The Chickadee Girl

Wooden Sword

Midas finished his business, and sauntered back over to her side. Tristan continued to look up at the tree, transfixed. Absently, Isa reached down to scratch Midas's back, and her fingers grazed the rope collar that still encircled his head. She frowned down at it. Try as she might, she had been unable to get it off, even with Tristan's help. The rope was thick and coarse, and had proved all but indestructible. They'd managed to loosen it up, at least - it dangled further down Midas's body now, and he would trip over it every now and then. Other than this, the dog seemed not to notice it.

She looked back at the boy. The curve of his little nose reminded her of Malcolm's. She felt nearly strangled by her grief sometimes, still. At odd moments, and even when nothing around should have reminded her of her brother, it was like his memory snuck up behind and wrapped its arms around her chest, squeezing her breathless. 

There were still pictures of him all over their house. A childhood picture of him standing astride the track, sweaty and beaming after a race. A picture of him on his fifteenth birthday, their father smiling tightly beside him, a stiff arm propped on his son's shoulder. A neighbour had taken a picture of Malcolm on stage performing in his short-lived band; their mother had hung it in the upstairs hall against their father's strenuous objections. Mr Piper disliked music on principle, and he particularly disliked that playing it seemed to require his son to have unruly hair. To his intense relief, Malcolm had given up the guitar three months later, after he discovered that his band mates were planning to walk out on him to form their own band. He'd gotten too good, and they were jealous of his skill. It was just as well, he'd told her: those bastards had been stealing from his wallet whenever he'd left the room. Ungrateful pieces of shit.

There were very few pictures of Isa in the Piper home. Isa wasn't photogenic. Her mother had first informed her of this when she was eight, and had taught her a number of tricks to "offset her weak chin" and widen her eyes that were "too small and squinty for a round face." From then on, anytime a picture was taken of her, Isa's mother would be somewhere in the background shouting "Open up your eyes, Isadora!" At birthday parties, during Christmas family gatherings, even at the summerhouse, the beach, or the park. "Open up your eyes, Isadora!" And Isa would obediently open her eyes as wide as they would stretch. And it became so normal to see herself looking like a startled ferret in every photograph that she kept up the practice of widening her eyes whenever there was a camera around, long after her mother had given up shouting the instruction.

*****

The trophy case was up against the wall in the theatre foyer. The two mannequins inside stood severe and unseeing, as though awaiting inspection. The expressionless, featureless alabaster dolls had always creeped her out a little, though she never would have admitted this to Tristan. One was draped in a toga and sporting a laurel wreath; the other wore a helmet, a faux silver beast-plate, a scarlet cape, and a wooden sword at his belt. Another helmet lay on the ground at their feet, along with a few more weapons and a shield, which was propped up against the back of the case. 

As they approached, Tristan seemed to be drawn in by an invisible magnet - he ran ahead, and pressed his nose up against the glass, smudging it. As Isa drew level with him, he exhaled with excitement. 

"That one!" He pointed at the wooden sword worn at the mannequin's belt. 

She'd already known she was going to get it for him, but even she was surprised when, without hesitating for even the length of a breath, she grabbed one of the heavy metal-legged chairs that were stacked against the wall. It was becoming painfully clear who was in charge.  

"Stand back, Tristan. Hold Midas."

Tristan retreated several feet, grasping Midas's rope. Before she could change her mind, Isa had hoisted the chair and rammed it into the glass with all her strength, keeping her face turned away. The glass cracked on the first attempt, and shattered on the second. She threw the chair to one side, reached into the case, and wordlessly pilfered the wooden sword, shield and helmet from the centurion mannequin. As an afterthought, she also stripped him of his thick velvet cape -- it might be useful somehow. She took the sword over to Tristan, and handed it to him; the look of worship on his face was enough to make her gesture worthwhile. He took it from her as though it were a delicate and lovely thing, and held it up to examine it more closely. Someone had painted the blade grey, and the helm a rich marigold yellow.