The Book of Hidden Wonders by Polly Crosby

Author:Polly Crosby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Park Row Books
Published: 2020-06-18T15:44:55+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

In November, the dew-covered spiderwebs on the lawn were replaced by creeping webs of frost. The beech tree was completely smooth now, the bark long since fallen away, and in the early morning frost it shimmered like a huge snake winding its way through the garden toward the house.

Dad and I lit the fire earlier each afternoon, and spent our mornings on long foraging walks, finding wood we could burn. Dad had developed a particular love of collecting horse chestnuts. They were piled into bowls and lined up on every windowsill in every room of the house, burnished and fat, as if he wanted to stop an impending invasion of spiders.

One particularly cold evening, Dad was watching the news. A man was stepping out of an airplane into the wind and rain, waving at the waiting crowds.

“He is thinner and grayer,” the reporter said. I stopped on my way to bed, caught by the poise of the man as he stood, stooped in the airplane’s doorway. He looked a bit like a skeleton. He was stumbling down the steps now, the skin of his face ashen, his eyes vacant and staring, despite the smile.

“Unsteady on his feet after being chained for five years,” the reporter continued.

“Who is he?” I asked, perching on the arm of the sofa.

“His name’s Terry Waite. He was taken hostage for years,” Dad said.

“How did he escape?”

“They let him go.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they ran out of reasons to keep him. Shh, Romilly, I’m trying to listen.”

Mr. Waite was making a speech. He was wearing a thick coat, but still he looked cold. “One thousand seven hundred and sixty-three days in chains,” he said, looking around at his audience. Something about his eyes scared me. What had they seen?

A picture of a postcard appeared on screen, a colorful stained-glass window. It reminded me of the circular window in my bedroom. The reporter explained how it had reached the hostage in prison, and on the back, the simple message, “We remember. We shall not forget.”

“Sounds like they’d already decided he was dead.” Dad chuckled. He had a sketch pad resting on his knee. He was holding a pen in his hand, absentmindedly tapping the nib against his head as he watched the TV.

“Dad, you’re doing it again,” I said.

“What?” He put his hand to his head and felt beneath his hair. His fingers came away inked in blue.

“Damn,” he said, “I’m so used to doing it with a pencil, I forgot it was a pen.”

“How about if you stop stabbing your head with sharp implements altogether?”

Yesterday I had come across one of his paintbrushes on the kitchen table, snapped in two. I had rolled it between my fingers, brushing it against my skin, dabbing it on my wrists like perfume. Essence of Tobias, I thought.

I looked at my dad now as he touched his fingers to his scalp, frowning at the blue glint that came away on his skin, and I realized with a pang of sadness that I missed the dad from my childhood.

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