THIRTY-EIGHT

A Blue-Wing Fairy

The pounding of our footsteps slowly woke the valley. Across the way a farm dog yipped, and high above a flock of geese honked. Over and over the crickets lied about being bold and brave and ten feet tall. Since they didn’t sing in unison, it sounded as though a dozen of them were traveling with us.

Biz led the way, charging ahead as if chased by hellhounds, a trail of snapped branches and flattened bushes in his wake. We didn’t brake until back to the sandbar, where we heard a ukulele being played. That brought everyone to a screeching halt right at the lip of the mineshaft we’d been hurrying toward. Inside the mine the strumming continued.

Circling, the trolls sniffed and muttered and whimpered as the crickets fell silent. I put my nose to work too but whiffed only river muck.

Along with the ukulele came snatches of singing. High and sweet, the voice had the river trolls covering their ears and on the verge of bolting, but before they could take off the music stopped. Everyone played statue. The carpet covering the mineshaft got poked up and out peeked a pair of shiny eyes that made the crickets shift uneasily on the trolls’ shoulders.

“About time,” a peevish voice said from the mine.

Never had a reprimand been more welcome—at least by me. The voice belonged to the old lady.

“You?” Biz squeaked.

“And look what I found,” she quipped, holding up a blue ukulele. Her moment of triumph didn’t last long as she noticed someone was missing from our group and crossly said, “Where’s the one with the horn?”

That had the trolls shuffling.

“Bo got him,” I told her.

“That wasn’t our fault,” Jim Dandy protested.

“Oh, I’m sure,” the old lady scolded as she climbed out of the mine.

“You’ve got to understand,” Jim Dandy pleaded. “We had our three stars until these humans let one go. What choice did that leave us?”

The old lady sized up Jim Dandy as if he were a blister. He fiddled with his neck scarf and squirmed accordingly.

“I’m glad you brought up choices,” the old lady said at last, “because you’ve got two things that need doing, and I’m going to let you choose which goes first. Ears working?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the trolls mumbled.

Pointing the ukulele at them, the old lady ditched all her sweetness, replacing it with fire and ice.

“Choice one—you visit some people you recently turned to stone and change them back.”

“We were headed that way,” Jim Dandy sang out.

The old lady cut him off. “Save it. Choice two—you pay Bo another visit and rescue the kid with the horn.”

“What about our fathers?” Biz squeaked-whined.

“They’ll keep.”

“Tackle Bo,” the crickets counseled.

Hearing that advice settled it. They quickly agreed on ignoring the cricket’s lies, for nobody was eager to parade back up the valley we’d just trampled down. Lining up behind the old lady, the trolls shuffled toward the river like prisoners in chains. The old lady and I were the only ones stepping lively. At the water’s edge, Jim Dandy bypassed the old lady’s rowboat, heading for his dugout canoe, but the old lady put a stop to that by announcing:

“You’ll all be riding with me, Jim Dandy Eel-tongue, where I can keep an eye on you. And if there’s any funny business, I’ll turn you all into books. Thick ones with no pictures and tiny print.”

Fast as they jumped aboard her boat, they must have been as terrified of reading as they were of counting. The old lady lagged behind as if they’d forgotten something.

“So where’s the stone feather you used?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Duke’s house,” Biz squeaked.

“It better be,” she threatened, wading to the back of her boat without bothering to lift her skirt. “Here, put these on.”

Pulling three floppy straw hats from a wooden chest, she held them out to the trolls.

“What’s that?” Stump shied away from the hat brim facing him. It was covered with roses and bluebells that smelled freshly picked and made his snout twitch as if peppered.

“Disguises,” the old lady answered. “I don’t want any fisher-men spotting you. Might slow us down.”

Gulping a deep breath, Stump accepted the hat and tried tugging it on. Jim Dandy and Biz followed suit. They were all trembling so hard they missed their heads by a mile.

“Claire,” the old lady said, climbing aboard and waving for me to follow, “would you mind giving them a hand? I’ve got to arrange a ride for us in Blue Wing.”

Digging a scrap of paper out of her apron pocket, the old lady got busy scribbling. Tugging off a wet sneaker, she stuffed her note inside it and flung the shoe into the river. A muskrat nabbed the shoe at once, diving out of sight.

By then I’d started tugging straw hats onto the trolls. Tying the strings under their scaly chins was the trickiest part. Every time I tried, they pulled away as if I were planning to strangle them. Whenever I leaned closer, the crickets riding their shoulders would whisper, “She’s not a blue-wing fairy.”

“Oh, yes she is,” Stump said miserably.