The Jam Maker

By Jean Cross

"You must accept that this knowledge will change you forever, for the world is not as it seems." So warns Eloueese Turtlewine as she reveals the secret of Splickety Mountain. But why has she chosen to pass it on? Who has she told and which way will they turn as the valley is overrun by the forces of Ruba, a powerful and cunning enemy?
Among the handful of villagers free to fight are flying teenagers Bernie and Joxey Brownfeather who must outwit Ruba in a desperate bid to free their neighbours and save their home. As the final confrontation looms, the Brownfeathers discover that this ancient secret has touched their family before. Can the youngsters pull it off? And who is Eloueese Turtlewine?

The Jam Maker has strong female characters. The heroine, Bernie Brownfeahter, and her friend Tawanda Millington are pivotal in the struggle and older women are portrayed as capable and often wise. The villain, Ruba, is also a woman. While proving able and competent, Bernie struggles to find her place in her community, she is a young teenager, striving to live up to what she perceives as the demands of the adult world. In Splickety Village this could mean anything from securing all your clothing when you fly, so nothing falls out on the people below, to taking on the vital task of making the jam for the Important Person From Far Away Festival. As it turns out, Bernie and her friend take on a lot more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean Cross
• Release date: Aug 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370327799

Jean Cross

I was born in Dublin, Ireland, in the late nineteen-fifties. I emigrated to London in my twenties and worked there until the end of the twentieth century. Which sounds epic-like, but it was actually a matter of fifteen years or so. By that time, I had had it with cities and when I returned to Ireland with my partner, we found a lovely little home in County Mayo, in the rural west of the country. When I say little, I mean it. Four rooms in total and that's counting the kitchenette and the bathroom! On the bright side, I can vacuum the entire house without having to change the socket. Outside is a different story. We have two and a half acres of land. Granted it is extremely rocky, but the grass grows well and we have a large polytunnel where I grow vegetable and plants for sale. Politically, I am a feminist, which for me means I want to see a world where people come before profit and where all human interaction is underpinned with respect for and appreciation of others. I believe that everybody is good a something and that when we all cooperate, we can be sublime. In recent years I have been involved in the fight for marriage equality in Ireland. Which we won. When in London, I completed a couple of degrees which focused on Women's Studies, History and Philosophy. I remain very interested in those subjects but my main focus now is writing. I have written one book and co-authored two others. Currently, I am working on a sequel to The Jam Maker in addition to finishing my third collaboration. .

Book preview

Chapter One

Three Days to Go

Eloueese Turtlewine sat up in her bed and proclaimed, There’s no such thing as Tuesday.

Eloueese Turtlewine often began the day after Monday by treating herself to a prolonged mumbly grumble, which in her opinion was the best kind.

Now I'll have to spend the whole day pretending it's Tuesday, just because everyone says it is! she told her towel as she removed it from the shiny brass hook in the bathroom.

I've a good mind to go straight into Wednesday. Now, there's a good old useful day, she muttered as she reached the kitchen.

But… She reconsidered as she mashed her bananas. If I did that, I'd just get ahead of everyone and eventually, I suppose, I'd have to sit in a chair and wait for them to catch up. Don't want to do that again.

Better to pretend it's Tuesday. She conceded to her toast as she spread the creamy butter. Her final comment on the phenomenon of Tuesday, before breakfast, came as she sat to eat.

It's just a hole in the week, and I've never seen a hole that didn't cause trouble eventually, she observed as she pulled her chair in tight to the table.

This proclivity for trouble was only one of the reasons Eloueese Turtlewine did not like Tuesdays. In her view, Tuesdays were tricky and it was often impossible to tell whether you were in big trouble or small trouble until you were up to your nostrils in it, and, this week of all weeks, Eloueese Turtlewine had no time for difficulties of any size.

This week, Splickety Village was hosting the Important Person from Far Away Festival and as a member of the Committee to Organise Everything for the Important Person from Far Away Festival, Eloueese Turtlewine had lots of work to do. Some of this work she had reluctantly scheduled for the void, as her diary listed what most other diaries referred to as Tuesday, and she was keen to get started. She tidied up quickly, glanced around to make sure everything was where it should be, and was about to leave when she realized her glance had caught something odd. She turned back and looked out through her large kitchen window.

A small piece of paper was wafting slowly, carelessly, most certainly into her back garden. She stood quite still and watched it brush her cornflowers, rise, fall, and run along the tips of the grass, rise again and settle finally on the straw she had arranged to protect her strawberries. The small piece of paper blended so well with the yellowy-coloured straw that she would not have been able to tell it was there had she not witnessed the final stages of its journey to that spot.

Typical, she mused out loud. This is just the sort of thing that happens on a Tuesday.

She took a deep breath, marched stiffly across her kitchen, slung open her door, and strode into her long, orderly back garden. She went directly to her strawberries, paused to consider how well they were coming along, then swooshed down to pick up the scrap of paper. She was about to scrunch it up when she noticed the words.

You should not

interfere

this time.

She looked up. The beautiful bright sky was clear in all directions. She turned left and then right. She could see no one. Nothing stirred but the leaves as a summer gust coursed through the valley, which stretched out beyond the stone wall at the end of her garden. Her shoulders sank and she sighed.

She's back, was all she said audibly. This would be a big trouble Tuesday after all.

Eloueese Turtlewine folded the warning and put it into her waistcoat pocket, took one more look at the sky, and returned to her kitchen. There she sat at her table and opened the little drawer tucked just under the middle of the tabletop. She removed a small piece of paper, wrote a note, and left immediately for the post office.

***

Bernie Brownfeather was getting ready to leave her house and had just put the last of fifteen bobbins in her cropped hair. She had done up her buttons, put elastic bands around the bottom of her sleeves and trousers, made sure the strap on her bag was tightly secured, and fastened her shoe buckles on the last notch.

Bobbins, buttons, bands, bag, buckles… bobbins, buttons, bands, bag, buckles, she repeated to herself as she patted her head, pulled out the front of her cardigan so she could check her buttons, stretched the elastic bands around the bottoms of her limbs, which stung a little when she let them go—making her twitch and grimace—tapped the bag on her hip, and swung each foot up behind her back to touch her buckle.

Bother! What’s the other one? I’m going to be late.

She took a deep breath, released it slowly, and started again, calmly and deliberately this time.

Bobbinnnns, buttonnnns… It worked. Belt, she exclaimed as she snapped her red belt from the back of the chair and quickly put it on, murmuring, Belt, belt, belt, belt, belt.

Bernie Brownfeather was rushing to school.

The fact that it was a Tuesday morning had little bearing on the matter. Bernie Brownfeather rushed to school every morning. It didn’t help that every day her granny caught her just as she was about to bolt out of the door to remind her of what her granny always used to say.

Now, Bernie, she’d say, remember what my granny always used to say. She always used to say, The hurrier I go, the behinder I get. It's so true, Bernie. Someday you’ll understand.

Maybe so, Gran, Bernie Brownfeather would think, but I’ll never understand why you have to hold me back when I’m late for school to tell me about it. But she never said that to her granny. What she’d usually say was something like, Thanks, Gran. Love you. Have to fly. That was exactly what she said on this, so far, ordinary Tuesday morning, and it was true. She was grateful to her granny, she did love her, and she did have to fly to get to school on time.

On the whole, Bernie Brownfeather was glad she was one of the flyers of Splickety Village, but she was mature enough to realize flying could be difficult, sometimes dangerous, and could really mess up your hair. Forget about wearing hats. Bernie Brownfeather had lost so many hats. If you didn’t button up your cardigan tightly, it could come flapping off. There was always the danger of bumping into small birds, which were difficult to see until they were very close, and if you so much as touched them they got so angry about it. More often than not, something would fall out of an unguarded pocket, or a shoe would come off and land on someone’s picnic.

Bernie Brownfeather had devoted some time to figuring out how to fly safely and without losing things. She had developed a routine she called the six b’s to minimise the risk associated with flight. These days she never took off without going through her safety protocol, and it seemed to be working. She hadn’t crashed or lost anything for a long time, and on this bright Tuesday morning, her admittedly hurried journey to school was proceeding without incident.

***

Bernie Brownfeather flew high over the village. Before she began her descent, she could see all three schools in the vicinity. In the distance was St. Felicity's School for Littleyears Children, where her brother Billy and the other young children of the village attended. St. Felicity’s was named after St. Felicity, patron saint of sensible shoes, boots, and hikers. The Head Teacher, David Davenport, was pleased to have the very boots of St. Felicity in his care. The boots had been housed in a beautiful glass case under the Grand Entrance Arch of the school for some time.

As she veered left, she couldn't help but notice that only a few stragglers remained outside of her little brother's school. The same was true of St. Ceciltine the Martyr's School for Biggeryears Children, where her older brother, Joxey, was by now sitting behind his desk, chatting and joking as he waited with his classmates. St. Ceciltine's was named in commemoration of St. Ceciltine the Martyr, who is said to have swallowed his own dagger and died in a just cause. The actual dagger of St. Ceciltine can be seen in the Grand Hall of St. Ceciltine’s School to this day, but nobody knows how it got there. The Head Teacher, Precilipe Twinepitter, is said to have repelled an intruder with the very dagger of St. Ceciltine one dark winter evening, but she will neither confirm nor deny the rumour.

To Bernie Brownfeather's relief, there were still several children chatting in the yard of St. Hubert's School for Middleyears Children as she approached. The school was named for St. Hubert, the Best-Dressed Saint. St. Hubert's fine cloak is kept in a glass case in the Grand Chamber of St. Hubert’s, and as the principal, Dorothy Silkfingers, is very pleased to tell visitors, it is a wonder to marvel at.

The flying scholar turned her thoughts to her landing. She reached with her left hand and opened a powder compact, which had been empty for a very long time and which was strapped to her outstretched right wrist. She was about to initiate daytime landing protocol, or DTLP as she had decided to refer to the manoeuvres if she was ever asked to write a flight manual to instruct the younger fliers. First, she checked her compact mirror. There were no impediments behind her. Then she picked out her landing spot and began her descent towards it. It was a simple procedure, but she had learned the hard way that landings could get you into trouble if you did not concentrate on what you were doing.

Before she had begun using DTLP, descents had caused all sorts of embarrassing situations. More than once she had misjudged the final stages and ended up astride someone’s shoulders. Just last year, during the Bring the Beets Festival, she had brought down a big tent full of villagers eating doughnuts. On one very unfortunate occasion, Bernie Brownfeather had landed on a small copper dog called Misty. Misty couldn’t walk anymore and though the vet said it was all in his mind, Bernie Brownfeather blamed herself. It was soon after the crippling of Misty that she began to work on her flying protocols. Now she considered herself to be the safest flyer in the greater Splickety area. She touched ground outside the school gate, as flying inside any of the school grounds was strictly forbidden.

Bernie, didn’t you see us waving?

Why do you always look so serious when you fly?

Tawanda Millington and Lindy Looseplates greeted their friend with questions, as was very often the case.

Listen, she said, you two know very well that flying is a difficult endeavour and has to be rendered safe before it can be properly enjoyed.

Then how come your brother makes it look so easy? asked Lindy Looseplates. Just then a loud noise echoed around the schoolyard. Bernie Brownfeather did not answer the question.

C’mon, it’s last clang. We’d better go in, prompted Tawanda Millington as she made the first move towards the front door. In a moment, all three entered the building.

Once inside, Lindy Looseplates began to moan.

I hate jam. I’m just no good at it. I don’t see why we all have to do it. It’s not fair, she said in a whiny voice as she slumped slowly down the corridor to the jam lab.

Bernie, do something to save me from jam. I’ll never make it once I leave school, so why do I have to learn about it now? I can’t bear jam!

She was still going on about it as they turned to enter the lab. But her friend was hardly listening, for Bernie Brownfeather loved jam and had made lots of the stuff with her granny. Now she was looking forward to learning some of the more academic aspects of preserving fruit.

In jam class, they were going to cover the jams that should be made, the jams that should not be made, and how to make a jam that should be made. The friends sat down and reached into their satchels for their jam books. It was then that Bernie Brownfeather realized she had left hers on the table in her room. Tawanda Millington shoved her copy between the pair of them and they shared. Like Bernie Brownfeather’s, Tawanda Millington’s jam book had been well referenced. Her grandmother had used it as a student and it was tatty and stained. Hopefully, Bernie Brownfeather thought, those old stains were from the jams that should be made.

Although Bernie Brownfeather had been looking forward to jam class, she had no idea of just how tricky jam could get until Rose Regent began to read from chapter one, The Principles of Wholesome Jam. Not only were there the jams that should be made and the jams that should not be made, but then there were the jams that should be made but only on certain days, and the jams that should not be made unless swans were swimming on Roundypool Lake. Jam, she thought, it can get so complicated!

So, Rose Regent was saying suddenly, who can tell me where I should pick the ribbles for round ribble jam if I have picked the cherries on the edge of Ubble Field? Let’s see… Bernie Brownfeather!

For a moment, the girl was startled. Then something she had read the previous evening jumped into her head and she found herself saying, Ribbles for round ribble jam should usually be picked along the Long Lane. However, if the fruit is early, some ribbles from Cumbersome Corner should be added to sweeten the mix.

Well done, Bernie. Splendid. Clearly you know your jam. As Jam Teacher, I’ve been asked to select a pupil to make round ribble jam for the Important Person from Far Away Festival, which, as you know, will be held this coming Friday. Bernie Brownfeather, I’m so pleased to tell you that you are that pupil!

Bernie Brownfeather stared at her teacher. Eh, thank you, Rose Regent, she said.

Well done! I know you’ll do a good job, and if you like, you can pick someone to help. Now if you’ll all get your pots, we’ll be off to collect our round ribbles. Then we’ll have lunch, and in the afternoon we’ll make our jam. Just in time for you all to take it home for tea. Splendid. Splendid.

In a few moments, the chatty band had left the school and crossed the wide unpaved Hoof Breath, which had long been rendered level by the passing of cattle.

As they trooped down the Lane With no Name, Tawanda Millington was thinking about the lemony frizzcake in her school bag and wondered how long the berry picking might take. She ran up behind Bernie Brownfeather and asked, Bernie, do you…?

Whereupon Bernie Brownfeather screamed, threw her pot in the air, and shrieked, I couldn't possibly! Oh lors, Twan, it’s you.

What in the blue blazes is up with you? asked a bemused Tawanda Millington.

Blue, don’t mention blue! Round ribble jam is made with blueberries. I’ve got to make it for the festival and Rose Regent thinks I can do it, but I couldn't possibly make festival jam!

Okay, okay, try to stay calm. Don’t worry. It’s just a pot of jam.

Stay calm? Just a pot of jam? Are you kidding? Bernie Brownfeather protested.

Clearly it’s the most important pot of jam the world has ever known, and I’m supposed to make it. Everyone thinks I’m good at jam, but I'm not that good.

Well, you did know where to pick the fruit when Rose Regent asked, her friend replied.

I just remembered a bit from my jam book. When Rose Regent was listing the things you need to know to make perfect jam, I was thinking about flying suits.

Really? said Tawanda Millington, whose newest idea was to procure a flying suit, although she couldn’t actually fly herself.

What colour?

Red, with… oh no! Cherries are red!

They were back where they had started. Before Bernie Brownfeather could work herself into another jam frenzy, her friend took over.

Look, she said, this is what we’ll do. We’ll pick fruit, have lunch, and then we’ll make a pot of jam. Rose Regent will be there to help, and we’ll have my book to follow the recipe and that will be that.

Bernie Brownfeather began a slight rhythmic nod as her friend continued.

We’ll have it done by going home time, and we can do it together again for the festival. I’ll come around to yours tonight and we’ll practice. There. Sorted.

Bernie Brownfeather took a deep breath, dropped her shoulders, exhaled, and said, Okay, it’s a good plan, Twan. That’s what we’ll do, then. C’mon, let’s catch up to Lindy.

She picked up her pot and the two hurried to rejoin the group.

***

Higher, higher, higherrr. That’s it, just there! No, lower, lowerrr. Stop!

Hugh DeGrew knew almost everything. He was famous for it. He too was on the Committee to Organise Everything for the Important Person from Far Away Festival, which was the most important of all the festival committees. At this very moment, Hugh DeGrew was supposed to be deciding the exact right height for the wavy banners that would line the route of the parade. Peety Parsons was helping him string a silvery rope between the trees on either side of Wickery Boulevard.

Hugh DeGrew had not always lived in Splickety Village. He was what local people referred to as breeze borne, meaning someone who started out somewhere else, someone who could have landed anywhere. But Hugh DeGrew landed in Splickety Village and was very glad to have done so. He got on well with almost everybody, and almost everybody dropped into his bookshop from time to time to browse, to chat, or just to ask him a question. And for the most part, Hugh DeGrew was happy to provide an answer.

As Hugh DeGrew and Peety Parsons moved along the line of trees, no one around him could have guessed that Hugh DeGrew was not thinking about the correct height for the next wavy banner. There were only two people living in the greater Splickety area that could have guessed accurately at what, besides the festival, might be exercising the mind of Hugh DeGrew. His thoughts were drawn to the pair. Firstly, there was Eloueese Turtlewine. He had known her for a very long time. He had known her before either of them had settled in Splickety Village. Then he began to consider the other…

Sorry, what was that? he asked, turning to see who had interrupted his flow.

I SAID, DO YOU THINK THE FINE WEATHER WILL HOLD FOR THE FESTIVAL, HUGH? The enquiry had come from Sam Spanial. Sam Spanial was the postman for Splickety Valley and he was standing on the other side of Wickery Boulevard.

IT WILL, SAM. IT’LL BE A FINE DAY ALL RIGHT, the bookshop owner confirmed. Then he looked up at the sky and considered what he saw there.

THOUGH WE MAY HAVE A HEAVY DEW TO START OUT, he added to complete the forecast.

The postman gave him a wide, nodding smile and a hearty thumbs-up before waving and getting underway once more. Hugh DeGrew stood for a moment and watched him go. Then he turned again to the task at hand and the patient Peety Parsons and his own thoughts.

***

Joxey Brownfeather soared high above Splickety Road. Joxey Brownfeather loved everything about flying. He loved the air rushing through his hair and his clothes; he loved the feeling of the thermals buoying him up. He loved gliding over the landscape. He was going to miss all of it. He waved good-bye to his friends and veered off towards his home. He landed about a mile from his house, which was situated on Flast Turn. Flast Turn was so named because it was the first and last turn after or before the village, depending on if you were coming or going, and seemed to cover both possibilities equally well.

He had started this practice of walking some months previously. He wanted to get used to using his legs over distances while he could still take to the skies if he felt too grounded. Joxey Brownfeather was getting quite good at walking distances. But he had yet to complete the mile on foot.

He snapped a small twig from a dry bush and began to twirl it absentmindedly as he walked. He was one of the lucky ones. Not all kids could fly. The fact that his ability could leave him any day was the price he had to pay for this good luck.

That is how it is, he told himself as he made his way through the glow of the early evening, raising the twig emphatically to reinforce the point. Some kids could fly until they were sixteen or so. Few ever got past their sixteenth birthday with their ability intact. He could accept that. He couldn’t accept that. Despite what he told himself, he could hardly bear the thought of not being able to fly, and again he let himself wonder if there was a way.

There was one person in the village who might be able to help, but the youngster was reluctant to approach him. The eldest Brownfeather liked Hugh DeGrew, and Hugh DeGrew seemed to be fond of him, but still the boy was hesitant. Being grounded was a sign of growing up, he reminded himself as he scuffed the tip of his brown leather shoe on the road, sending a dusty pebble off to a less conspicuous location. Joxey Brownfeather was worried that it might appear childish or silly to want to keep flying as a young adult. But how could he just let it go? If there were chance. If all it took was a question.

One certainty was that if he were going to ask the question, it would have to be soon. As he rounded the last bend, he could see the first flickers of the familiar lights of his home, and he pictured his granny lighting the lamps that would shine down on the white linen tablecloth and the deep crusty pie that would be steaming there by now. Whoosh! Up he went, leaving the road far beneath him. He did a flamboyant arc and flew off through the twilight in the direction of the village. Joxey Brownfeather was far too focused on his visit with Hugh DeGrew to notice the small figure who rose behind him and settled in to cruise in his flight path.

***

Merly Milkeypockets was put out and pacing.

And do you know what that Tawanda Millington said? Only that Bernie Brownfeather was better than me at jam and that she’d make the best pot of round ribble for the Important Person from Far Away that had ever been made, by anyone, ever! Can you believe the cheek?

She turned at the sink.

Everyone knows I’m the best at jam! Rose Regent said I was the best young jam maker she had ever seen. Anyway, round ribble is so easy. If you really want to see who is best at jam, try making fernfruit and sugarfur.

She turned at the door.

I’m the only one who got it right last year. That’s why I was picked to make it for the Bring the Beets Festival, and everyone loved it! Cecilia Sottercide said the Jam Tent was the highlight of the festival for her. She enjoyed it even more than the treacle toffee tea explosion. Everyone said the same thing. They loved my jam!

She turned at the sink.

Yes, Merly. Her mother interrupted the verbal onslaught. I know how good you are at jam, and you did a great job last year for the Bring the Beets Festival, but you know that it’s always someone from the senior year in St. Hubert’s that is chosen to make the festival jam, and you’re in St. Ceciltine’s now. This year your job is to help make the wavy banners and that’s a very important task. Just think how many people will be on the streets of Splickety Village, enjoying the bright festival colours.

Grinndy Milkeypockets was pleased, not to mention surprised, to see that she was getting through to her daughter, who had slowed to a contemplative pace, no longer reaching either the sink or the door before tuning slowly and all the while nodding and smiling to herself. Her mother was far too busy concentrating on sewing the swirly design onto the wavy banner that Merly Milkeypockets had brought home from school to understand that her daughter’s calm demeanour had nothing to do with her own wise words, but was rather born of the child’s delight in her sudden realization that she could spoil Bernie Brownfeather’s jam and make everyone sorry that she had been picked for the honour in the first place. Not only that, but she could do it in a memorable manner. Leaving her mother to finish sewing the wavy banner, she went to her room, took her flying suit from her wardrobe, laid it out on her bed, and sat down to think through the details of her plan. After all, she was a clever girl, and a clever girl should leave nothing to chance.

Chapter Two

Tuesday Night

So, said Charlie Milkeypockets, the Important Person should be taken on a tour of all three schools to view the relics prior to the parade. Are we all in agreement, then?

Amid the round of quiet affirmations and nods of approval rose a single voice of dissent.

Not quite, Charlie, said Eloueese Turtlewine, shifting forward in her seat and interlocking her fingers on the large oval table.

I can’t help thinking that it would be a waste of time to include the boots of St. Felicity, even though they have been so recently restored by the Committee to Restore the Boots of St. Felicity. After all—she raised her palms and turned her head slightly in acknowledgement of the objections she was about to evoke—recent revelations show that we can’t even be sure they were ever worn by the saint.

As she expected, most of the members of the Committee to Organise Everything for the Important Person from Far Away Festival broke into protest, and the table was quickly awash with indignation.

Eloueese! exclaimed her good friend Familia Frondbottom, who sat beside her. How could you possibly say such a thing? You know there’s no truth at all in that nasty, nasty book, and I don’t know why, she continued, turning to Hugh DeGrew, you insist on keeping it on your shelves.

Well, er, to be fair, Familia, Charlie Milkeypockets interjected, the author is a renowned scholar and she did not actually say that…

She said quite enough Charlie! Orran Bunberry declared before turning to Eloueese Turtlewine to add his surprise and disappointment to the hubbub. Though, he soon found himself stuck and broke off before he would have to couple the words boots and fake in the same sentence.

The verbal protests continued for some minutes, but Eloueese Turtlewine was not listening, nor was she interested. She was looking directly at the only other silent person in the room, and Hugh DeGrew was looking right back at her. Having accomplished what she set out to achieve, she relented, or so she let it seem.

Well, yes, I suppose you are all right. There is no need to speculate on the matter now, and the littleyears children will be disappointed if the Important Person doesn’t stop at their school. Yes Charlie, I think we are all agreed.

The committee discussed all other matters pertaining to the festival in an amicable fashion and then retired for the evening, having agreed to reconvene for their final meeting at seven p.m. on Wednesday. They left Splickety Hall in small groups that made their way across the back lawns towards the village.

Eloueese, what was all that about? Familia Frondbottom asked of her friend as they crossed Buckle Bridge, which spanned the Tribulet and joined the gardens of the Windy Stairs Hotel with the grounds of Splickety Hall. The Windy Stairs was named for the strange whistle that was first heard on the afternoon the stairs were completed and on several occasions since. Each time, the whistle was accompanied by a gust, which was apt to overturn the small vase of wild flowers the proprietor liked to see on the tiny table as the stairs turned to the second landing. Familia Frondbottom owned and ran the Windy Stairs Hotel with her daughter Spindy Frondbottom.

I’m sure I do not know to what you refer, Frondbottom, replied Eloueese Turtlewine with an exaggerated air of superiority, but she couldn’t keep it up and sighed. I don’t really know, Familia. To tell the truth, I suppose I just wanted to see what would happen.

Sometimes Elly, I just don’t think you are one of us, but I’ll say this much. You’re spicy. And I love that. I just never know what to expect. In some ways, you are as predictable as anyone else, and then you’ll let go of the steering wheel just to see where you land up, she said, shrugging her shoulders and displaying two upturned palms in a gesture of bewilderment.

Listen Elly, she continued, drawing closer to her friend, there is something that’s been on my mind for quite a while now, and I do feel it is better to say these things rather than concoct all sorts of notions in one's head, dear. Don’t you?

Yes Familia, I certainly do. If you have something to say, then say it. It’s ridiculous not to.

They stopped beneath the first-floor balconies at the back of the hotel. Familia Frondbottom took a deep breath and turned to look directly at her friend.

Well, she started, remember last year when you were running the treacle toffee tea stall at the Bring the Beets Festival and the urn exploded, lifting the canvas tent high in the air and spewing treacle toffee tea in all directions?

Yes dear, everyone loved it. You know how they like their treacle toffee tea, replied Eloueese Turtlewine, brushing some invisible dust from her sleeve.

Yes, they did, and the Beets Committee want to do it again next year, though in a more controlled way. My point is that I think you made it happen… on purpose. You see, I was just coming into the tent to ask if you wanted a break and I saw you lift the lid of the urn and drop something in just before the explosion happened. At the time, I supposed it was hazelnut flavouring, and I remember thinking, There she goes with her hazelnut flavouring. Doesn’t she realize not everybody likes it as much as she does? In fact, I was about to go and tell you just that when the tent lifted straight up into the air, propelled by the urn. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of the three Brownfeather children, who knows who the canvas might have landed on?

Yes, yes, the clever Brownfeathers saved the day and no harm done. Well, we seem to have arrived at the good old Windy Stairs. I’m not coming in for a round of turnabout unless you stop accusing me of being a batty old bird who blows things up, said Eloueese Turtlewine, hunching her shoulders.

I don’t think you’re batty, and I know you would never blow anything up, not really. We’ve been friends for a very long time Elly, and if there is something going on, I think you should tell me.

Eloueese Turtlewine looked her friend directly in the eyes and made a decision. There is nothing to tell, Familia, nothing.

C’mon then, said Familia Frondbottom, linking her friend's arm and steering her towards the backdoor of the Windy Stairs Hotel. It’s time for turnabout.

***

The sign above Hugh DeGrew’s establishment read:

Lane’s End Bookshop for Books and Maps Pertinent to All Things, All Places and All People.

As he stood under it fumbling for his keys, his mind still lingered on the meeting he had just left. Then he realized he hadn’t actually locked the door. He went through and reached for the light switch. Suddenly, there was a shuffling noise from the back room and startled though he was, Hugh DeGrew thought he saw a familiar profile in the half light provided by the lamp in the courtyard behind the shop.

Jack… Jack, is that you? he asked cautiously as he moved carefully through the premises.

Jack Brownbranch, is— was all he could manage before a sharp blow to the back of the head left him on the wooden floor of the small aisle between the Science for All Ages section and that housing the Collected Romance.

***

So it’s more sugar, then stir ‘til setting point, right? asked Tawanda Millington, who was stirring the crimson fruit with a great big wooden spoon.

Yep, confirmed Bernie Brownfeather, peering into the depths of the rotating fruit.

How good does that look Twan? Are we great at jam or what?

We’re great at jam Bernie. What do you think Granny Feathergrain? Are we great or what?

The old woman turned only slightly to the girls. Yes dear, I’m sure it’s marvellous jam, she said, looking mostly out the window. Bernie, would you have another look outside, darling?

Gran, I looked just a few minutes ago. Don’t worry. They’ll be here soon.

But you know how dangerous it is, flying in the dark. Don’t go far. Just hover around the house and give them a call.

Okay, okay, I’ll go now, but you’ve got to help Tawanda with the jam. It’s almost at setting point and we don’t want it to turn out like tar.

Thank you dear. I’ll look after Tawanda, her grandmother reassured. Remember, don’t go far, she called after her granddaughter.

As it turned out, Bernie Brownfeather didn’t have to go far at all. She stood in the middle of the yard, switched on the lights attached to her head and both ankles, and was totally engaged in the serious business of night-time flying protocols, or NTFP as they would be called in the manual, when she heard the unmistakable sound of her brothers squabbling. The noise was coming from the direction of the barn.

I said we have to go in! You can look at it later! snapped Joxey Brownfeather as he tugged a brown file out of the hands of his younger brother.

No! Now! came the reply and counter tug. You know Gran won't let me out again tonight. Billy Brownfeather was pleading. I saved you, remember?

That’s the only reason you’re here and not inside feeling sorry for yourself with my boot print on your backside.

Bernie Brownfeather interrupted. If you two are quite finished, will you please get yourselves into the house? Gran is driving me mad worrying about you, and I’m in the middle of important festival business with Tawanda.

You and Tawanda on important festival business? I had no idea things had gotten so bad, Joxey Brownfeather jibed as he sidestepped and leaned awkwardly on a wide wooden beam in a clumsy effort to hide some papers behind his back. His sister was onto him immediately.

Joxey, I couldn’t care less what you two are up to, and I have no interest in your stupid secrets. Just come in, now, so I can get Gran off my back.

Bernie, Bernie, can you see them? Are you up there? Bernie? Granny Feathergrain was in the middle of the yard, looking skyward and calling to her granddaughter.

Bernie, Bernie dear?

Dammit! It’s Gran! Bernie Brownfeather said, peering out through the dusty glass. She went towards the door.

Bern! her elder brother pleaded. Don’t let on we were in here.

She turned back to the pair.

It’s just simpler if she thinks we only just got home.

The girl frowned, put her hand on her hip, and rolled her eyes. Seconds later, all three of them flew out of the back of the barn and proceeded horizontally along the roof.

Yes Gran, they're here. They were just on their way home, like I said, Bernie Brownfeather lied as she descended into the yard, followed closely by both of her brothers.

Boys! Have you any idea of the time? You’re both lucky to be in one piece. You know how dangerous it is to be flying in the dark!

Sorry Gran. Joxey Brownfeather apologised. Billy got himself lost and I had to go and find him, he said, smirking and giving Billy Brownfeather a nudge with his elbow.

Billy, you must come home before dark, child. There are too many ways to get hurt in the dark. What have I told you?

Yes Gran, sorry, said the youngest Brownfeather, looking at his feet. He wanted to give Joxey a kick in the shin, but he settled for the scowl, which he had perfected and which he delivered sideways to his big brother.

The old woman sighed.

Well, she said, there’s still a chill in the night. We should all go inside.

The youngsters made their way into the house with their grandmother.

It’s too late. It’s spoiled, announced a disappointed Tawanda Millington as the group filed in through the backdoor.

What? No! exclaimed Bernie Brownfeather, rushing over to the pot on the stove only to confirm the bad news. The jam had passed setting point some time ago and had become thick and gloopy.

Oh, girls! What a pity! And you were doing so well. I’m sorry, girls. I was just so worried about the boys.

Worried about them? I could happily boil them in this stuff right now! Bernie Brownfeather thought.

But Tawanda Millington was already over it.

Hi Joxey, she said, smiling.

Bernie Brownfeather rolled her eyes and flopped into a chair.

Never mind, girls, said Granny Feathergrain. I’ll deal with this lot for you, and tomorrow after school you can concentrate on making the perfect pot of round ribble jam for the festival. I’ll see to it that the boys don’t get in your way.

Bernie Brownfeather smiled. Thanks Gran. I suppose Tawanda and I better get going.

Her friend agreed. Actually, we should. I told my mam that we wouldn’t be too late.

Bernie Brownfeather grabbed her packed overnight satchel from the hall. Tawanda Millington gathered her tatty old jam book, and the two were ready. Bernie Brownfeather kissed her granny on the cheek and then gave her brothers a quick wave as she left with her friend. Her older sibling responded with a nod. The younger one was under the table on manoeuvres with the uniformed, articulated figure of Major Melrose. Billy Brownfeather had long realised that after a certain point in the evening, it was unwise to draw attention to the fact that he was still up. He grunted without looking around and, as he had hoped, his granny escorted the girls to the backyard. Before she returned, he took the opportunity to scamper to the relative obscurity of the sitting room.

***

Hugh DeGrew groaned and shifted his body several times on the floor before he really came around. When he did manage to get to his feet, it was still dark and his watch read five minutes to eleven. He had been out for two hours. He stumbled towards the small office at the back of the shop and quickly confirmed his suspicions. The file was gone. He descended into the wooden armchair behind the small desk. Well, he thought, they're bolder, much bolder, this time. He sat in the glow of the moonlight, pondering his next move for several minutes. It was not that he did not know what he was going to do. Hugh DeGrew knew exactly what he was going to do. It was just that some part of him didn’t want to do it.

***

Tawanda Millington placed two mugs of mild mint molasses on her kitchen table. Before sitting to join her guest, she reached into her back pocket and removed a piece of paper. She began to read immediately.

What’s that about Twan? Bernie Brownfeather asked as she reached out for her steaming mug, dragged it across the deep patina of the table, and bent her head to meet it halfway for the first frothy sip.

Mam gave it to me, her host replied as she unfolded the paper. It’s a note. From Merly Milkeypockets, she concluded.

Her guest looked up, blinking. Merly Milkeypockets? she repeated, wiping the bubbly molasses from her top lip.

The very one, Tawanda Millington confirmed, sitting and reaching for her own mug. She wants me to call for her tomorrow. She says she would love to walk to school with me, she explained, wide-eyed.

Well, good. You should, I suppose. Since she was kind enough to write a note and everything. It would be rude not to meet with her, Bernie Brownfeather reasoned.

I’ll just fly on ahead when we get to the Milkeypockets's place.

Tawanda Millington shrugged and placed the note aside. Yeah, I suppose so. I’ll catch up with you in the yard.

Her friend, now completely engaged with her drink, nodded.

Chapter Three

A Late Night Chat

Eloueese Turtlewine rarely felt the need for sleep during the waxing of the moon. She seemed to draw energy from the celestial body and often achieved a surprising amount during the tingling silver nights. She had enjoyed her time with her friends at the Windy Stairs and was sitting in her favoured armchair, musing on these long friendships and wondering whether or not they would survive the next few days.

Why is it, she asked the cushion on the sofa opposite her, that old friends disappear with no hope of return and old adversaries just keep on popping up?

Before the cushion had a chance to formulate a response to the conundrum, there was a tap on the window. She went over and drew back the curtain to reveal Charlie Milkeypockets.

Charlie! she exclaimed to the bright face on the other side of the pane. I do have a front door, you know. Most people who visit use it. She lifted the window.

I’m sorry Eloueese. I know. I just saw the light was on in this room and and…

You thought you might as well just climb in the window?

She paused to give him time to absorb the full absurdity of his plan, as he had obviously failed to do so prior to that point.

Well, yes. Er, I suppose it wasn’t too clever, tapping on your window like that, he said as he paused halfway between the living room and the garden before tumbling onto Eloueese Turtlewine’s polished wooden floor.

Well, now that you’re in, would you like to sit down or would you rather explain yourself from the floor?

No, no, a chair would be fine. That would be very acceptable, Charlie Milkeypockets said as he got to his feet, brushing the dust from his sleeves and trouser legs. An activity that he abruptly ceased when he noticed the expression on his host’s face as she watched tiny crumbs of soil fall and settle themselves on the waxed wood.

Right, he continued, I’ll just sit down, then. Is over here okay? he asked as he made his way to the long buxom lemon sofa in the middle of the room. Clearly not, he realized as he turned sharply to follow the indication of Eloueese Turtlewine’s outstretched arm and sat in a solid but comfortable high-backed wooden chair.

Let me get you a drink, Charlie, Eloueese Turtlewine offered. I was just about to make myself some sweetbeet tea. Will you join me?

Yes, of course. That would be very nice Eloueese. Thank you, he responded.

He waited. In minutes, she returned with the beverage.

Is the tea to your liking, Charlie, or would you like more cane grain?

Yes, perhaps just a little more grain, Eloueese, Charlie Milkeypockets responded, and as he leaned over to help himself to the contents of the bowl, he went on to add, I find myself using more than I used to, but what harm, eh?

No harm at all Charlie. The main thing is that you enjoy your tea, she noted, endorsing his increasing appetite for sugar.

I had an old professor once who used to take four big spoonfuls of cane grain in every cup of tea, of any kind, even celery tea. She swore it helped maintain her mind, declared a buoyant Charlie Milkeypockets as he held his cup in one hand while he stirred the contents, and she was really very smart. No one on campus could beat her on maths, but her great love was archaeology.

Well, there you are Charlie, the host responded, watching the motion of the liquid as her spoon rounded the interior of her vessel.

She did seem to have a lot of energy. He continued. I can still see her belting along under the cloisters at a great rate of knots. More than one gaggle of dons only just managed to part as her wheelchair whooshed through them, one arm raised in salutation.

Goodness me, declared Eloueese Turtlewine, picturing the scene for herself. She sounds like quite a character.

Charlie Milkeypockets smiled in reflection. She certainly was, Eloueese. She certainly was. Even when she had to use the chair occasionally, it never slowed her down. Of course, I'm not sure if her driving ability was linked directly to the amount of cane grain she consumed in her tea, he concluded, nodding.

No, agreed the host, I suppose we cannot be certain.

She sipped.

Charlie, you are speaking, I think, of Professor Scrolls.

Yes Eloueese. He placed his cup and saucer on a small accommodating table and shifted in his chair. Eloueese, I know that some in the village disagree with her theories on the relics. But, well, the thing is I, well, I am not sure they completely understand what Professor Scrolls was trying to say. She is not against… That is, I think she…

Charlie, she interjected. Let me make it plain to you right now that I care very little for the views of the late Professor Sophosia Scrolls, very little indeed. However, if we are to discuss the boots of St. Felicity, I should declare that neither do I share the reverence with which most of the villagers regard the relics.

Charlie Milkeypockets nodded slowly. Well, yes, Eloueese, you are right. I was hoping to talk to you about the boots. And I appreciate your, er, candour on the matter. To continue in the same vein, as it were, let me be equally frank.

Thank you Charlie, she responded in anticipation of his honesty.

Let me start by saying as an archaeologist myself, I see our relics very much as part of our cultural landscape. Most of us don’t spend much time thinking about them, but if any of them suddenly disappeared, they would be sorely missed, don’t you agree?

Of course.

Well, yes, good, he said, as if relieved to be over the first hurdle, and went on to expand his metaphor.

It would be somewhat akin to waking up one morning and finding that a familiar river or mountain had disappeared. The landscape would be changed forever. Life would go on, but it would be diminished. We would feel the loss deeply.

He paused to see if the second hurdle had been cleared. It had not. Eloueese Turtlewine placed her hands on the arms of her chair as if about to rise out of it.

Charlie Milkeypockets, I will be profoundly disappointed if you have come through the window of my living room at this late hour to lecture me on community responsibility.

Charlie Milkeypockets acted quickly to restore cordial relations.

No, no, no, no, nothing like that, lors no, not at all, never, he said, waving his spoon as if trying to cast a sitting spell on the elderly woman. No, it’s just that when you spoke up at the meeting, you got me thinking of Professor Scrolls's book and her views on venerated objects. And to tell the truth, I have had my own concerns relating to the boots for some time and, well, there you have it. I just thought we might, well, that we might talk.

Eloueese Turtlewine regarded her guest closely and silently for several moments.

Yes Charlie, I’m willing to talk, she agreed as she sat back into her favoured armchair to listen.

Well, he began, as you know our earliest account of St. Felicity comes from The Collected Lives of the Saints, Volume Four, F-H.

Correct, she confirmed. The ‘Account of the Life of St. Felicity’ depicts the saint’s humble beginnings and chronicles the main events of her life, everything from the Scary Apparitions to the Great Starry Trek.

Yes, quite, just so, said Charlie Milkeypockets, relieved she had again settled back into the conversation. He decided to get straight to the point for fear of losing her interest once more.

As I was saying, for some time now, I have had some concerns about the boots. You will recall that the earliest account of the life of St. Felicity in the Collected Lives describes how she set forth to lead the people from the trials of oppression and famine. They travelled by night to escape detection and endured many hardships along the way.

Yes, Eloueese Turtlewine concurred.

The earliest account, he went on, depicts the journey in some detail but gives little information on her death. As I recall, it merely alludes to a disappearance. The consensus was that she had fallen and died on the mountain and on that night the mountain’s rocks and stones did claim at last the chaste and saintly bones. The distraught followers searched tirelessly for their deliverer but found nothing. Finally, they decided to carry out her wishes and make their homes in the valley as she had requested. A splendid story, really, don’t you think, Eloueese?

I’ve always liked it, she said.

The earliest account goes on to say very little of the community after that, he continued, only that the people stayed and saintly they did live and to their saviour honour they did give. A rather abrupt ending, really.

Well, Charlie, you know how these Lives of the Saints tend to read. Stock phrases and virtue wherever you turn. The author obviously saw little point going on after the main character had died. After all, it was an account of her life.

Yes, quite, I suppose so. It’s just that a little more information might bridge the enormous gap between the people arriving back in the valley and later events. Specifically, I suppose, I’d like to know more about the emergence of the cult of the boots. The earliest account contains very little reference to footwear of any kind, he noted. I’ve gone through it thoroughly and there is no mention of the boots. It’s only later that they take on any real significance, and that seems to originate in The Second Text of St. Felicity which, as we know, was written at least one hundred years after the earliest account.

Well, said Eloueese Turtlewine, now quite engrossed in the topic, I suppose if her staff or something else had reappeared instead, it would have become an object of veneration. But only the boots appeared.

"Well, yes, that is true of course, but what troubles me are the feats later attributed to the boots. They all come from The Second Text of St. Felicity. It is only in The Second Text that we learn of how she stood before the mighty oaken gates and leapt but once to reach the other side, where from the heavy