Part 33 (1/2)
As the caravan rolled forever Center Stage, Young Bertie scattered rose petals and turned cartwheels. She scrambled over boulders and up trees, leaping down with a fearlessness that took Bertie-the-elder's breath away.
”Get down from there,” Mrs. Edith called to Young Bertie when the child stood on the roof of the caravan, her arms thrown out wide.
”But I like to see everything!” Young Bertie protested before she jumped off.
”It's a miracle I didn't break my neck!” Bertie exclaimed, both fascinated and horrified. She suddenly recalled her maneuver on the chandelier, hanging upside down by her knees and reaching for Nate. . . .
”Our journey was fraught with danger,” Young Bertie said. ”We hit potholes-”
The caravan hit a pothole with a b.u.mp and a shudder.
”See!” yelled Moth. ”I told you there were potholes!”
”The horses stampeded,” continued Young Bertie, ”although they did not run over us with their big metal-shod hooves.”
”Aw, nuts,” said Mustardseed. But he was cheered by the mad dash, which included sparking horse shoes and a small brushfire.
”We were set upon by brigands,” Young Bertie said as she sat upon the stage with a fat stack of paper and a box of crayons.
The Brigands charged in with weapons drawn.
”Who are you?” Young Bertie asked.
”We're the bad guys!” their leader announced.
”What are you going to do?”
”Plunder and pillage!” one of them yelled.
The others immediately shoved him. ”Not in front of the kid. Ralph! Fer cryin' out loud . . .”
”Oh, yeah. Sorry! We're here to take your candy!”
Young Bertie considered this idea as she drew a bright red jelly bean on the paper. ”That's not very nice.”
”Well, no, I suppose not,” said the Lead Brigand, scratching the end of his nose with a dagger.
”Do you steal candy from a lot of people?” she asked next, adding peppermint canes and chocolate humbugs to the drawing.
”Everyone we meet,” said another Brigand.
Young Bertie looked up from her paper. ”I don't think I believe you. You don't look very trustworthy.”
”Brigands aren't supposed to be trustworthy,” said their leader. ”It ain't in the job description.”
Young Bertie looked up from her paper. ”See this word? C-A-N-D-Y spells 'candy.' Maybe now you want to turn out your pockets?”
”Er, well,” the Lead Brigand said, caught in his lie.
”Go ahead,” she urged. ”I double-dare you.”
The Brigands weren't about to ignore a double dare, and they turned out their pockets. Approximately seventy-nine pounds of jelly beans, peppermint canes, and chocolate humbugs. .h.i.t the stage in a rain of cellophane-wrapped sugar.
”Whoa, wait just a second,” their leader started to protest. ”Where did all this come from?”
”It's there because I wanted it to be there,” Young Bertie explained. She held up her drawing. ”See? I put the word on paper, so it's true. Would you like to see me spell 'avalanche'?”
The Brigands stormed out Stage Left, crawling over one another in their eagerness to flee.
”You always had a way with words,” Mrs. Edith said. ”Anywhere you thought to go, we went: the mountains, the valleys, the mystical places, and the mundane. But over and over again, you were drawn to the sea.”
The s.h.i.+fting kaleidoscope of gray returned, but this time, Bertie could make out the call of gulls and waves smas.h.i.+ng against the rocks. Chalk-white cliffs rumbled into place.
”This is where I went with your father.” Ophelia peered at the set with luminous eyes.
Bertie's heart thudded. ”You remember this place?”
Ophelia twisted her hands together in a knot. ”I . . . I think so!”
”But that's good!” Bertie's heart leapt at the thought that something had triggered Ophelia's memory. ”I wonder-”
”Bertie!” Ariel spun her around in time for her to see her younger self climb to the top of the towering wooden cliffs and stand facing the audience.
Young Bertie looked over the edge, down into the orchestra pit. ”I wonder.”
”What do you wonder, dear heart?” Mrs. Edith asked her, trying to catch up.
”I wonder if I can fly.”
Mrs. Edith held out her hand. ”Come back, dear. You're making me very nervous.”
Bertie started to shout that it was making her nervous, too, but she couldn't manage it. The scrimshaw hummed, and Bertie stood in two places at once: next to Ariel on the stage, and atop the cliff, looking down, not at the musicians, but at the frothing churn of a restless ocean. She'd never before been afraid of heights, but vertigo seized her. ”Step back!”
Young Bertie only grinned. ”Why?”
Mrs. Edith answered the question. ”Birds fly, my darling, not little girls.”
Instead of obeying, Young Bertie put her bare toes over the edge. ”Maybe I'm not a little girl. Maybe I'm a bird, too.”
Mrs. Edith shook her head, a desperate note creeping into her clipped tones. ”You're not. Come away from the edge.”
”Come away from the edge,” Bertie echoed.
Bertie's younger self looked directly at her older incarnation, smiled sweetly, spread her arms . . .
And jumped.
Everyone in the audience screamed as the stage plunged into a blackout. When the lights faded up to half, Mrs. Edith sat upon the caravan once more, holding a sodden and limp child-Bertie in her arms.
”What happened?” Bertie whispered. ”After I jumped?”