chapter 3

A Bowl of Soup

Outside, the rain had stopped, but everything was still gray. Twig’s head was as clouded as the sky.

The Hill, a human-made mountain of plastic and glass and rust and rubber, loomed all around him, making him feel even smaller. It wound through the Woods, surrounded by trees, shrouded by brambles and vines.

This was his home. This was where he and his family and the rest of the Hill inhabitants lived, existing by scavenging and reconfiguring what the humans, or Two Legs, had discarded. But he felt like a stranger among the ridges and valleys of the Hill.

Twig spotted an old groundhog, some distance away, who wrestled with a rusted pot and then pulled it from the pile.

A Master Metal Crafter, Twig thought, sighing gloomily, as he watched the grinning groundhog haul the pot away. “Everyone who’s been Named is a somebody. Has a chance at greatness. And I’m going to be a great . . . nothing.”

He saw a pair of deer grazing on tender underbrush. They looked up at him and blinked blankly. Twig envied their simple life: eating, sleeping . . . no pressure to read Manuals or build or be trained or be Named or even be a part of the Hill. Just walk around on their inefficient hooves and chew the vegetation.

His own life seemed so complicated.

Heading home, he took the long way. There was no need to get there quickly; he could already see the disappointed look on his mother’s face after he told her of the day’s events.

Then, like it sometimes happens in spring, the cool, dreary clouds began to burn away, and the sun emerged, golden and huge and warm. It pulled every sweet, moist smell from the earth into the air. Birds were singing deep in the trees in all directions, and bees darted past, searching for honeysuckle, locust, and wild cherry blossoms.

Twig had never seen so many different shades of green, vivid and electric, and felt that he could almost hear the new leaves popping out of tree buds. It was as though the day was right out of one of his picture books . . . beautiful and magical. He half expected a mythical creature to come swooping out of the trees.

His mood brightened a bit. He couldn’t help but wonder how perfect the spring day would be if he hadn’t just been humiliated at school.

Eventually the path ended at his home, a pile of broken and cracked crockery, tossed in a heap and cascading down a slope, but transformed into a cozy maze of rooms. It was at a far end of the Hill, away from most of the Hill activity, surrounded by birdsong and wildflowers.

He turned the brass knob of the front door. Inside, something warm and wonderful was being created on the stove; the air was infused with delicious smells. He listened for sounds of Olive, his mother, and cocked his ears toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was an inviting spot, with everything in its place. Utensils hung in logical arrangements next to the oven, pots hung according to size from a beam in the ceiling. There was a small wooden table, usually draped in a piece of colorful cloth, two stools, and one carved chair. The chair had belonged to Twig’s father, Mullein. Olive kept it neatly polished.

Adjacent to the kitchen was Olive’s workroom: chisels and hammers and other supplies decorated the walls and shelves. She was a Master Stone Carver.

To the other side of the kitchen was Olive’s sleeping room. One of its walls backed up to the oven wall, so the room was toasty and snug in winter. Olive had made the acorn-patterned quilt that decorated the bed.

Just as Twig’s mother’s room was the definition of neatness, Twig’s room was that of chaos. It was Mullein’s old workroom, and Mullein had been a scavenger: piles of parts littered the floor, covered shelves, and were strewn across bed and chair. Coils of wire hung like strange birds’ nests from ceiling hooks. There were gears, knobs, switches, electric motors, scraps of copper, nails and screws, nuts and bolts, hooks and clamps, old jar lids, broken parts of clarinets and accordions, bits of candles, pencil stubs, and the remains of telephones, electric mixers, doorbells, and clocks.

And there was Twig’s own collection: a stack of books filled with stories and pictures of mythological sea monsters and dragons. Twig would spend countless hours scouring the Hill until he found one, sometimes worn and torn, or wet and mildewed. To the others who lived on the Hill, and valued only the Manuals, the picture books were just a silly waste of time. But to Twig they were captivating and enchanting. He devoured them. He couldn’t get enough.

In the middle of the mayhem was Twig’s bed, a plastic tub padded with milkweed down. Sometimes he slept with an illustrated book of fanciful beasts spread open on top. His favorite picture book was almost always propped against his bed, ready for the umpteenth reading.

Twig tiptoed past Olive’s studio. Olive was deep in concentration as she chipped away at a chunk of white marble. A pot of soup bubbled on the kitchen stove; Twig could smell the wild onions, mushrooms, and herbs permeating the air in an aromatic blend. Olive looked up.

“You’re home,” she chirped. “Hungry? Soup’s about ready.”

“Okay,” Twig replied.

“Go wash up.”

He stepped into a tiny alcove that served as a washroom. Twig carefully washed his paws, taking his time. He could see that his mother was having a great afternoon, immersed in her carving. Describing his grim day would dampen her mood, so he decided to tell her about the classroom disaster another time. He dried his paws on a scrap of bright-red cloth, sighed, and went back to the kitchen.

Olive looked at the wall clock. “Aren’t you home a little early?” she asked, with one eyebrow cocked.

“Oh,” Twig hedged, scratching his furry ear absently. “There was some sort of accident in Metal Craft. I got out early.”

“Accident? Anything serious?”

“Um . . . not really. Want me to set the table?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Twig.” Olive began ladling out a bowl of the savory, steaming soup. “This should be pretty good. I used morels I picked this morning . . . plump from the rain.”

Twig sipped the delicious soup. It was heavenly. For a moment he was lost in the fragrant broth and tender chunks of morel.

Then his eyes rested on the brown feather that Olive had placed high on a shelf. Twig knew it was from a hawk, the hawk that had taken his father many months before. The day’s events sat again on his heart, and the thought of being passed over in the Naming Ceremony. He so wanted to make the spirit of his father proud, but that seemed less and less likely.

His stomach twisted, and he lost all his appetite.