The Emperor's Ostrich Read online

  What to do? Without her calf to nurse, Alfalfa would need a milking desperately. Her milk-bag would be painfully full before the day’s end. And poor Sprout, home all day and growing hungry!

  “There now, why the sad face?” inquired the Seller of Many Things. The gold hoops dangling from his earlobes shone like the dome of his shiny bald head.

  “My cow keeps getting farther and farther away from me,” Begonia told him. “I need to find her soon, or she’ll be hopelessly lost.” And so will I.

  The Seller of Many Things nodded. He untied a ribbon on which a small brass bell dangled. “Here,” he said. “Take this bell. No, I don’t need money for it. When you do find your cow, tie it around her neck, and that way she’ll be easier to find the next time.”

  Finding Alfalfa next time was the last thing on her mind. If Begonia had her wish, there’d never be a next time. Mumsy should hire a blacksmith to forge a chain that would tether Alfalfa permanently to their own small pasture. No, they couldn’t afford that. But they could sell Alfalfa and use the money to buy a less adventurous cow.

  She fingered the brass bell. Her sweaty palm muted its tinkle, so she held it by the ribbon and swung it aloft. A lilting chime floated across the green.

  The Seller of Many Things winked. “Hear that? Louder than you’d think. It might be a magic bell.”

  “Thank you,” Begonia said. She tried to smile, but the empty road tugged her gaze, winding away from the center of town and downhill into the lowlands north of Two Windmills.

  “Have a drink, before you go,” the man said, and he pointed toward a ladle extending from a pail. Begonia saw the wisdom in this and took a long, quenching drink of water. Then she pulled Madame Mustard-maker’s scarf over her forehead, tucked the bell into her apron along with the mustard pot, thanked the Seller of Many Things once more, and hurried off down the road.

  She pushed her feet faster and faster. Catch that cow! Catch that cow! Speed was her best hope. Refreshed by the water, she felt sure she could make up for lost time. But as the morning sun rose in the sky, and the road wandered on and on, and the farm plots and barns began to feel less and less familiar, doubt became Begonia’s traveling companion. The pair was soon joined by despair. On an errand such as this, Begonia would have preferred to travel alone.

  But it was not to be. Her footsteps brought her through the small Hamlet of Mossy Well. She saw the fabled well and peered into its green depths. It waters had once healed an ailing empress, but Begonia decided against drinking its algae waters now. More miles of walking brought her through the settlement of Radish Row. Farmers hoed their vegetable fields and thinned leafy rows. A matronly woman offered Begonia a crunchy early radish, and she ate it gratefully, but it needed a better washing, and its bite made her tongue burn.

  She left the settlement behind and tried to use the magenta scarf to better shield her face from the sun. The road dipped down around a small hill and out of sight. Begonia followed the curve in the road and came, to her surprise, to a wide fork. The road to the left headed toward a distant forest. To the right, the road rolled over miles of pasture. Surely Alfalfa would choose such a sea of succulent grasses. Still, Begonia hesitated.

  A woman approached from the grassy road to the right, carrying an infant in her tired arms.

  “Greetings, good mother,” Begonia called to her. “May I ask you a question about what you’ve seen on your long walk?”

  “You may,” said the woman, “if you’ll hold the baby.” Without waiting for an answer, she thrust her bundle at Begonia.

  The child was squirmy and slightly damp in ways Begonia preferred not to think very hard about. She jostled his weight. He gazed up at her through wise, dark eyes and gurgled at the sight of her bright, waving scarf.

  The mother, meanwhile, moaned and stretched her arms, shoulders, and back.

  “You must’ve been walking a long time,” observed Begonia.

  A loud crunching sound escaped from her spine as the mother cracked her neck. “It is what it is. I’ve walked since sunup, I’ll have you know. We’re on our way to visit my grandmother. She’s an old widow, and I’m a young one.”

  “I’m sorry.” Begonia gazed once more into the baby’s eyes. Poor little mite, without any papa!

  The woman shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  The baby jabbered, and Begonia smiled. The mother, meanwhile, dropped down onto the ground and stretched out her legs. Then she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.

  Begonia realized she might end up tending this infant all morning if the tired woman went to sleep. “Good mother,” she cried loudly, “here is my question. In your travels, did you come across a white cow wandering by itself? I’ve been searching for it all morning.”

  As though he could understand Begonia’s question, the baby’s eyes lit up, and he began to coo.

  “I did, indeed, see a wandering white cow on our path through the pasture,” the mother said. “I would guess it was two hours ago. A sweet thing, with a gentle nature, and a marking on the forehead that looked like a baby’s bottom.”

  Begonia sighed. Speaking of babies’ bottoms, there was no ignoring this baby’s dampness now.

  “Odd that you should say that.” The voice came from behind Begonia. She turned to see a lanky woodsman with an ax slung over one shoulder striding along the other fork in the road, the one pointing toward the forest. “I saw a white cow this morning, too, heading through the woods. Nearer to my road than yours. About two hours ago. But the mark on its forehead was a tree stump. No doubt about it.”

  “Oh dear,” moaned Begonia. “It’s not possible! How could she be in two places at once?”

  The mother rose to her feet, dusted herself off, and relieved Begonia of her soggy burden. “I don’t know what you’re saying, young lady,” she said. “They have different markings. They must be different cows.”

  It would be hopeless to explain to the woman how Alfalfa’s forehead mark seemed to look like whatever its beholder knew best, so Begonia didn’t bother. Surely there was nothing magical about it. It was just people seeing what they wanted to see. Peony did it all the time.

  “I’m only a poor widow,” the mother said again, “but never let it be said that I failed to thank you for holding my baby. Here. Take this hairpin.” She pulled a long pin from her hair and offered it to Begonia. In the process, strands of her hair came loose and tumbled down her neck very prettily.

  Begonia had had a long day. She stared at the hairpin. She didn’t even know how to do fancy things with her hair. Dairymaids had little occasion for anything more than braids.

  “You never know when a particular hairpin may turn out to be just the hairpin you need. Here, woodsman.” The mother turned toward the lanky man with his ax and bundle. “Our paths seem to be headed in the same direction for a spell. Meet my baby.” And before the woodsman could say nay, she’d handed her infant to him.

  A bewildered Begonia tucked the hairpin into her apron and watched as the travelers’ two silhouettes got smaller and smaller. Just precisely, she thought, as her chances of ever finding her cow and returning home seemed to be doing.

  6

  A FINDER OF LOST THINGS, AND A BAFFLING MAP

  Begonia stood at the fork in the road. She looked to the left, then to the right. Forest or field, woods or pasture. Tree stump or baby’s bottom. Whatever should she do?

  “Alfalfa!” she cried aloud. “Where are you?”

  A rumpled head poked out from a thick, flowering bush that grew a ways back from where the two roads met.

  “Is this ‘Alfalfa’ of yours an ancestor spirit?” the head’s owner inquired.

  Begonia backed away in astonishment. A talking bush! A rustling bush with purple blossoms and a human head. A bush with a head of messy hair, full of leaves and twigs.

  “She must be, or why else would you summon her in this way? But it’s customary to show more respect. Try ‘Venerable Grandmother,’ perhaps, or ‘Blessed Great-Auntie
.’ The dead still appreciate courtesy.”

  Begonia’s throat was dry, and her feet were sore. Her cow was lost, and now she had lost her mind and saw visions of talkative shrubbery. Still, if she was already mad, she might as well carry on a conversation with this bush.

  “Who in heaven’s name has an ancestor spirit named ‘Alfalfa?’” she demanded of the shrub. “Alfalfa’s not dead. She’s my cow. And she’s lost.”

  The head in the bush rose, revealing a human neck and body attached in the usual fashion. It was a boy, perhaps a year or two older than Begonia, dressed in shabby clothes that had once been brightly colored, like a patchwork quilt, but now were faded. His face was dirty, and his nails an absolute fright.

  “You aren’t a talking shrubbery at all,” Begonia observed.

  “Never claimed to be.” He brushed sticks and leaves off himself. “I’m Key, and I can help. I specialize in finding things that are lost. Now, where did you last put your cow?”

  “Put her?”

  “Put her,” repeated the strange boy. “People put things places. They put lentils in the soup, and spectacles in their slippers, and money under their mattresses. Where did you put your cow?”

  “She’s not a missing thimble. She’s an animal.”

  “Even animals are put places,” Key said patiently. “Pirates put parrots on their shoulders, and magicians put rabbits in hats. Monkeys, I am told…”

  “In the barn!” cried Begonia to stop him from talking. “Last night, before bed, I led her in from the pasture and put her in the barn. But that scarcely matters, because I milked her this morning, and because many people have seen her roaming all over the countryside today. Have you seen a white cow with an odd marking on her forehead?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Key paced back and forth, scratching his chin and furrowing his brow as if in deep thought. He really did have a most ridiculous look. He was tall and lean, with a terrible slouch, and that head of hair bristling with blossoms and leaves.

  “You put her in the barn,” the boy said, as if he’d made a breakthrough. “What did you say to her at the time?”

  Begonia threw up her hands. “Nothing! Why should I say something to her?”

  Key shook a finger at Begonia. “Everyone talks to their animals.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think I did. If I did, it wasn’t much. Maybe something like, ‘Good night, cow.’”

  Key began to circle about Begonia as if examining her. “A cow with a broken heart,” he said to himself. “A milkmaid who gives her cows the silent treatment. Or, if she speaks, won’t even call them by their names. A cold ‘cow this, cow that’ from her unfeeling lips. The cow decides she can’t live with such sorrow anymore, so she runs away with her loneliness, searching for a better friend.”

  Chrysanthemumsy had taught Begonia her manners well enough, but Key’s pronouncement pushed Begonia too far.

  “Now, you look here, you Key,” she said. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s rude, and it’s ignorant. A cow with a broken heart? Absurd! Cows are more stomach than heart, and I treat our milkers just fine, thank you very much. Clearly, you’ve never tended cows. And you’ve got twigs in your hair.”

  Key squinted at Begonia. “One doesn’t need cow experience to know what’s what,” he said loftily. “The heart yearns for what it yearns for. I am an expert in hearts, being a romantic, as I am. I have the soul of a poet.”

  Begonia would have no more of this. “You have the soul of an idiot.” Every minute she spent talking to this irritating boy was a minute she couldn’t afford. “Besides, I thought you were an expert at finding lost things.”

  Key crossed his arms across his chest and made a great show of not looking at Begonia. “I am a man of many talents.” He sniffed.

  “You are a boy of no knowledge where cows are concerned,” Begonia informed him.

  “So what?” Key shrugged. “My family is more in the pig line. Pigs have sensitive souls, I can assure you. Offending a pig puts it off its feed for at least three days. A true pig-man wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Begonia stretched her last stretch and turned her face toward the grassy pastured fields. One road was probably as good as another, she reasoned, and it was time to get moving. “Goodbye,” she told Key firmly. “You’ve been no help whatsoever, but it was good of you to want to try.”

  “Well, give a fellow a minute to get his things,” protested Key. “It’s no use you leaving in such a rush. I’ll just have to chase after you, and it’s hot enough already. I’ll get sweaty.”

  Begonia halted in her tracks. “Who said anything about you coming along?”

  Key disappeared into the bush and began tossing assorted objects over his shoulder: socks, a comb, a cup, a garlic clove. They flew up out of the bush like butterflies and fluttered to the ground.

  “I told you,” fling, “that I would help you find your cow,” fling, “and the job’s not finished yet.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Begonia said. “I can look for her by myself.”

  “Besides,” fling, fling, “a romantic soul like mine couldn’t possibly allow a damsel in distress to get away from him unhelped.”

  There was no point in encouraging this nuisance. Not another inch. Begonia marched resolutely down the grassy path to the right and called over her shoulder. “I’m not a damsel in distress!”

  Footsteps on the path jogged after her. “Of course you are,” came Key’s panting voice. “Are you happy right now?”

  “No!”

  “See?” He caught up with her and hoisted a shabby gray sack over his shoulder. “You’re distressed. And you’re clearly a damsel. So you’re a damsel in distress. As a romantic, I cannot leave you until you’re happy. It’s in our Code. The Code of the Romantics.”

  “The Code of the what…” Begonia halted. “Wait. You mean, when I’m happy, you’ll leave?”

  Key nodded. “In a very tragic fashion. That makes it all the more romantic.”

  Begonia bunched up her cheeks in the widest, most exaggerated smile she could produce. “Tra-la-la,” she sang brightly through her smile, swinging her skirts about while skipping down the road as her sister Peony would do. “See how happy I am today! The sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy, and I haven’t a care in the world!”

  Key folded his arms across his chest. “You wouldn’t fool a pig with that performance,” he observed, “though, to be fair, pigs aren’t easily fooled.” He picked up his pace. “No, my mind’s made up. I’m here to help.” He waggled a finger in her face. “The Code of the Romantics warns that some damsels may try to pretend they’re not in distress, out of politeness, but a true romantic should help them anyway.”

  Begonia let her false smile melt. “I say your Code is selfish,” she said. “I should be allowed to be unhappy if I want to be.”

  Key scratched his scalp, scattering kindling along their path. “You’ll forgive me for saying so,” he said, “but there’s something wrong in your head. Who would ever want to be unhappy?”

  Begonia quickened her pace. “You make me dizzy.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” replied Key. “We might as well get acquainted. I can’t leave until I’ve done at least one heroic deed for you, and from the looks of things, that could take a while. Now, what’s your name?”

  Begonia glanced at the sun, sailing steadily across the sky, and wondered how much daylight she had left to search for Alfalfa. This boy was harder to get rid of than an upset stomach. She sighed. “My name’s Begonia.”

  Key’s face lit up. “Begonia? A very romantic name.”

  She glared at him. “No, it isn’t. It’s absurd.”

  “I beg to differ. Well, Maid Begonia, where do you come from?”

  “Two Windmills.”

  Key gazed at her in wonder. “You live inside two windmills? One of them for odd days, and the other one for evens?”

  Odd days, indeed. This was the oddest day Begonia could remember. “It’s t
he name of our village.”

  “Ah. A village with two windmills! It must be very prosperous.”

  Begonia scanned the hedgerows, searching for any trace of a white cow. “There’s only one left, now.”

  “And I suppose changing the name of the village to Only One Windmill Now would seem rather embarrassing.”

  Begonia rolled her eyes. “I suppose.”

  “I can picture it,” said Key, gesturing broadly. “A windmill. A farm. A barn. A cow. And you there, in your pink scarf, milking her.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” Begonia said. “Here. Let me show you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the parchment scroll of the mapmaker’s gift to her. She stopped to study it. “See, this is a map of our village. My home is…”

  Key peered over her shoulder. “Your home is where?”

  She looked at him in alarm. “Not there anymore!” She spread the map out wide. “This morning the map showed my house, my barn, all the neighbors’ homes, and Two Windmills. But now it shows nothing of the kind! It’s all strange territory I’ve never seen.”

  Key blinked at the map. “Perhaps you misread it before.”

  She shook her head. “I know my own home, don’t I?”

  “If you do, that makes you luckier than some.”

  Begonia stuffed the scroll back into her pocket and trudged along in deep gloom. Then Key’s last words tickled her memory.

  “Don’t you know your home, Key?” she asked.

  He scratched his nose. “I know it,” he said at length, “better than it knows me. I intend to find a better one.”

  “Oh.” Begonia wasn’t sure what else to say. Leave home to find a better one? Did young people actually do that? The thought had never occurred to her. Leave Mumsy? Leave Peony?… Begonia considered. She wouldn’t want to leave Peony for good, she decided. Just for a day or two, here and there.