Fortune's Magic Farm

  Isabelle braced herself for the inevitable punishment—not a slap or a spanking, but a loss of a privilege.

  “Ya know the rules,” Mama Lu snarled, pointing a soot-stained finger in Isabelle’s face. “No walking around after lights out. Ya just lost yer breakfast privileges.”

  “But…”

  “And you’ll have to pay for my apple,” Gertrude said. “Dish duty at my house for a whole month.”

  “But it wasn’t your apple,” Isabelle blurted. “The bird didn’t drop it on your head.”

  “Why, you little eavesdropping brat,” Gertrude snarled.

  Isabelle hadn’t been in this much trouble since the broken cheese tray incident. She needed a distraction. Just as Mama Lu opened her blackened mouth to decree another punishment, Isabelle pointed at the fireplace where a tiny bit of peat had fallen onto the hearth. “Slug,” she said, trying to sound alarmed.

  “Slug?” Mama Lu cried. She drew the salt canister from her bathrobe pocket and launched herself at the fireplace. Snapping the canister open, she dumped the entire contents onto the little peat ball.

  “Kill it, kill it, kill it!” Gertrude screeched.

  Isabelle raced up the stairs as fast as she could, fleeing the wrath of the landladies.

  It felt as if the stranger’s dark gaze followed her every step of the way.

  The bedroom lights snapped back on at dawn. Isabelle hadn’t slept a wink. How could she have, with visions of sneezing sea monsters, exploding apples, and strangers in hooded capes bouncing around in her head? She reached under her pillow and pulled out the partially eaten apple. Even though the flesh had turned brown, it still looked delicious. She took three huge bites. It still tasted delicious. How nice it would be to have an apple tree growing in the backyard! She could eat apples for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or whenever the urge struck. How lucky her grandmother had been.

  Wiping juice from her chin, Isabelle returned the apple to its hiding place. Grandma Maxine lay in a deep sleep, but she’d soon need breakfast, so Isabelle hurried downstairs with last night’s tray.

  The kitchen floor felt damp and slimy. Wind howled, rattling the panes. Raindrops beat a chaotic rhythm along the gutters. The tenants shuffled in, quiet and sleepy, taking their places at the table. Mr. Wormbottom rubbed his hands together to warm them. Mrs. Limewig held her cup of tea to her pallid cheek. Isabelle cleaned her grandmother’s bowl and spoon at the sink.

  “Good morning, Isabelle,” Boris said.

  “Good morning, Isabelle,” Bert said.

  Isabelle, sleepiest of all, returned their weak smiles, then filled her grandmother’s bowl with cold, lumpy porridge. She poured tea into a cup.

  “That food ain’t fer you,” Mama Lu barked from her throne. She had wrapped a knitted yellow scarf around her neck. A matching knitted yellow hat sat on her head like an oversized egg yolk. “Ya was up to no good last night so ya git nothing.”

  “I’m not eating anything,” Isabelle said. “This is for my grandma.” As much as Isabelle detested the porridge paste, her stomach already missed it.

  “Yer a liar. Ya ruined my dessert,” Mama Lu said, peeling orange wax from a wedge of cheese and flicking the bits onto her tenant’s heads.

  “I didn’t ruin it,” Isabelle blurted. “I didn’t touch the apple. I came downstairs because I heard you scream.”

  “Is ya contradicting me? I say yer a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar.” Isabelle held her breath, trying to control the anger that raced through her. What would the landlady do? Take away her breathing privileges? What else was there to take?

  Mama Lu scowled and leaned over the armrest. The observation chair tipped precariously. “Don’t make me come down there, you unwanted, abandoned little mushroom-growing wretch. ’Cause I will. I’ll come down there and wallop ya on the head with my cheese tray.”

  Isabelle could see right up Mama Lu’s gaping nostrils. She imagined climbing the observation chair’s ladder and shoving a wedge of cheese right up that bulbous nose. But, of course, she didn’t. She couldn’t change the fact that Mama Lu was a tyrant or that her sick old grandmother needed breakfast. So, rather than defending herself further, she hummed a little song to calm herself down while she finished putting together the breakfast tray. And, since she had taught the song to the other tenants, they snickered while she hummed.

  The Mama Lu Song

  All day long she sits in her chair,

  in her fuzzy bathrobe and striped underwear,

  yelling and hollering and making up rules,

  telling us we’re stupid, calling us fools.

  What can we do about Mama Lu?

  We could

  push over her chair,

  stick slugs in her hair,

  flush all of her cheese down the toilet.

  Sneeze in her face,

  track mud in the place,

  take her bathrobe and boil it!

  We could

  dump gruel on her head,

  put slugs in her bed,

  fill both of her slippers with gutter sludge.

  Give her a cold,

  flick her with mold,

  serve her slug poop and tell her it’s fudge.

  “Stop yer humming!” Mama Lu shouted. “Humming and singing all the time. Acting different and special all the time. Growing that stuff on yer head because ya thinks yer more important than anyone else.”

  Isabelle didn’t think she was more important than anyone else, but she certainly knew that she was different—and that was a good thing, especially if it meant being different from Mama Lu. She picked up the breakfast tray and hurried from the kitchen, stepping over a new pile of salt. A brown puddle bubbled at the center of the pile.

  Poor little slug.

  One day, Isabelle hoped, the slugs of Runny Cove would rise up, form an army, and bury Mama Lu in a pile of slime so enormous that a person could dig for days and never find her.

  Back upstairs, Isabelle decided not to wake her sleeping grandmother, so she set the tray on the bedside table, quickly warming the teacup in her hands. After checking on the barnacle, the slugs, and the potato bugs, she retrieved her apple. Using the spoon, she cut another chunk and left it on the breakfast tray. Then she cut four more chunks—one each for Bert, Boris, Leonard, and Gwen—and stuffed them into her shirt pocket. All that remained was the apple’s core, which she ate in two bites, stem and all.

  Take that, Mama Lu! I don’t need your lumpy porridge.

  As she chewed, something caught between her front teeth. She picked out a glossy black seed. How interesting.

  BAROOO! The factory’s horn rang across the village, warning workers that their shifts would begin in half an hour. Isabelle would have to wait to examine the seed—maybe during her lunch break. She tucked it into her sock so she wouldn’t lose it along the way.

  “Don’t be late,” Grandma Maxine muttered, opening her eyes.

  “Are you feeling better?” Isabelle asked. “Do you need my help with the spoon?”

  Grandma Maxine reached out her hand, which Isabelle took. “Yes, I’m feeling better. Go now or you’ll be late.” She closed her eyes again.

  Her grandmother had never lied to her before. So, if she said she was feeling better then she must be, which was very good news. And yet, she looked as gray and shrunken as ever. “Be sure to eat all of it,” Isabelle said, just before rushing out the door.

  Boris and Bert sat on the entryway bench, pulling on their rubber boots. Mama Lu, still in her observation chair, was building a cheese tower, so she didn’t notice when Isabelle slipped the apple chunks to the twins. Their blue eyes ignited mischievously. “Thank you,” they whispered, happily gumming the fruit.

  All along Boggy Lane, workers emerged from their boardinghouses. Slickers zipped to their chins, hoods tied securely, they formed a human stream. Fighting a strong headwind, they pushed their way through the village tired step after tired step, past the boarded-up schoolhouse and past the old f
ish market with its collapsed roof. They pushed past a vacant café and a vacant hardware store, ghosts from a time that only the old ones remembered. In the distance, the factory’s cement towers pierced the low-hanging clouds.

  Isabelle scanned the street, hoping to see the stranger so she could find out who he was. If he came from far away he might know about Nowhere. But alas, no sign of him.

  Gwen waited outside Gertrude’s Boardinghouse like she usually did. She and Isabelle walked behind the other workers so they wouldn’t be overheard. “You won’t believe what happened to me yesterday,” she said, hooking her arm through Isabelle’s. They pressed close, whispering beneath the rain’s clatter.

  “I know all about it. Gertrude brought your apple to Mama Lu’s last night.”

  “She did?” Curls of gray hair fell across Gwen’s sad eyes. She wiped her runny nose. “I hate Gertrude. I didn’t get any breakfast because she said that I stole the apple. I didn’t steal it.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “I feel even sadder than I usually feel.”

  “I know you didn’t steal the apple. But don’t be sad. It turned black when Gertrude tried to eat it.”

  “Really? It turned black?” Gwen’s mouth fell open.

  “Yep. It exploded right in her face.” Both girls giggled, a rare sound in Runny Cove. “But there’s more good news. Look.” Isabelle reached beneath her slicker, into her shirt pocket, then handed Gwen a chunk. “I got an apple too, but mine didn’t explode.”

  Gwen didn’t bother asking questions. She eagerly popped the chunk into her mouth. “It’s sooooo good.”

  As they walked, and as Gwen chewed, Isabelle told her about the sea monster with the dangly nose and about Leonard’s cat.

  “That’s so weird,” Gwen said.

  “It’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened.”

  “Except for you being left on a doorstep.”

  “Yeah. Except for that.” Isabelle wiped rain from her eyes. “We need to talk to Leonard. Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

  They turned off Soaked Street and started up the steep gravel road that led to the factory. Suddenly, an eerie sensation crept over Isabelle, tickling the back of her neck, but not in a nice way. Why did she feel as if someone was watching her?

  “Gwen?”

  “Yeah?” Gwen wiped a slug from her sleeve.

  “There was this man wearing a cape, standing on Gertrude’s porch last night. Does she have a new tenant?”

  “No. Maybe she has a new boyfriend.” Gwen rolled her eyes and pretended to upchuck. Isabelle giggled again. They loved making fun of Gertrude’s boyfriend, Mr. Hench. Whenever he kissed Gertrude, the slurping sound was so loud it seemed as if he might suck her face right off.

  BEEP, BEEP.

  Startled, Isabelle and Gwen scampered to the roadside, expecting a delivery truck to pass by. Trucks delivered supplies to the factory store, the only place in Runny Cove to buy food and sundries. Trucks hauled boxed umbrellas from the factory, taking them to towns that the workers had never seen.

  BEEP, BEEP.

  But it wasn’t a truck. Mr. Supreme’s sleek black roadster sped up the road. The license plate read: IMRICH. Mr. Supreme occasionally visited Runny Cove to inspect his factory. He didn’t live in the village. He didn’t have to.

  BAROOO!

  The factory’s horn sounded the five-minute warning. Mr. Supreme’s roadster churned up mud, splattering the fronts of the girls’ rain slickers. He neither stopped to apologize nor offered the girls a ride. He didn’t care about manners. He didn’t need to.

  “We’d better hurry,” Isabelle said, coughing from the thick exhaust fumes.

  The girls ran toward the factory.

  And as they ran, the seed, still tucked inside Isabelle’s sock, began to vibrate.

  After hanging up their slickers and tying their grimy aprons around their waists, the girls lined up with the other workers along the wall of a huge cement room. The apple seed continued to vibrate, just enough to make Isabelle want to scratch her leg. Mr. Hench stood on his security balcony. A metal badge shone on his gray uniform. Isabelle tapped her boot on the water-stained floor, trying to shake the seed into a less itchy position. Leonard stood at the far end of the line. I can hardly wait to tell him, she thought. He waved but there wasn’t time to give him the apple chunk. Mr. Supreme had sauntered into the room. Everyone froze.

  Mr. Supreme handed his black umbrella to one of his many sniveling assistants—a nameless cluster of men who wore long white coats and stuck to the boss like barnacles. Mr. Supreme plunked a yellow hard hat on his head, then dropped a cigar stump onto the floor. His glossy black trench coat crunched as he walked up and down the line, twirling his driving gloves as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps having lots of money made it possible to live a life without worry.

  Isabelle didn’t like Mr. Supreme, not because he sprayed mud on girls without apologizing, but because he was stingy. As owner of the Magnificently Supreme Umbrella factory, he controlled the paychecks of almost every person in Runny Cove and he barely paid them enough to survive. As owner of the only store in Runny Cove, he supplied life’s necessities—except for umbrellas. Never, ever did Mr. Supreme’s Factory store sell umbrellas. Therefore, the people who actually made the umbrellas never got to use them, and that made no sense to Isabelle.

  With Gwen and Leonard’s help, Isabelle had made up a little song about Mr. Supreme. As he sneered at his employees, the song ran through her head.

  The Mr. Supreme Song

  We work in your factory all day,

  in exchange for our pitiful pay.

  But what would we do if we didn’t have you?

  Three jeers for Mr. Supreme

  (he’s a stinker),

  three jeers for Mr. Supreme.

  You seem like a mean sort of fella,

  standing under your big black umbrella.

  But what would we do if we didn’t have you?

  Three jeers for Mr. Supreme

  (he’s a pooper),

  three jeers for Mr. Supreme.

  Mr. Supreme, Mr. Supreme,

  I bet your life is just like a dream.

  With your boots and cigars and your big fancy cars,

  you’re a stinker, Mr. Supreme.

  Gwen gave Isabelle a sharp poke with her elbow. “You’re humming too loud,” she whispered.

  Up and down the line the boss strode, smiling smugly at the quivering workers. “Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” His voice rolled across the cement room like a tsunami.

  “Good morning, Mr. Supreme, sir,” the workers chanted.

  Isabelle shook her leg. That seed was driving her nuts.

  He halted, resting his hands behind his back, and cleared his throat disapprovingly. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “GOOD MORNING, MR. SUPREME, SIR!”

  “That’s better, but not good enough.” He stuck out his cleft chin. “So, let’s try that again. Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” He put his hand to his ear.

  The workers screamed, “GOOD MORNING, MAGNIFICENTLY SUPREME FACTORY EMPLOYEES!” Then they put their hands to their ears.

  Mr. Supreme frowned. “Stupidest bunch of workers I’ve got,” he murmured to one of his assistants.

  “Stupidest,” the assistant agreed.

  The boss stuffed his driving gloves into his pocket. “I have something glorious to show you,” he announced to the workers. “Something that will insure my factory’s future and thus, your futures.” He clapped his hands together.

  A smallish assistant scurried in, carrying a closed umbrella. Before taking the umbrella, Mr. Supreme whipped a canister from his pocket. It didn’t read: SALT, like Mama Lu’s canister. Rather, it read: ANTIBACTERIAL WIPES. He proceeded to wipe down the umbrella’s handle. “Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees, behold the future.”

  Mr. Supreme held the closed umbrella above his head. Isabelle and Gwen ex
changed shrugs. It looked like the same black metal-framed umbrella the factory had produced for as long as they could remember. What could possibly be glorious about a black umbrella?

  Mr. Supreme pulled off the umbrella’s black sheath and pushed a little lever. The umbrella swooshed open. Transfixed, no one moved. No one breathed. Then a chorus of “Ahhhh,” and “Ooooh,” echoed off the cement walls. For what had appeared to be an ordinary black umbrella was neither ordinary nor black. Radiant red, brighter than the mysterious apples, shone above Mr. Supreme’s head.

  A trio of assistants hurried around the room, handing umbrellas to the workers. “These are the prototypes. Open them!” Mr. Supreme exclaimed.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

  Isabelle removed her umbrella’s cover and pressed the lever. Royal purple erupted above her head. Silver beads dangled from the umbrella’s edges, tinkling magically. Gwen basked beneath gold, Mr. Wormbottom beneath amber. Mrs. Wormbottom twirled a turquoise number with yellow tassels. Lime, silver, chocolate, and vanilla danced in the air. The usually colorless faces of the factory’s workers reflected the umbrella colors in a way that was both awesome and terrifying. Everyone started talking at once.

  Isabelle closed her umbrella and darted between the excited workers. Sure, she felt as amazed as they did, but she had something more important on her mind.

  “Leonard,” she called. Leonard’s entire face, including his birthmark, glowed as pink as the umbrella he stood beneath. Some people called him ugly, but Isabelle was so used to the birthmark she barely noticed it. “Here.” She pulled the apple chunk from her shirt pocket. “Don’t let anyone see. It’s from an apple. It’s for you.”

  Like Gwen, Leonard popped the chunk into his mouth.

  “Tell me about your apple,” she said.

  He swallowed. “Huh? How did you know about it?”

  “Mr. Hench told Gertrude.” Isabelle bounced on her toes, as much from excitement as from that pesky seed. “I don’t have time to explain. Just tell me, did you really find it under a cat?”