Instead of reading from a book today,” Christy said later that morning, “I thought maybe I’d tell you a story.”
Her announcement was met with enthusiastic applause. Even the older children loved it when she told stories. Fairy tales, myths, mysteries—it didn’t matter what. She wasn’t sure if it was her storytelling ability, or the fact that they preferred just about anything to the prospect of another arithmetic or spelling lesson.
Christy sat on the edge of her desk. The children pulled their desks and chairs closer. She couldn’t help noticing that Ruby Mae, Bessie, and Clara were sitting apart from the others. She wondered if it was their doing, or if the other children were keeping their distance.
“This is the story of three fair maidens,” Christy began.
“Teacher?”
“Yes, Little Burl?”
“What’s a maiden?”
“A maiden is a young girl.” Christy cleared her throat. “One day, these three maidens were walking through the woods when they—”
“Teacher?”
“Yes, Creed.”
“Don’t these maidens go by names?”
“That’s a very good question, Creed. Let’s see. Their names were Lucinda, Drusilda, and—”
“Pearl!” Creed exclaimed.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m right partial to Pearl, Teacher. If’n it don’t get in the way of your storytellin’.”
“Pearl it is.” Christy smiled to herself. She’d long since learned that with the aid of her students, a ten-minute story could take an hour.
“As I was saying, Lucinda, Drusilda, and Pearl were walking through the woods on a bright summer day when suddenly the air was filled with the most beautiful sound their ears had ever heard. ‘It sounds like the first call of birds in the morning,’ said Lucinda. ‘It sounds like a church bell on Christmas morning,’ said Drusilda. ‘It sounds like angels singing,’ said Pearl.”
“What was the sound, Teacher?” Mountie asked shyly.
“Well, the maidens didn’t know for sure, Mountie,” Christy said. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Very carefully the maidens crept to the clearing that seemed to be the source of the wonderful sound. But Pearl tripped on a root—she had very large feet—and suddenly the sound vanished. All was still.”
Christy glanced over at Ruby Mae and her friends. They were listening as attentively as the other children—maybe even more so.
“Well, the maidens went to the clearing. They saw footprints leading away into the woods. They saw a campfire, too, the embers still glowing from the night before. And next to the campfire, what do you think they saw?”
“A family of three bears?” Creed ventured.
“Well, no, Creed, that’s another story. What they saw was a tiny silver flute. That’s a long, thin tube with holes in it. It’s a kind of musical instrument, just like the dulcimer Clara’s father likes to play.”
“Or like the piano over to the mission house that Wraight plays on?” Lizette asked.
“Exactly,” Christy said, grinning. It was no secret that Lizette and Wraight Holt were “sweethearts,” as the children put it.
Christy paused for a moment, considering where to take her story. She was making it up as she went along, and she wanted to be sure she got her point across to three members of the audience in particular.
“Well, the maidens gave some serious thought to this flute,” she continued. “‘Maybe we should leave it,’ Drusilda said. ‘After all, it doesn’t really belong to us. Maybe the music-maker was so frightened he left this behind. Or maybe he left it for us out of the kindness of his heart.’ But Pearl was the leader of the group, and she said, ‘No, if we found it, it’s ours, fair and square.’ So she picked up that silver flute and she put it in her pocket and off the maidens set for home.”
“So then they played songs on it, Teacher?” George O’Teale asked.
“Well, that’s the thing, George. Drusilda tried, and Lucinda tried, and Pearl tried. They blew on that flute till their faces were purple, but the only thing that came out was the most dreadful noise. A noise like a hungry hog and a balking mule and a howling hound all mixed up together. The maidens had to wear earplugs day and night while they tried to make that sweet music they’d discovered in the woods. But you know what?”
Christy looked over at Ruby Mae. She was staring at the ceiling with a strange, unhappy gaze, her mouth set in a frown.
“The maidens couldn’t make the silver flute play because it wasn’t theirs. They’d taken something that didn’t belong to them, and because of that, there was no joy in it.” Christy paused. “Finally, in frustration, the maidens took the silver flute back to the clearing in the woods. Day after day they waited patiently, hidden in the trees, far enough away so the music maker wouldn’t be afraid. On the last day, when they were just about ready to give up, what do you think happened?”
“Music!” George cried, and the other children laughed.
“Exactly, George. Music happened. The owner of the flute returned, and made the sweetest, most joyous, most angelic music the maidens had ever heard, even more beautiful than before.”
“And is that the end, Teacher?” Creed asked.
“That’s the end, Creed.”
“Ain’t no point to this story,” Ruby Mae said darkly, speaking up for the first time. “They found the flute. They coulda kept it.”
“But it weren’t rightfully theirs,” Clara said softly. “So they couldn’t make music. You see, Ruby Mae?”
“Tell us another one, Teacher!” Creed urged.
“And make this one have a better ending,” Ruby Mae muttered.
“I’m tellin’ you, Ruby Mae,” Clara insisted during the dinner spell that noon, “Miz Christy was tryin’ to learn us a lesson. We’re the three maidens, don’t you see? And she’s sayin’ if the gold don’t rightly belong to us, maybe we should give it back to the person it does belong to.”
Ruby Mae lay back on the springy lawn, chewing on a blade of grass. “First off, we don’t know who it belongs to. And second, who’s to say we won’t do more good with it than he would?”
“He,” Bessie repeated. “You mean Mr. Halliday.”
“I don’t mean anyone!” Ruby Mae shot back.
“That was his handkerchief by the bank,” Bessie reminded her.
Clara set her bread aside and brushed the crumbs off her dress. “I think we need to have an official-like meetin’ of The Princess Club. Right here and now. We need to take a vote.”
Ruby Mae sat up. “Vote on what?”
“On givin’ back the gold,” Clara whispered harshly. “What do you think? All for it, raise your hands.”
Bessie’s hand shot into the air. So did Clara’s.
Ruby Mae couldn’t believe her eyes. “Are you crazy? What about your education? What about your frilly dresses? Have you forgotten all our plans?”
“Don’t matter havin’ plans,” Clara said, “if you got no friends to share them with.”
“Besides,” Bessie added, “I’m tired of all the fussin’ and feudin’. Like with my pa and your pa. Craziness, all of it.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “And to tell you the truth, it just don’t feel right, spendin’ money that ain’t rightfully ours. Even if we haven’t really spent any of it yet.”
“But . . .” Ruby Mae threw up her hands in exasperation. “What’s got into you two? Some silly story about a flute, and all of a sudden you want to give up your future? We all agreed that if’n the money was Mr. Halliday’s, he shoulda owned up to it.”
Bessie and Clara just stared at her blankly. “We took a vote, Ruby Mae,” Clara said. “Fair and square.”
“All right, then,” Ruby Mae said. “How about this? How about we give it a day to sink in? You know, think about it longer. You love to think about things, Clara. You can fret over this for another day for sure. Then, we’ll vote again tomorrow. And whatever the club decides, that’s what we’ll do.”
Clara chewed on a thumbnail. “Well, I s’pose one more day wouldn’t hurt. But that’s all.”
“Deal?” Ruby Mae turned to Bessie.
“I don’t have to think any more on it, do I?” Bessie asked. “My head already hurts from all this frettin’.”
“No, Bessie. You don’t have to.” Ruby Mae stood, arms crossed over her chest. “Then we’re decided. Tomorrow we vote. Till then, no matter what, the gold’s still ours.”