Page 164 of Everything Under the Sun

THAIS

Jeffrey returned in the afternoon with everything Atticus told him he needed.

The three of us spent the rest of the day outside working on finding the perfect tree for the rowboat—which technically would be a dugout canoe—cutting it down and narrowly missing Jeffrey as it crashed to the earth.

“JEFFREEEY!” Atticus and I screamed as the tree went down with an ominous pop-pop-pop-craaack-snap. “NO! GET OUT OF THE WAAAY!” We waved our arms frantically at him, and he jumped aside just before the tree hit the ground with a thunderous crash.

When the sun set, Atticus told Jeffrey they’d pick up working on the rowboat tomorrow. Jeffrey hugged me and kissed my cheek and took off running for home so he could go to sleep and “hurry and wake up tomorrow” as was the routine for the next few days.

I dreamt of Shreveport one night—or what it might be like if conjured up by some glitter-wearing good witch with immeasurable kindness and power. My Shreveport was a city of golden streets and rising towers that glistened in the sunlight; the citizens wore the finest clothes: long flowing dresses of silk and satin, festooned with jewels and decorative lace; fine tailored suits and top hats and shiny black shoes. My Shreveport stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction, and as visitors approached, they could see on the horizon the great windmills and solar panels that drew energy from the sun and air to feed the city.

I slept through the night, through the heat and through Atticus tossing and turning next to me because he probably had no dreams to distract him from the discomfort of summer.

Rain pounded on the roof of the cabin, unaccompanied by thunder or lightning—just a much-needed downpour that darkened the daytime sky and saturated the parched ground. It had been so long since it rained that the grass had stopped growing and had turned yellow.

It was early in the morning, but long past the time Jeffrey normally rapped his knuckles on the door and announced his arrival.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked, looking out the window over the kitchen sink.

“I’m sure he’s all right. Probably just waiting for the rain to pass.”

“I don’t know,” I said, worried. “I don’t think Jeffrey would let the rain stop him.”

Atticus came around the bar toward me.

“He’s fine,” he said, and placed his hands on my shoulders from behind.

I continued to watch out the window, hoping any minute now Jeffrey would burst through the woods and come running toward the cabin with his big smiling face. But the only movement was the driving rain and the light winds that rustled the trees and the gray clouds that drifted slowly across the sky. The smell of rain filled my senses, and the earthy scent of wet soil and the sharp resin of pine trees that wafted through the screened window.

Atticus gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Just give him some time,” he said, and pressed his lips to the top of my head. “I made you something.” There was a smile in his voice behind me.

I turned from the window.

“What is it?”

Atticus took me out onto the back porch; two handmade staffs were propped against the railing. He took one into his hands and held it out to me.

My eyes widened with amazement as they swept over the stunning, intricate carvings. I brushed the tip of my fingers over the smooth grooves that moved in a vine-like pattern. Then my fingers trailed down the center of the staff where text was carved amid the vines that read: ‘The Iron Feather’ in a calligraphic script.

“What do you think?”

I thought it was the best gift anyone had ever given me.

“This is so…wow,” I said, having a hard time finding the right words. “Remarkable!” I turned the staff around in my hands, admiring the artwork. “When did you have time to do this?”

“While working on Jeffrey’s rowboat,” he revealed. “Sat down to eat lunch one day, saw the stick, then the sandpaper next to my tools.”

He traded my staff for his.

“I didn’t put as much effort into mine,” he said.

“It’s still so pretty,” I said, examining his. “I’m not sure I want to use them to practice with—I don’t want to blemish them; you worked so hard. Look at this detail.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t make them for decoration,” he said, trading staffs again.

As I took my staff back, I ran my fingertip over the text.

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