Birdie's Book (4 page)

“Seems awfully poetic for the Mom
I
know,” I said, running my fingers along one of the tree's many knotholes.

“Well, loving trees is a family thing,” said Mo. “Hard to shake, even for someone like your mother. My grandmother, who was your great-great-grandmother Dora, was an arborist, a tree girl with
a wild and colorful imagination. You have the gift, too,” Mo said with a wink.

I made my way to the tree's other side and hugged again. My face rested on a spot that felt oddly mushy. I reached up and wiped the snow off. There was a large section of bark that was soft compared to the rest, as if it were rotting or sick or something.

“Look at this, Granny Mo!” I exclaimed. “I think the tree might be sick!”

She came to my side and felt the area, nodding slowly, her mouth oddly pinched. “Yes, I've been worried about that,” she said sadly. She sighed. “It started years ago, Birdie. It was just a tiny patch, but it has been growing worse year by year. The damage goes deeper than what you see.”

“Yes, it probably goes down to the roots, Granny Mo,” I said.

“Exactly,” she agreed. “The roots. We've inherited the job of taking care of all green life. We sing the green song. And you are the strongest member of the Arbor Lineage now, Birdie. It's up to you.”

I got a shiver up and down my spine, and it wasn't from the cold.

“Me?” I asked. “What are you talking about? What do I have to do with the Glimmer Tree rotting?”

“Well, to tell you the honest truth—everything,”
said Mo. “You didn't cause it, but you do have the power to heal it. You have the gift, Birdie, in spades.”

I started wondering about Mo's crazy streak and was relieved when a fluffy Siamese cat trotted out from behind the Glimmer Tree. He rubbed against Mo's boot.

“Ah, there you are, Willowby. You're hungry, eh?” said Mo. “He loves to hide in the ferns out here in the summer … a whole world of ferns around the base of this tree.” She picked him up and growled in his face, then looked at me. “But summer or winter, he's a cranky old cat when he wants to eat. You'll have to forgive his rude behavior for now. Come on, let's head home.”

Mo led the way back, me and Willowby right on her heels. Mo was silent on the way, though she waited patiently for me to cross the bridge again. I decided not to mention the odd things she'd said. She was clearly a unique person, but I wasn't sure I was ready for her to be quite so … weird.

My fingers, toes, and nose felt like ice
cubes by the time we got back. Granny Mo and I settled into two comfy chairs in her living room (no TV in sight) and had dinner right in front of the fire, warming our feet while we ate. After all that walking in the cold, Mo's tomato soup with fresh basil and burnt croutons was the most delicious meal I had ever had. Antiques crammed the fireplace mantel and window ledges in the living room. There were porcelain doodads set on every surface, and every kind of clock you can imagine was
tick-tock
ing up and down the walls.

Once Willowby had decided I was trustworthy (his attitude no doubt related to his full belly), he curled up in my lap, purring. We were all ready for an early bedtime.

“Now don't stay up reading too late, and turn off the lights before you go upstairs,” Mo warned as she gave me and Willowby a couple of pecks on the tops of our heads, picked up our dishes, and headed back to the kitchen. “Sweet dreams, Birdie dear!” she called as I heard her go up the stairs.

No worries about reading, since I could barely keep my eyes open. I took five minutes to just enjoy being alone, then I moved Willowby to the couch, turned off several lamps, and headed upstairs myself.

In my mother's old room, I threw my suitcase
on a chair, opened it, and changed into cozy thermals. I flopped down on the bed. I propped my laptop on a pillow, flicked it on, and checked my e-mail. There was a message from my dad that complimented me on how cool I was, going off to meet Granny Mo on my own, and updated me on Mom's news from London, and ended with “Love you, my Redbird. Dad. P.S. Mom's okay with what you're doing, too. She wasn't very happy at first, but she recognizes that this is part of your growing up and you need to know your family, especially with the move.”

“I love you, too, my one and only dad,” I replied in an e-mail. I added some stuff about the train ride and Granny Mo, but I didn't tell him about the Glimmer Tree. Somehow it seemed too secret to be sending off into cyberspace. I glanced up from the computer. Something was distracting me. Ah, the posters. I stood on the mattress, pulled down Leif and his fake smile, rolled him up, and pushed him under the bed. He wasn't
my
dream.

When I stood up, a fierce blast of cold air shot into the room. The old window overlooking Mo's garden rattled. I grabbed a blanket off the foot of the bed to stick into the cracks on both sides of the window. I looked outside; the beauty of the night sky took my breath away. I imagined my mother as a girl,
standing in this same place, looking out at the tip-top of the Glimmer Tree, way off in the strange and beautiful Ha-Ha Valley. Was that tree the last place Mom allowed herself to get lost in imagination?

The wind swept the clouds away. I watched the constellations appear, like Dad and I used to do on camping trips. There was Orion and there was Andromeda, and then … the stars began to move. Really! The stars from Orion's belt zipped along in a trio, Andromeda played with the Northern Crown, and hundreds, maybe thousands of stars danced right there in the yard. I shut my eyes tight, and when I opened them, I looked back up to the sky. Every constellation and every star except for one sparkled back in their proper places.

A sense of foreboding creeped across my skin. I stuffed the edges of the blanket into the window frame, and then turned back to the bed.

At the end of the bed, where I had just taken away the blanket, was a book—a
huge
book, the size of a really big dictionary. It was clearly handmade, and so yellowed and tattered it could be a thousand years old. How could I not have seen it?

I spun around, expecting Granny Mo to be in the room, even though I'd shut the door. How did she get this book into my room? There was no doubt in
my mind that she'd put it there. “Don't stay up too late reading,” she'd warned.

I picked up the book, which weighed more than Willowby, and snuggled down under the comforter. I stared at the ornate cover:
The Book of Dreams
. The size of the book made it clear that the author had sure dreamed a lot. I ran my fingers along the silver, shimmering script, and then along the thick binding. I took a deep breath, opened the cover, and began leafing through the pages.

Violets, roses, and four-leaf clovers were pressed onto yellowed pages. There were poetic entries, musical notations, recipes, crocheted bookmarks with girls' names on them, and what looked like mathematical equations. Some pages were stuck together as if the years had sealed them tight, and still others were indecipherable, as if rain had run the words together.

I took my hands off the book. I didn't know where to begin. That's when I made my decision to let the book show me the way. I shut the book, closed my eyes, and opened the book to a random page.

Gong! Buzz! Cuckoo!

I bolted upright in the dark. It sounded like all the clocks in the living room were going off at once! I jumped out of bed, remembering the book when my feet touched the cold floor. I turned back to see if the book was still there or if I had dreamed it. There it was, right on my pillow. Wow.

I pulled a pair of socks from my suitcase, put them on, and tiptoed down the stairs in the dark. The second I walked into the living room, the clocks fell silent.

I squinted to read the time on an old carved clock on the mantel. Three a.m.! I shivered and was just turning to go back upstairs when another clock caught my eye. It read 12:00. It wasn't noon, and it couldn't be midnight, because the sun's rays were just
peeking in the window. I looked around. The cuckoo clock said 1:05. The grandfather clock, its brass pendulum still swinging, said 9:27.

Lilium tigrinum
obviously didn't give a hoot about keeping time. Just then, Granny Mo shuffled out from the kitchen, wearing a flowered apron over her sweater and jeans.

“Didn't you hear the clocks?” I asked.

“Oh! Those crazy old things; I always ignore them,” Mo said, dismissing the problem with a wave of her spatula. “But I should have warned you. They all chime at seven a.m., sharp. Never fail! No matter what time they say. Oh yes, and at two in the afternoon on Leap Day—February twenty-ninth, every fourth year. Never knew why. Still don't. Well, anyway, come to the kitchen. I'm making breakfast.” With that, she sailed back to the kitchen and turned up the music.

I followed in time to catch her singing:
“Oh, you better not pout, I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is comin' …”

Mo sang along with the radio (and why were they playing Christmas songs after Christmas?), her voice cracking on the high notes. Willowby, sitting on the kitchen table, joined in with an occasional
meow
.

“I hope you like blueberry pancakes,” Mo said while she ladled big disks of batter onto a skillet, leaving a trail of drips on the stove.

“I sure do,” I said.

“And elderberry tea,” she added. I didn't answer. Mo chuckled. “I'll get you to be a real tea drinker sooner or later. But you're young still. In the meantime, pour yourself some orange juice. Fresh picked and squeezed this morning!” I got a glass of juice but didn't ask how she could have picked the oranges this morning.

Mo started setting the kitchen table, singing about being good, for goodness' sake. I liked it. We didn't sing much around our house, and it felt kind of good to hear her just belting it out. I noticed smoke pouring from the iron skillet, so I grabbed the spatula, flipped the pancakes, and turned off the burner. Singing right along with Mo and the radio now, I tossed the hot pancakes onto our plates.