Drizzle
Authors: Kathleen Van Cleve
Table of Contents
DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by The Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
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Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
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New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by The Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2010 by Kathleen Van Cleeve
eISBN : 978-1-101-19763-9
[1. Farms—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Self-realization—Fiction.
4. Rain and rainfall—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V2665Dr 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009023819
4. Rain and rainfall—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V2665Dr 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009023819
In memory of
Anna Lynne Papinchak
Anna Lynne Papinchak
part 1
MONDAY, AUGUST 18
The Mist Returns
The mist is back.
As soon as I step outside the castle, I see it: a tiny cloud of green mist, swirling above the lake under the weeping cherry blossom tree, dragonflies zipping in and out as if they’re sewing it together with some kind of invisible sparkling thread.
It makes my heart almost stop, if you want to know the truth.
Almost four years ago, I saw this same kind of mist stretch across our entire lake. That time, Grandmom had just died and the farm was going crazy.
Today, I’m not sure what’s going on. Today, everything seems okay. The rest of the lake is perfectly flat, perfectly blue. I look quickly around the fields, toward the White House and the castle, toward the Giant Rhubarb field and the place where the chocolate rhubarb grows. Everything looks fine, normal.
I peer closer at the mist, which is tucked in the corner of the lake under the truly weeping cherry blossom tree, in
my
special place. It isn’t like a normal, all-over-the-place mist. It’s small—small enough that it seems like you could pick it up with your arms if you were careful. Grandmom taught me that dragonflies are born in the water, and they have their nymph stage there. Even after they grow up and fly all over the place, they return to the lake, because it’s their home. She said dragonflies were made up almost completely of water. “Nature does nothing in vain, Polly, make sure you remember that. These dragonflies know everything there is to know about this lake; they spend their childhoods in the water,” she’d tell me. “Any questions, you ask them. They love children.” Then she sighed. “Naturally, they think most adults are idiots.”
my
special place. It isn’t like a normal, all-over-the-place mist. It’s small—small enough that it seems like you could pick it up with your arms if you were careful. Grandmom taught me that dragonflies are born in the water, and they have their nymph stage there. Even after they grow up and fly all over the place, they return to the lake, because it’s their home. She said dragonflies were made up almost completely of water. “Nature does nothing in vain, Polly, make sure you remember that. These dragonflies know everything there is to know about this lake; they spend their childhoods in the water,” she’d tell me. “Any questions, you ask them. They love children.” Then she sighed. “Naturally, they think most adults are idiots.”
Grandmom was the person who first showed me all the fantastical things about our rhubarb farm—the truly weeping cherry blossom tree, the ruby flowers that cluster in the Learning Garden, the lake that never drowns anyone—so I had no reason to doubt what she said about dragonflies. Plus I was seven, which means that you believe everything everyone says, especially adults, all the time.
Grandmom died soon after that, so I never told her that the dragonflies didn’t love me and that I didn’t love them. After all, dragonflies are bugs, and as a rule, I don’t like bugs, even though I live on a farm where they’re literally everywhere.
Now that I’m eleven I know I should have expected Grandmom to die—she was old and she had cancer and besides, like Charlotte in
Charlotte’s Web
says, everyone dies. But I didn’t get it then. Grandmom kept playing hide-and-seek with me in the Learning Garden and teaching me about rhubarb plantings on Mondays, so I figured that she was sick in the same way that I got sick—that is, she would get better after a lot of sleep and orange juice.
Charlotte’s Web
says, everyone dies. But I didn’t get it then. Grandmom kept playing hide-and-seek with me in the Learning Garden and teaching me about rhubarb plantings on Mondays, so I figured that she was sick in the same way that I got sick—that is, she would get better after a lot of sleep and orange juice.
But then, on one rainy Monday afternoon, the twentieth of September, I found her, lying faceup, in between the
P
and
E
of the PEACE maze. The toes of her silly slippers pointed up to the gray sky as rain washed over her cheeks. I turned to see that all around us the rhubarb plants swished their wide green leaves over their heads, pointing to her body. The lake began to roar as if there was a windstorm, even though there wasn’t. I turned back to Grandmom and begged.
P
and
E
of the PEACE maze. The toes of her silly slippers pointed up to the gray sky as rain washed over her cheeks. I turned to see that all around us the rhubarb plants swished their wide green leaves over their heads, pointing to her body. The lake began to roar as if there was a windstorm, even though there wasn’t. I turned back to Grandmom and begged.
Please wake up, please wake up.
Then I saw the tips of tiny glittering diamonds popping out of the ground, outlining Grandmom’s body. That’s when I knew. Grandmom loved the farm so much it was like she breathed it in and it became her lungs and mind and heart. I knew the farm was honoring her by sprouting the tiny diamonds. I knew I should have been in awe of the magic spinning around her. But all I could think of was that she was dead.
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