“There are other wish fetchers?” I asked, hopeful that someone might give us a leg up after all.
She looked a little disappointed. I knew why. All that stuff she’d just said, she thought I’d only heard the smallest part of it. But it wasn’t true. It’s just that I was homing in on the piece that mattered most. The piece that could feed us and such.
Even so, she did answer me. “So your great-gram used to tell me, though I’ve never met any that wasn’t kin, as far as I know.”
So much for that notion of a leg up.
“What kind of a wish fetcher was Ma?” I asked. “Lots of wishes or hardly any?”
“Your ma?” Gram set a soup bowl at her place and made an ooph noise as she sat. “She did things different. Preferred to grant the wishes of strangers. Looks like you and she might have that in common.
“Anyhow, what she’d do was put an ad in the Ardenville paper, the big one, you know? Wishes granted, it would say, in exchange for good deeds. People would write her all sorts of letters—young’uns and old folks and all in between, telling Cristabel their stories, their fears and dreams and whatnot. I still have those letters. And Cristabel would whistle to the stars for ’em and send back a little gold card she’d make with her own hands. Always said the same thing. Your wish is granted. Please pay one good deed to a neighbor or a stranger at your earliest possible convenience.” Gram shook her head fondly. “‘At your earliest possible convenience.’ She loved to talk like that, like she worked in an office. Do you know she wanted to be a secretary? Only there wasn’t no call for one in town.”
Hearing Gram talk about Ma that way, I couldn’t help feeling proud. Wish fetching wasn’t just real—it was powerful enough to touch people’s hearts and change their lives. What if Jura had been right and I really could fix the world with wishes? Up till that day, I’d only ever been homely Genuine Sweet, Dangerous Dale’s daughter. But what if I could be something more? What if, once I got the family fed and warm, I set about to do something really big, something only a wish fetcher could do?
Suddenly I was itching to fetch my first wish.
“So you’ll come out with me tonight? Help me call down the magic from the stars?” I asked.
Gram waved a hand. “You don’t need me standing over you. Better if you find your own way. Besides, I need my rest. I am an old woman, you know.” She winked, but I couldn’t help thinking she did look awfully tired.
I was collecting my starlight-catching cup from the cabinet when Gram mused, “Hard to say what’ll upset folk. Probably best to start small and quiet, don’t you think? Just because we can whistle to the stars don’t mean we should try to outshine them!” Gram tucked a napkin into her collar, picked up her spoon, and set it down again. “It’s a lot for a girl your age, having to carry the family legacy on your own. I am sorry about that.”
“Well, not just me. There’s you, too,” I reminded her.
“Course, you’re right. But . . . your mama . . . oh, she was a one! I do miss her.”
Though I’d never met her, I missed her, too.
“When she died,” I said slowly, “weren’t you even a little tempted to wish her back?”
Gram’s face turned dour. “Not even once. Eat your soup.”
It was rainy that night, so I put on my long coat and snuck one of our precious few candles from the closet to light my way through the trees. As I walked, I shielded the flame with one hand. Though it was only partway through autumn, the warmth on my skin felt delicious.
The leafy earth sloshed a little under my feet. I must’ve scared a family of foxes out of the clearing; a few shadowy cat-dog shapes darted off as I approached.
It was cloudy, so I couldn’t see much in the way of stars. Would that yap things up, or would my whistle carry just the same, clear sky or no?
I blew out my candle, set it aside, and held my cup up high. In the darkness, against the backdrop of the sky, I could see my hands shaking. I had to try three times to get my lips to form a whistle. When I finally did produce a sound, it was a pitiful little crooning. A sleepy bird warbled back. I’d have to do better than that.
The coach at school had told me more than once that a bad basketball player—like myself—could get better by picturing herself, in her mind’s eye, shooting perfect baskets. To be honest, hoops weren’t that important to me, so I never tried it, but I thought this might be just the occasion to apply Coach Tyler’s wisdom.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself making a sharp, clear whistle. I imagined the starlight pouring down into my cup, a silver liquid with the smell of carnations. I built a perfect picture in my mind until I was barely one percent shy of believing I’d already done it—and then I whistled into the night for real.
You wouldn’t believe the sound that came out of me! Even a champion pig caller would have tipped his hat to me that night.
Time stretched like gum, and it seemed like a long wait before anything happened. Looking back, maybe only seconds passed. All at once, a patch of clouds appeared to thin some and turn a little brighter, thinner and brighter, thinner and brighter, until a hole appeared, and in that space I could see the clear sky and a single star shimmering a little red, a little blue.