conjugation, but my mind was on other things today. I looked up and found my friend the moon, glowing like an opal in the bright afternoon sky. I felt as if it were smiling to me, and I smiled back.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
I packed away my books and left the garden. At the gate, I hesitated. Leaving the Collège grounds during school hours was not allowed. I could get suspended from school for it. Normally, I’m a stickler for rules, but I thought it would be a worse offense to sneak out of the dorm at night again. So, I looked left and right, opened the squeaky garden gate, and dashed down the path.
In town, I kept my head down in case an adult from school was running errands at the shops and might recognize me. But I was lucky; no one saw me. I hurried through the park, ran across the bridge, and tumbled in a heap on the grass below my special oak tree and the Bear Paw boulder. The candle and its holder were right where I’d left them under the bushes, but the box of matches was damp. Good thing I’d brought a spare.
I lit the candle and dug Squire out of my backpack. Holding the hand carving over the flame, I watched closely. I wanted to see the exact moment when he went from an inanimate carving to a live hand. But, like last time, it happened with a pop! I had blinked my eyes and missed it. Suddenly, Squire was floating in front of me again.
And he dove at me.
Poke!
One of his big, hairy fingers poked me in the side. Then he zoomed back and waited, bobbing like a duck at sea.
“What was that for?” I asked.
He poked me again. And again.
“Stop that!” I laughed. “It tickles!”
Squire nodded a yes. He was trying to tickle me! So, my new friend had a mischievous side. He picked up a pinecone and tossed it to me. I caught it and tossed it back. He nodded as if that were exactly what he wanted. We played catch for a few minutes; then I decided we needed to get serious.
“I brought pen and paper this time,” I said. “Can you answer some questions?”
Squire dropped the pinecone and nodded. I opened my three-ring binder that held all of my study notes, turned to a fresh page, and handed him the pen. It looked tiny in his big grasp.
Now that I had the opportunity to find out about my parents, the questions in my mind were endless. I didn’t know where to begin.
“Okay. Let’s start easy. What was my mother’s name?”
Squire wrote quickly. His handwriting was beautiful, like calligraphy, all swirling tails and fat, rounded letters.
“Malyshka,” he wrote in Russian.
“ Malyshka ? That can’t be her name.”
But Squire nodded. I recognized that word. Uncle Misha had often called me “ malyshka .” It wasn’t a name any more than “darling” was. I sighed and tried a different question.
“What about my father? Do you know his name?”
Squire shook from side to side so fast that I suspected he knew more than he was saying. So far, this wasn’t going well.
“Do you know where I come from?”
Squire carefully traced his elegant letters again: “ Russia .”
Well, I already knew that. “Where do you come from?”
“Home,” he wrote.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
“With Knight.”
Knight? Was that a person? I was starting to think that Squire was talking nonsense. Maybe he wasn’t as aware as I had thought he was.
“Who is Knight?”
“My other half. We are a pair.”
Of course! Where there was one hand, there had to be a match. “Do you know where Knight is?”
“No.” He paused; then he continued, “I miss him.”
Poor Squire. He hung in the air limply. I could imagine his sadness. If I were a hand, I’d feel terrible without my match too.
“Maybe if you help me find out about my mother, we’ll find Knight too,” I said.
Squire seemed to brighten up at this. I asked him a bunch of other questions about my mother: Where did she live? How old was she? Was she still alive? But Squire couldn’t answer any of them. I tried not to get
I couldn’t wait any longer.
I packed away my books and left the garden. At the gate, I hesitated. Leaving the Collège grounds during school hours was not allowed. I could get suspended from school for it. Normally, I’m a stickler for rules, but I thought it would be a worse offense to sneak out of the dorm at night again. So, I looked left and right, opened the squeaky garden gate, and dashed down the path.
In town, I kept my head down in case an adult from school was running errands at the shops and might recognize me. But I was lucky; no one saw me. I hurried through the park, ran across the bridge, and tumbled in a heap on the grass below my special oak tree and the Bear Paw boulder. The candle and its holder were right where I’d left them under the bushes, but the box of matches was damp. Good thing I’d brought a spare.
I lit the candle and dug Squire out of my backpack. Holding the hand carving over the flame, I watched closely. I wanted to see the exact moment when he went from an inanimate carving to a live hand. But, like last time, it happened with a pop! I had blinked my eyes and missed it. Suddenly, Squire was floating in front of me again.
And he dove at me.
Poke!
One of his big, hairy fingers poked me in the side. Then he zoomed back and waited, bobbing like a duck at sea.
“What was that for?” I asked.
He poked me again. And again.
“Stop that!” I laughed. “It tickles!”
Squire nodded a yes. He was trying to tickle me! So, my new friend had a mischievous side. He picked up a pinecone and tossed it to me. I caught it and tossed it back. He nodded as if that were exactly what he wanted. We played catch for a few minutes; then I decided we needed to get serious.
“I brought pen and paper this time,” I said. “Can you answer some questions?”
Squire dropped the pinecone and nodded. I opened my three-ring binder that held all of my study notes, turned to a fresh page, and handed him the pen. It looked tiny in his big grasp.
Now that I had the opportunity to find out about my parents, the questions in my mind were endless. I didn’t know where to begin.
“Okay. Let’s start easy. What was my mother’s name?”
Squire wrote quickly. His handwriting was beautiful, like calligraphy, all swirling tails and fat, rounded letters.
“Malyshka,” he wrote in Russian.
“ Malyshka ? That can’t be her name.”
But Squire nodded. I recognized that word. Uncle Misha had often called me “ malyshka .” It wasn’t a name any more than “darling” was. I sighed and tried a different question.
“What about my father? Do you know his name?”
Squire shook from side to side so fast that I suspected he knew more than he was saying. So far, this wasn’t going well.
“Do you know where I come from?”
Squire carefully traced his elegant letters again: “ Russia .”
Well, I already knew that. “Where do you come from?”
“Home,” he wrote.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
“With Knight.”
Knight? Was that a person? I was starting to think that Squire was talking nonsense. Maybe he wasn’t as aware as I had thought he was.
“Who is Knight?”
“My other half. We are a pair.”
Of course! Where there was one hand, there had to be a match. “Do you know where Knight is?”
“No.” He paused; then he continued, “I miss him.”
Poor Squire. He hung in the air limply. I could imagine his sadness. If I were a hand, I’d feel terrible without my match too.
“Maybe if you help me find out about my mother, we’ll find Knight too,” I said.
Squire seemed to brighten up at this. I asked him a bunch of other questions about my mother: Where did she live? How old was she? Was she still alive? But Squire couldn’t answer any of them. I tried not to get
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