The Boy, the Bird and the Coffin Maker Page 4

  “But it’s called golden oak.”

  “It’s just a name. It doesn’t actually mean anything, not the gold bit anyway.”

  “But …” The mayor looked on the verge of tears. “If it isn’t made of gold, why’s it so expensive?”

  “Because it’s as strong as an ox, light as a feather and can float all the way to the wilds of Africa.”

  “But… But… It isn’t gold,” the mayor said weakly.

  “Would you like me to order something else?” Alberto asked. “It might not arrive until spring, and you would still have to pay for all of this, bu—”

  “No. No.” Sense found the mayor and he shook his little head. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

  “It would if they were gold.”

  The mayor did not appreciate Alberto’s joke, but a boy chuckled in the hall.

  “What’s that?” The mayor’s head snapped around, but by the time he looked towards the door Tito was gone. “Never mind. Must have been my stomach. You don’t happen to have any food about, do you?”

  “Afraid not,” Alberto said. “Though there might be some mouldy cheese I use to catch the mice.”

  “Mice?” The mayor’s face paled. They had spread the purple sickness that had killed so many people thirty years earlier. “You have mice?”

  “Only in the kitchen,” Alberto lied.

  And on that note, the mayor decided it was time to leave.

  Alberto saw the mayor off and returned to his workshop. He found Tito waiting.

  “Did you hear that?” Tito asked. Like a tightrope artist, he was walking along one of the planks of wood. “He thought golden oak was gold. Even I know it isn’t gold.”

  “Well, the mayor isn’t like most people,” Alberto pointed out.

  “Yes,” Tito agreed. He jumped off the plank and landed lightly on the dirt floor. “Most people aren’t that stupid.”

  “You rascal of a boy!” Alberto said with a fond shake of his head. “Come now.” He waved Tito closer. “Come here and look at this wood.”

  Quick as a greyhound, Tito was by his side.

  “Golden oak is a special wood that must be shaped in a special way.” Alberto ran his fingers along the largest section of oak. It would form the base of the mayor’s coffin. “Would you like to learn?”

  “You mean…” Tito’s eyes grew wide. “I can help make the mayor’s coffin?”

  Alberto nodded and they got straight to work.

  A FAINT FLUTTER

  Winter came early to Allora and what a terrible winter it was. Storms built over the sea, and the instant they reached land the rain turned to snow. The grey cobbles that wound up Allora Hill turned white and the fish jumped even higher to escape the icy sea. The snow fell so steadily that the tombstones at the top of the hill had a white lining, like a dusting of sugar on one of Enzo’s baked sweets.

  Though the days grew shorter, Tito spent longer and longer at the coffin maker’s house. He said he was enjoying the work. Though judging by how close he stood to the candles and the fireplace in the kitchen, Alberto had a feeling he was enjoying the warmth even more.

  With the mayor’s wood ready to be shaped and the yearly influx of winter deaths, Alberto needed all the help he could get. Even Fia was given a task: to fetch tools in her sharp beak. She’d grown so big and strong she could carry whole hammers by herself and soon, Alberto hoped, she would be able to fetch planks of wood as well.

  They were so busy that large blisters appeared on Tito’s hands that cracked and hardened over. Yet despite the thickening of his skin, Tito himself grew softer, calmer and more at home in Alberto’s house. Soon he spent more time there than out. But leave he always did, every day one hour before dark. Alberto would watch him race towards the graveyard and vanish, like a shadow, into the approaching night.

  Alberto wanted to know where Tito went, but he was too afraid to ask. Though Tito spoke freely about work and Fia, he froze every time Alberto questioned him about anything else. The coffin maker could tell the boy was frightened – he was hiding something – but he had no idea what. And he feared that if he tried to find out, the boy and his bird would disappear from his life all together.

  All was going well until one night a giant storm settled over the town.

  “I was down at Enzo’s this morning,” Alberto said one evening while he and Tito worked on the mayor’s coffin. “And he thinks it’s going to snow.”

  “It’s been snowing for two weeks,” Tito pointed out.

  “Ah, but this isn’t a little snow. This is a huge storm. Enzo can tell by the fish. Their scales turn grey and they jump so high they look like tiny pebbles in the sky. There’s a saying, here in Allora, that when it snows the roofs sing. They beat like a thousand drums with the sound of fish pummeling down.”

  “I thought I saw one fly by the window at lunch,” Tito said.

  “Ah yes, it was a tuna if I’m not mistaken. You know…” Alberto stopped working on the mayor’s coffin and looked at Tito. “You can stay here tonight if you’d like.”

  Straight away Alberto knew the offer was a mistake. Tito’s whole body tensed and Fia, feathers ruffled, swooped to his side.

  “Down here in the workshop,” Alberto clarified quickly. “Or in the kitchen by the fire.”

  “I – I think I better go.” Tito put down his hammer and chisel and hurried towards the door. “It’s getting dark.”

  “Of course.” Alberto tried to hide his disappointment. It would have been nice to have another life in the house at night. “But can I get you a blanket first? I’m sure there’s a spare one upstairs.”

  Alberto hurried to his room and opened his cupboard. A bright red blanket lay folded at the bottom. It had belonged to little Aida.

  “And you haven’t had dinner,” he said when he handed the blanket over. “Don’t worry, I’ll fetch you some stew. You can take it with you.”

  Alberto went into the kitchen and ladled thick fish stew into an empty bowl. When it was filled to the brim, he carefully carried it back to his workshop.

  “Here you go, Tito,” he said as he stepped into the room. “I’ve given you a bit extra just in ca—”

  Alberto looked around his workshop. Tito and Fia were gone. With a sigh, he walked over to the back window and poked his head outside. A light sleet had begun to fall and wind swirled his grey hair. In the failing blue light, he caught a glimpse of red near the graveyard on the hill and then Tito and Fia were gone.

  “Goodnight, Tito,” Alberto said softly. He closed the window against the chill and went to eat his dinner.

  The world was white when Alberto awoke. A fierce storm had swept across Allora during the night depositing a thick, snowy silence. He made his way downstairs in his nightcap. After refueling the dying fire, he placed a pot of tea and another of stew over the flames. While they heated up, he set the table for three.

  The tea boiled and the stew bubbled, but Tito and Fia did not appear. Fearing he had locked the back door, Alberto hurried to check. But it opened without need for a key.

  Alberto peered outside. Snow covered the world like a blanket. He had to squint against its brightness to see. Everything – the garden, the graveyard, even the sky – was white. Only the sea remained its usual churning blue.

  Alberto scanned the snow for Tito, but there was no Tito to see. He feared something was wrong – had he fallen down in the snow, or perhaps he was sick? – but then convinced himself there wasn’t. Tito was probably running late. It took a lot longer to walk through snow than grass.

  When a full hour had passed, Alberto could wait no longer. A body had been brought in the previous afternoon, and he had yet to get started on the coffin. So, for the rest of the freezing day he worked alone in his workshop. Every few minutes he glanced towards the door to see if Tito was there, but he never appeared.

  “I hope he is okay,” he confided to Mr Vetrotti.

  But, being dead, the old man did not answer.

  Fia squawked
and soared through the darkening sky. Snow flew into her eyes. She scanned the land below, looking for the town of Allora, but everywhere looked the same. In panicked circles, she flew round and round, searching for a sign of the bright town. Finally, she saw two thin, metal lines: the train track that led into Allora.

  Fia swooped towards the ground and flew along the tracks. She moved in large circles, as her injured wing dragged her down. She flapped and flapped until the tall stone walls of Allora rose before her.

  Too weak to rise above the stone, Fia soared through the town gates. Two Carabineers turned to watch the wondrous bird flying through the main square. But Fia did not turn to watch them. She circled past bakeries, taverns, blacksmiths and sweet shops as she searched for the last house on the hill. A few times she fell headfirst into the snow, her wings too weak to carry on. But she always flew back up before the snow had time to settle. And then, as the sky above Allora grew dark and stars began to twinkle above the icy, swirling sea, she saw the house she was searching for.

  Alberto was just sitting down to dinner when he heard three loud knocks on the kitchen window. Leaving his stew uneaten, he opened the shutters to find a bird fluttering on the other side.

  “Fia?” Alberto said. Snow covered her bright blue head like a hat. “Where’s Tito?” He poked his head into the lane, but the boy was not there. “Has something happened?”

  “Twrp,” Fia chirped. To rest her wings, she flopped on to the windowsill.

  “What is it? Where is he?”

  In answer, Fia rose back into the air and tugged on Alberto’s sleeve. This way, she seemed to say.

  Alberto grabbed the bowl of stew, an unlit lantern and raced towards the door.

  Alberto followed Fia down the winding lanes of Allora. The cobbles were as icy as the wind that nipped his cheeks and he wished he had brought his coat. Lines of light crept out from behind closed shutters, but no one else in Upper Allora was out.

  When Alberto reached the market square, he saw two Carabineers standing guard outside the prison. The foolish fisherman lay asleep nearby, huddled under some rags beside a basket full of fish. Keeping close to the shadows, Alberto crept past all three unseen. The last thing he needed was to get caught sneaking out of the town so late in the night. How would he explain himself to the Carabineers? He had a feeling Tito wouldn’t be happy if he told them the truth.

  Upon reaching the walls of the town, Alberto lit his lantern and a warm orange light spluttered into life. Above him, little Fia turned right. She flew away from the sea, heading along the train tracks.

  Only two trains came to Allora each week: one on Monday morning, the other on Friday evening. Tonight was a Wednesday, so the line was still. As Alberto followed the tracks, clouds scudded across the sky. Each time the moon appeared, a patch of the world brightened and the wolves in the hills howled. Alberto hoped that none were howling near Tito.

  The railmen had kept the train tracks clear, so their progress was swift. But then, a mile out of Allora, Fia left the tracks and flew towards the right. Alberto recognized the direction they headed: they were going to Vita Valley.

  Away from the tracks, the snow was thick and fresh. Each time Alberto took a step forward snow swallowed his legs, and it took all his strength to haul them back out. As the minutes passed he grew weaker and feared he would have to turn back. Then, despite the thickness of the snow, he felt the ground slope downwards.

  Vita Valley stood to the north of Allora. A little cottage rose in its centre. Built by a farmer one hundred years before, it had lain empty for seven decades before Miss Bonito moved in.

  The cottage was small and made of stone. It had a little chimney, a door at the front and four windows spaced evenly around. A thin pile of firewood was stacked against one side. The wood was frozen solid and laced with icicles that shone blue in the fleeting moonlight.

  When they reached the cottage, Fia left Alberto’s side and flew on to the roof. She hopped along the tiles before disappearing down the cold chimney. Alberto was too old to climb up there and too large to fit down the flume, so he used the front door instead.

  At first the door appeared locked, but with one strong budge it swung open. Snow rolled inside, taking Alberto with it.

  Alberto got to his feet and cast his lantern around. The cottage looked more suited to animals than people. Hay covered the dirt floor and a broken trough rested in the corner. He followed the wall of the room until it met with another door.

  The door creaked when Alberto pushed it open and air as cold as outside washed over him. He stepped into the room and almost tripped over an iron bed. The bed was empty and he began to fear Tito wasn’t there. But then Fia chirped, and he saw a mound of blankets beside the unlit fire.

  “Tito?” Alberto hurried forward and dropped to his knees.

  Tito’s head lay upon a stained pillow. His body was curled up tight beneath Aida’s red blanket. Even in the warm light of his lantern, Alberto could see that his skin was blue.

  “Oh no, Tito,” Alberto said. He put the bowl of stew on the ground and placed the lantern beside it. Then he raised his hand to Tito’s neck. He searched for a pulse, but could not find one.

  “I’m too late,” Alberto said, sitting back on his legs. Tito must have fallen asleep during the snow storm and been too cold to awaken. “I should have come this morning. I knew something was wrong. Now the next coffin I make will be for you. I’m so sorry, Tito.”

  Alberto began to weep, but Fia refused to let him weep for long. She flew down beside him and poked him sharply on the cheek with her beak.

  Try again, she seemed to say.

  And so, in hope, Alberto raised his old fingers to Tito’s thin neck. He searched for a pulse and searched again until finally he felt a faint flutter of life.

  “Tito!” he cried. “You’re alive!”

  THE FLIGHT OF THE LANTERN

  Alberto could not carry Tito and his lantern together, but luckily he had help. Using the trick Tito had taught her – the trick of fetching tools from the workshop – Fia carried the lantern in her beak while Alberto carried Tito beside her.

  The trip back to Allora took a lot longer than the trip to Vita Valley. By the time they reached the main square, the Carabineers had fallen asleep and Fia was so tired she had taken to sitting on Alberto’s shoulder.

  Silently, Alberto crossed the square and headed up the hill. The house next to his own was dark, and he breathed a sigh of relief. If the Finestra sisters had seen them arrive back, by first thing tomorrow the whole town would have spoken about the little boy Alberto had carried home in the snow and the bird that had held a bright lantern to guide the way.

  Still holding Tito in his arms, Alberto slid the key into the lock and pushed the front door open. He stepped into the hall and headed towards his workshop. He only stopped when he saw his coffin lying inside. Realizing his mistake, he turned around and headed upstairs.

  Dust greeted Alberto when he opened the door to his children’s room. Three beds lined one wall and a boarded fireplace stood in the other. He placed Tito in the bed closest to the door and took the lantern from Fia’s beak. She gave a grateful chirp before flopping on to the pillow beside Tito.

  Alberto pulled a dusty blanket over Tito’s cold body. Then he prised open the old fireplace. A pile of dead leaves and twigs lay inside. Using his lantern, he set the kindling alight and went downstairs to fetch some wood. He built up the fire until it crackled and flared. To keep the warmth in, he closed the door and sat down in a chair beside Tito.

  Alberto watched over Tito all night. He kept getting more blankets whenever the boy shivered and putting more wood on the fire whenever the flames grew low. It burned so brightly and so fully that by midnight it felt like high summer inside the old room.

  Alberto heard the hours pass as the graveyard clock tolled one o’clock – two o’clock – three o’clock – on and on until morning. But the clock on the wall inside never moved, nor did the boy lying beneath it. />
  That first day, Alberto barely left Tito’s side. The blueness faded from his cheeks at midday, but in the afternoon they turned red and his forehead burned with a high fever.

  Alberto hurried up and down the stairs fetching pails of cold water and placing wet cloths atop Tito’s burning head. In his workshop, he would have been terrified if one of the people lying before him had spoken. Yet now with Tito, he wished, hoped, even prayed, that he would speak again.

  “I just don’t know,” Alberto said as day turned to night and he pulled a scorching cloth away from Tito’s head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’ve never saved anyone before. I’ve only buried them.” And out of everyone still living in the world today, Alberto wanted to bury Tito Bonito least of all.

  The next day Alberto awoke to the sound of two women calling to him from the street.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Clara Finestra called as she rapped her knuckles on the front door.

  “Only us!” Rosa hollered from beside her.

  Alberto moaned and opened his eyes. The last people he wanted to speak to at any time of the day, let alone right after waking, were the Finestra sisters. But he knew he had to answer the door. Otherwise, they’d fetch someone to open it for them.

  “Can you look after Tito while I’m gone?” he asked Fia. Though he had spent thirty years talking to the dead, he felt silly speaking to a bird. Yet Fia seemed to understand. She chirped in reply, and he went downstairs to answer the door.

  “Rosa! Clara!” Alberto said with forced cheer. “What are you doing here?” Neither was dead, so they weren’t after a coffin. Unless they too were hoping to place an early order.

  “We’ve come to check on you,” Clara said.

  “We were very worried,” Rosa agreed.

  “Worried?” Alberto laughed. “Why were you worried about me?”

  “Because you missed the funeral.”

  “What fu— Oh, that funeral.” Alberto lost his cheerfulness. He had forgotten all about Mr Vetrotti and his burial yesterday at noon. “Oh, right. I’m just coming down with a … a cold.” As proof, he offered a little sniffle.