royal Observatory
Greenwich, England
Dear Sir,
I had the extraordinary experience on March 22 of witnessing what I suspect to be a white dwarf star, the possible companion star to the Dog Star, Sirius. The right ascension or angular distance to the east where it rose was 20.62. The declination measured north to south was 42.03. I observed this with a small telescope, the kind made for home use, so I shall be the first to admit that it can hardly compare to the Merz scope at the Royal Observatory. But I observed the white dwarf last year, with my late grandfather, the previous lens keeper of the Merz telescope, Barnaby Diggerton, and now this year I have spotted it again on this very inferior telescope. So that is why I am writing to you. I have been hesitant to contact you because of my present circumstances. I, of course, do not want to distract you from your work, which is most likely of much more vital importance.
I am sorry not to address you by your Christian name, but I was never able to determine who succeeded my grandfather as the keeper of the lenses.
Most Sincerely,
Estrella Diggerton
Wickham’s Fine Crystal
Wee-on-the-Way, Crop Shire
24
To Life!
In the forest, high in the tree where Bess lived, the years began to slip by. Bess’s fifteenth birthday passed, and then her sixteenth, and now, on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, Bess realized that she was lonely in a way she had never before experienced. She reflected on this. She felt guilty in a sense. Far too often she found that she was scolding herself for not making do with her best friends deep in the woods—Ulli, her beloved owl; the wolf Jenig; and her cubs, who were no longer merely cubs but had grown up and found mates of their own and produced their first litters of pups. But was this really enough?
When Ulli brought the gifts of clothing and food to Estrella, Bess often thought how nice it would be to have a human friend.
“Might you bring her here? How I would love to hear about the stars. You say she knows so much. And she has a wand to look at them.”
“Not a wand. Something she calls a telescope. It brings the stars closer.”
“That sounds like magic to me.”
“No! No, not at all. I think it’s more like science. The telescope helps her see better.”
“I wish she could come here and bring her telescope.”
But Ulli always refused and stomped his talons. “Naich ti’han.” This he translated to Absolutely not. “You want the family to follow her? And besides that, they have posted new wanted signs for you. So it’s still dangerous.”
Bess sighed. “What have I done now?”
“Oh, a barn burned over across the Way River, and they’re blaming it on you.”
And so, on the evening of her seventeenth birthday, Bess began to wander deeper into the wood than she had ever gone before. She soon came to a clearing, and beyond the clearing was a valley scattered with wildflowers. She made her way toward the birches. It was as if she was being drawn toward it mysteriously, almost magically. I am holding the wand, she thought. But I command the wand, not the wand me! She soon saw a small cottage with a curved rooftop beneath a grassy embankment, clad with a thick carpet of moss. The entry to the cottage was an arch made of birch limbs. The windows of the cottage were all round, as was the front door. On each side of the path to that front door, flowers spilled—toad lilies like small galaxies of stars, poppies, angel’s tears, Queen Anne’s lace.
Someone must be home, she thought as a twist of smoke rose from the chimney.
And at just that moment, she heard the creak of a door.
A tall young man stepped out. Hanging from his neck was an odd contraption. He raised it to his eyes and began to scan the horizon.
“By Jupiter, not a bird!” he exclaimed loudly, dropping the binoculars.
“Of course not!” Bess blurted out. “I’m . . . I’m a human. A human being.” She had a brief and alarming thought. Had she mysteriously become an animal after living with them so long? No. She’d seen her reflection in a pond just the day before. She called up the pathway to the cottage, “I’m definitely a human being.”
The young man was walking down the path. “A human being, a young lady.” He thrust out his hand.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed softly.
She looked at the contraption hanging from a strap around his neck. “What is that?”
“Binoculars—somewhat newly invented. But perfect for people like myself.”
“And what kind of person is that?”
“Ornithologist.” Bess’s face must have been sufficiently blank, because he quickly offered an explanation. “I am a scientist of birds.”
“Oh,” she replied softly, and remembered the other time she had heard that word. She was driving home from the village with her father, telling him about all the different kinds of hummingbirds. Go on, girl, her father had said. You were rattling those names off like a veritable . . . what do they call it—ornithologist.
“Well,” said the young man. “It’s simply that I love birds. I study them. Would you like some ginger mead?”
Bess hesitated. “Er . . . yes, I suppose so.”
“My name is Will Darlington.”
“Will,” she repeated softly.
“And yours?”
It seemed as if her voice had become rusty after speaking only to animals for so long.
“Uh, just Bess.”
“Just Bess! Lovely name.” He flashed a smile. It took her a second or two to understand the joke.
“I . . . I . . . mean, just plain Bess.” Then realized her mistake again. “Bess.”
“This way, then, Bess.” He gave a little bow and extended his arm toward the door.
The first thing she noticed was that all the windows were made of clear glass. There were no splashes of colored light on the floor. The light was clear as a mountain stream. The next thing that drew her attention was that every single wall was lined with books. She had never seen or imagined so many books in her life.
“Here, sit down. I’ll make you a cup of ginger mead.”
Actually, it had been so long since she had spoken to another human being that when the words first came out, she was not sure what language she was speaking. She stammered a bit.
“These . . . these . . . books, what’s in them?”
“Well, mostly they’re about birds. But I have a few volumes of poetry and history as well.” He went to a nearby shelf and reached for one. “Here’s one on African parrots.”
“Africa! You’ve been to Africa.” She caught her breath and looked at him. He had very black floppy hair that slashed across his forehead and kind brown eyes that sloped down a bit. His eyes almost seemed imploring to her, as if he were seeking her approval in some way.
“Yes, just once. Hope to go back to Africa sometime.” He said this so casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She could not help but wonder if anybody between Wee-on-the-Way and Glasgow had ever been to Africa.
In another minute he brought her a mug of ginger mead as she was paging through the book.
“Here you go,” he said, setting down the mug.
“And what is this one?” Bess asked as she turned the page, pointing to a parrot with emerald-green feathers.
“Ah . . . a Cape parrot. Wonderful bird. The eyes are almost as green as yours.” Bess felt herself blush. “So, Bess, where are you from?”
She was about to say Wee-on-the-Way, but then she recalled that Ulli had told her that there were new wanted posters up. What if Will had seen them and realized that he was serving ginger mead to a witch? “Oh, just around,” she said vaguely. He did not press her. He seemed comfortable with her silences. She mostly talked to ask a question about the books she was looking at.
She had a second mug and then a third. Time seemed to melt away as she paged through his numerous books. The light coming through the clear panes shifted. She looked up suddenly. “Oh dear, I must be getting along.”
“Wouldn’t want to worry your family,” Will said.
She looked up at him. “Of course not,” she said softly. But she couldn’t help wondering what he would say if he knew that her family consisted of a barn owl and several wolves. Then, to add to that, she lived not in a house or a snug cottage with hundreds and hundreds of books but rather in a great sprawling tree. For the first time in years, she felt rather freakish. Had she been away from the human world too long? But what choice did she have?
She got up to leave. In the doorway she turned to him. “Thank you, thank you so much for the ginger mead and for allowing me to look at your books.”
“Please come back anytime.” He paused. “Please do.” He grasped her hand. Hold my hand, hold it forever . . . Bess thought, surprising herself. And she slowly pulled away, then turned and walked toward the valley below.
Will raised his binoculars and watched the slender figure until she reached the edge of the woods. He lowered his binoculars just as she turned to wave. “Take care,” he whispered. “There are wolves in those woods.”
And in that moment Bess seemed to sense what he was whispering. She felt tears spring to her eyes.
25
A Wing and a Prayer
Bess could not get Will Darlington out of her mind. His face haunted her, his flinty brown eyes, that black hair that flopped over his forehead. She especially loved the way his cheeks creased when he smiled.
There was a feeling that had flowed through her when they had pored over the wonderful books he owned. And not one of those books was about glassmaking! Mostly animals, many about the ones he had seen in Africa. Will had been to places with names she had never heard of—Madagascar, Java, Morocco, Arabia, the Canaries—yes, islands that were named “Canaries.” She pictured bright little yellow birds flying about over cresting blue waves.
His cottage was so cozy. Nothing like the vast and glaring glass house. He had spread a lovely cloth on the table, and even though the cups were chipped, she liked that. She had on occasion been to fancy houses of the people who bought Wickham glass, and their teacups were never chipped, and the tablecloths were embroidered with silver and gold thread. But Will Darlington’s moss-covered cottage was entirely different. She wanted to see him again. Dare she go uninvited? And then if she did go, he might expect her to invite him back to her house. But wouldn’t he think the fact that she lived in a tree very peculiar? Especially with an owl and a family of wolves as her only nearby companions. Would it lead him to ask too many questions? Once again, the dreadful thought came into her mind. It was as if a storm cloud passed over her, eclipsing all the good she had just felt. What if he had seen the witch posters? Ulli said he had torn down as many as possible, but there was still a chance that Will had seen them. And if he had, what would he say? You remind me of someone. And then what would she answer, ever so casually? Ah yes, I’m the witch of Crop Shire . . .
