The Wish and the Peacock Read online

  © 2020 Wendy Swore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, ­Shadow ­Mountain®, at ­[email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of ­Shadow ­Mountain.

  Visit us at shadowmountain.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the ­author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  CIP data on file

  ISBN 978-1-62972-608-3 | eISBN 978-1-62973-795-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc., Melrose Park, IL

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover illustration: Brandon Dorman

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction; Richard Erickson

  Design: Sheryl Dickert Smith

  To brave kids everywhere—

  Don’t be afraid of change. You can do hard things. Find what you love and work hard to reach your dreams. I believe in you.

  And don’t forget to make a wish.

  Other Books by Wendy S. Swore

  A Monster Like Me

  Contents

  Hide-and-Seek

  Stained-Glass Windows

  Chickens Are Terrible at Sharing

  Facts Are Facts

  Royal Turkey

  Beads and Books

  Fertilized Brains

  No Spark, No Fire

  A Little Lost

  Calling to Strangers

  Baby Spider Hotel

  Trained Attack-Grasshoppers

  Stuck

  Milkshake

  Count on Me

  Many Hands Make Light Work

  Too Late

  Escape

  Sounders and Squealers

  Hoe to the End of the Row

  Don’t Say He’s Gone

  Real Friends Know

  He’s All Heart

  A Web of Wishes

  Down a Well

  Kiss a Skunk

  Best Part of His Day

  Report

  Wishfire

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Chapter One

  Finding lost things on the farm is the world’s hardest game of hide-and-seek. I’ve been searching for Dad’s favorite shovel for weeks, but it’s not in the pump house, by the corrals, or in the toolshed. The chicken barn, the horse stalls, and the canals were all duds too—I already checked.

  Lot of times, grown-ups blame kids when stuff goes missing, but Dad never did. He might ask for help finding it, but he never blamed us—probably ’cause he knew he was the one who lost it most of the time.

  Best I can figure, he must’a been working with his shovel somewhere, got called away on another job, and left it right where he was. And since Dad’s worked every inch of our eighty-acre farm, I’ve got a whole lot of footsteps to follow.

  Some days it seems all I do is look for lost things.

  I ought to run over and pour feed for the pigs, but the sun’s just barely leaning toward the horizon and Mom’s still busy with somethin’ in the house, so I’ve got gobs of time to check the potato cellar—just in case Dad left his shovel there. Besides, the calendar says it’s time to air out the cellar this week. Might as well get that done while I’m at it.

  The heels of my boots sink into the ground—still soft from the spring thaw—and my dog, T-Rex, pads along behind me. When I was little, he’d be on ahead with Dad, scampering after every little bug, wagging his whole body instead of just his tail, but now I slow my steps to match his meandering stroll and glance down into his deep brown eyes. “You think he left it in the cellar? We haven’t looked there yet, have we?”

  T-Rex wags his dusty red tail and bumps his head against my thigh so I can scratch his floppy ears. Usually he follows my little brother, but Scotty must’a run off too fast this afternoon, so T-Rex shadows me instead. Dad called him a houndy-­boxery-something-or-other because breed never matters as much as heart—and of that, T-Rex has plenty.

  As long as a football field, the cellar’s spine looms high overhead like an A-frame cabin blanketed with a thick layer of soil.

  T-Rex and I round the dirt bank and drop into the shadow of the solid end-wall, where clumps of wild daffodils greet us like baby chicks nestled in tufts of grass beside gigantic, truck-sized double doors.

  We ignore the big doors—they’re bolted shut from the inside anyway—and I unlatch the person-sized door in the corner. T-Rex follows me inside.

  I blink against the gloom.

  The belly of the spud cellar is a whole different world, right down to the air we breathe. It’s rich and earthy, as if digging down between dirt walls uncovered new pockets of clean air that no one ever breathed before. Like force fields against snow or blazing heat, the earth walls keep it nice and cool inside, no matter the season.

  Dad, Scotty, and me spent loads of snow days inside here, playing ball with potato sacks for bases—anything to get the wiggles out.

  A plywood mat-board Dad made for my robotics team leans against the left wall, half-hidden by shadows and covered in so much dust I can almost pretend the practice course is part of the soil.

  Almost.

  It used to be my favorite thing: building mini-robots for competitions. I’d imagine how someday I’d build somethin’ to make our farm run better and easier, somethin’ that would help us get jobs done quick, so we could play together more.

  But that was before. When I had time to pretend.

  I flip on the light switch, and hanging lamps flicker to life in a long line down the ceiling. Dozens of huge metal tubes big enough to crawl through lean against one wall, but no one ever climbs inside—way too many spiders. Outside pipes are for water, but these pipes move air under and through the spuds when the whole place is filled with mountains of potatoes.

  The shadows between the pipes hide a pitchfork propped against the dirt, but no shovel.

  Maybe it’s leaning against something else?

  My tiny puddle of hope shrivels up as I try to imagine where else the shovel might be. There’s not much inside the cellar right now other than the pipes, a few cabbage heads leftover from last year, and a couple machines.

  I walk around the potato piler, with its long-arm conveyor belt rising up almost to the rafters, and circle around the scooper hog, its conveyor belt pressed to the ground ready to lift new spuds right off the floor. It might seem like a waste to keep such big machines around, gathering webs and dust when we only use them one month a year, but when the spud trucks come rollin’ in, we need every bit of help we can get.

  Deep in the cellar, T-Rex sniffs here and there, poking his nose into every little mousehole he finds. Silly old dog is always on the hunt for mice. He sees me looking and wags his tail.

  I’d wave back, but my disappointment weighs on me dang near as much as the dirt overhead. I take a deep breath and let it out real slow.

  Without mountains of spuds, the cellar seems enormous, and me no bigger than an ant bonking around inside a rabbit hole. The space feels lonely, waiting empty all year—this year most of all—but Dad always said the emptiness was a promise of things to come as long as we’re willing to do the work.

  Speaking of work, I’ve got a job to d
o.

  I eye the crossbeam resting on thick iron brackets bolted to the back of the double doors. Dad could’ve lifted the crossbeam right off, but my twelve-year-old arms can’t quite heft the whole bar at once, so this might take a bit of doing. If I can’t lift it, I can always ask Grandpa—except I hate asking for help.

  I’ve got more responsibilities this year, but I don’t mind. I said I would look after things, and I will. It’s my job. So it doesn’t matter if I’m tired, or too short, or not strong enough. I’m doing it, and that’s all there is to it.

  Bracing myself against the dirt floor, I wedge my shoulder under the rough board and lift one end of the crossbeam up with my whole body. It’s almost too tall for me, and I have to tippy-toe to push the thick board over that last metal lip so it slides clear of the bracket. I set down the one end, and the other end pivots up like a teeter-totter. A few minutes of tugging, shoving, and grunting later, and the beam falls to the ground in a poof of dust.

  When I rest my fingers against the great wooden doors, I can almost hear Dad’s voice in my ear saying, “Give ’er a nudge, Paige, and let the light in.”

  The greased hinges give way at my touch, and afternoon sun slices through the darkness.

  At least I can mark one job off the calendar.

  “T-Rex! Let’s go. C’mon, boy!” My voice peals with metallic echoes through the pipes, the sound bouncing off the far wall and rushing back changed, as if my invisible twin stands at the other end and hollers back at me.

  C’mon!

  C’mon!

  Boy!

  Boy!

  A rustling starts in the rafters among the giant beams way down the roofline, and T-Rex whines, watching the ceiling.

  Did raccoons get in here?

  I hurry to check, but thirty feet in, something white, wide, and fast flies through the trusses right above me. Light catches on feathers, and I crouch, watching the barn owl bank against the rafters and wheel back the way he came. Wind whispers across his wings, each beat making only a breath of sound.

  Hoping to see the owl’s mate, I watch the spot over T-Rex’s head, but either his mate isn’t in here or she’s hiding real good, because nothing else moves.

  At the far end of the cellar, the lone owl drops beneath the wide joist beams—each one as strong as a telephone pole—and glides straight for me. A ghost in the dark.

  Graceful, powerful wings whoosh over my head, close enough to feel the breeze from his flight as the raptor bursts from shadow into daylight and soars. Had I lifted my hand, I could have touched him, felt the soft down of his underbelly, or maybe the sharp sting of his claws.

  I watch him spiral up and up, circling the farm with its island of trees, until his pale feathers blend with the sky and disappear.

  How he managed to get in, I have no idea. Maybe a hole through the straw that lines the ceiling boards, or a crack in the far wall? Either way, no one but me has been here all spring. Owl pellets litter the ground where T-Rex ambles back to me, and I wonder how long our owl’s been alone.

  Part of me wants to spread my arms and fly after him—to leave the work and worry of the farm behind. With a strong enough wind, maybe I could follow him all the way up to heaven.

  If only it was that easy.

  T-Rex nudges my leg, pulling my head from the clouds, and my feet settle deep in the dust. I scratch his ears before heading for afternoon chores.

  I wish that owl all the luck in the world, but I know where I belong, and it’s right here on my farm.

  I was born here, like my dad, and his dad before him. My great-grandfather built our white farmhouse and wraparound porch from old railroad cars and army barracks that he took apart board by board, bending nails back into shape and saving every scrap of wood. It might not have cost much in money, but it was paid for with sweat.

  As I near the railroad-tie fence that marks the pig pasture, the pigs squeal and come running, their pink-and-brown ears flapping and their noses wriggling as they lift their bristly chins. Seems they’re always chewing on somethin’, but it looks more like smiling to me.

  I dump mash into their trough and spread it out along the line. “Dinner! Here, pig, pig.”

  They dig in with happy snorts and grunts while I drag another sack from the shed. Another few years and I’ll be able to shoulder the bag like Dad, but for now, a bag-shaped furrow erases my footprints as I haul it right up next to the trough, grab my pocketknife, and slice open the corner.

  But before I can pour more mash into the trough, a car turns off the road onto our gravel drive and rolls toward the house.

  I squint at the car. It’s some low-riding fancy thing that would high center on a molehill. In late summer and autumn, folks come ’round for corn and such, but it’s too early for ­vegetables—they’ve only just been planted.

  Nothin’ to do but go find out.

  After scooping a few handfuls of mash into the trough, I haul the whole bag up and dump it in, then snap my fingers at T-Rex, who snores softly on his pillow of dandelions. “Someone’s here.”

  His droopy eyes blink up at me, and his tail thumps a ­couple times, probably hoping I didn’t mean it.

  But that long, black car is already pulling up to the house, so I let T-Rex nap and jog toward home.

  While I’m still threading between outbuildings, Mom steps out onto the porch and waves at the visitor—she’s like that, always trying to make people feel welcome. Then I catch sight of a lady dressed in suit nicer than any Dad ever had.

  Tall and slender, the lady glides up the steps on high heels the likes of which our farm has never seen. A silk scarf smothered in paisley drapes over one shoulder and trails down her back, and pearls peek from around her throat. With black hair cut short as a boy’s on one side, the rest spikes up near the top, then falls in a sleek, hard angle down her other cheek. With suit lines sharper than porcupine quills, she steps onto the porch as if she owns it.

  Holding the door for the stranger, Mom fades into the background with her soft, plaid shirt worn loose over frayed jeans. “Come in. We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

  I puzzle over that as I walk past the cars to the front gate. Why would Mom call a fancy lady like that over for anything?

  My eye catches on the words scrawled across the side of the lady’s car in elegant gold writing.

  Miss Dolly Mazer

  Real Estate Agent

  Trust me . . .

  And your home is as good as SOLD!

  I look from the words to where Mom welcomes the lady into our home—a dove welcoming a viper into the nest. I’m not sure what’s going on yet, but everything in me says this Miss Dolly means bad news.

  The two disappear inside, and the screen door snaps shut like the jaws of a gopher trap.

  Chapter Two

  It’s been two weeks since Mom opened the door and let Miss Dolly into our lives.

  Two weeks of me watching that Cadillac come down the drive and park in a spot we keep open for friends—except she’s no friend. She shows up with her hair all done up, shiny high heels, and outfits so nice dust wouldn’t dare touch them.

  Every time that shiny black Cadillac slithers down our lane, it seems a little slicker, a little more poisonous, like the oil in the paint might ooze right off the car and snap at our boots.

  I almost feel bad that our little van has to park so close to it.

  Mom named our van Patches on account of how it has a different-­colored door and rear hatch than the rest of the car—like a patchwork quilt. Mismatched colors or no, it runs just fine, so when a new spiderweb of cracks appeared in the rear window last year, we named them Spidey and didn’t worry about it. We thought we had all the time in the world to fix the window.

  But we didn’t.

  I suppose it fits us even better now. One more bit of broken to add to the
pile.

  Every time Dolly comes, Mom and Grandpa send me and Scotty out to do chores. And every time I come back, she’s got them listening to her twisty words all full of “Trust me. Believe me. I’m here to help” nonsense.

  At first Mom and Grandpa told me to never mind when I asked why Miss Dolly was here. Then they mumbled some dumb story about “getting information.”

  That makes no sense, ’cause I got Dad’s calendar. If there’s anything they want to know, I can look it up, and I told them so. It says when to plant, trim the trees, and lay out pipe. Everything we need to run the farm is on the calendar, all ready to go. But more and more Mom and Grandpa only have ears for Miss Dolly.

  I talked myself blue, but it was like I never made a sound.

  When she steps out of that sleek black car, I half expect to see a bloodred hourglass stamped on the back of her fancy dress seeing as how she’s weaving her sticky-sweet words around my family’s brains. And once their heads get all muddied and confused, she sinks her fangs in and gets them to do exactly what they want.

  Mom always says you know a person by what they do—and after a few long talks, Dolly pretty much got Grandpa and Mom to flush our whole lives right down the toilet.

  They agreed to sell our farm.

  I’m sure they don’t really want to, ’cause Dolly’s visits suck the joy right out of their souls. Yet they still open the front door and let her in instead of giving her the boot like they should.

  I don’t understand it.

  I flick my red braid over my shoulder and peek through the window at my mother packing boxes in the horse barn.

  The horses nicker, puffing soft breaths with their velvet noses, and wait for her to stop and scratch their forelocks like always, but she doesn’t. She’s not even singing. Not a hum. Not one note.

  It’s unnatural.

  She stretches her back and turns her head, and I duck.