The Finnish Fiasco, Chapter Six
A shaft of light fell through a hole in the thatched roof. The air smelled of molasses, hay, and pony breath. As Celia’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out a wide aisle with stalls on each side. Most of the stalls contained ponies who curiously examined Celia with their big eyes. Next to a dappled gray pony there was an empty stall. “I guess we can sleep here, Jumpy,” Celia said, and swung the door open. “The straw will make a comfy bed.”
“Sorry, old chap, this one’s occupied,” said a voice with a British accent. As Celia peered into the shadows, a figure emerged from one corner and limped toward her.
“Ah–you’re not a chap at all, pardon me. You must be the cousin.” The voice belonged to a man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform identical to the one Paavo had worn.
“I’m Celia,” Celia said, “and this is my cat, Jumpy. I guess we’re going to be living here.” She only planned to stay until she could figure out a way to escape, but she thought it wise not to mention that fact. This man could be a spy.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the man said. “I’m Oliver. I’d shake your hand, but as you can see–or maybe you can’t, the lighting in here is terrible–I have no hands.” He held out his arms, which had only stumps at the end.
Celia didn’t mean to, because her parents had taught her that one should never appear shocked by deformities or the missing body parts of other people. The world is full of people who have experienced tragedies. “Imagine if you had been in a terrible accident,” her mother once said. “It would be bad enough to suffer the injury, but even worse if people stared at you for the rest of your life. Which, people being people, will almost certainly happen anyway, but you don’t have to be one of those rude people.”
But because she was so tired and hadn’t eaten for many hours, Celia took a step backwards. You or I would have probably done the same. A man with no hands is not something that you see every day.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Quite all right, I didn’t mean to give you a start. Paavo didn’t tell me that you were only a child.”
“I’m nine.” Celia didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. Nine was not that young. In four more years, she’d be a teenager, and that would mean she was practically grown-up.
Oliver smiled. “A resilient nine-year-old, I’m sure, but you must be exhausted after your journey. I’ve fixed you a room of sorts. Let’s get you settled. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the airport. A Great Black-Backed Gull (the largest gull in the world) happened to be flying overhead with a large pike in its claws at the very moment I was putting the ponies into the pasture. Perhaps the fish was too heavy, or perhaps he thought it would be amusing to drop it on my head, but for whatever reason, the fish landed on my head. I seem to be fine, but I just regained consciousness a short while ago.”
“I’m glad you’ve recovered,” Celia said. It seemed like this man was unusually accident prone. She wondered how he had lost his hands. “Do I really have a room of my own?”
“Not exactly,” Oliver said. “Only a cot in the tack room where the saddles are kept, but I think it will be adequate.” He stroked Jumpy with the stump of one arm. “Be sure to keep her away from the castle. Paavo hates cats.”
“I noticed. My mother used to say that one should never trust a person who doesn’t like cats.” Celia felt sad as she thought about how much she missed her mother.
“That is very sound advice,” Oliver said.
The tack room was not at all like her old bedroom with the blue bedspread and the mockingbird, but Celia decided to look at this as an adventure. Oliver had hung blankets around the cot for privacy and the smell of clean leather was nice. This would be one more thing to include when she wrote her life story.
Oliver nodded toward a trunk pushed into one corner. On it were stacked cans of herring in cream sauce. “The menu here is limited. The only food available at the moment is this expired fish that I found in the dumpster at the fish market.” Celia picked up a can and looked at the expiration date. It was six months ago.
“Why don’t you buy food at the store instead of scavenging?” Celia almost said ‘dumpster diving’, but she thought it might sound rude, so she said ‘scavenging’ instead.
Oliver sighed. “I would if I had any money. Paavo hasn’t given me a paycheck yet. I have a large shoebox full of IOUs, and unfortunately, the grocery store will not accept them.”
Celia felt sorry for Oliver, but she detested canned herring. “I don’t really like canned herring,” she said. Surely there was something else to eat. Bread and peanut butter would be better.
“Unless you can eat hay, there isn’t any other food. Don’t worry, it probably won’t make you sick—I’ve been eating nothing but expired fish for months now, and I’ve only had an upset stomach twice.”
“Okay, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Celia said, not feeling sure at all, but she realized that complaining would do no good, something that both of her parents had often reminded her. “Thank you for everything.”
Oliver wished her a good night and limped off. As much as Celia disliked canned herring, she disliked the idea of starving to death even more. Although she knew it would probably take longer than one very long day to actually die from lack of food, she was so hungry that she felt death might be imminent. And so, as very hungry people will do, she ate food that she would normally hide in her napkin and throw away when nobody was looking. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. The herring were a bit slimy and smelled like cat food, but she did feel better after eating. Jumpy ate an entire can with enthusiasm. Afterwards, they curled up together on the cot, Celia full of anxiety and Jumpy full of herring. Celia fell asleep quickly, because even severe anxiety is no match for utter exhaustion. She dreamed of a blinding yellow sun and a white rhino beneath a baobab tree.
The next morning Celia woke to a weak gray light seeping through the dirty window, a creepy-crawly sensation on her legs and the strong smell of rotten eggs. Upon closer inspection, she discovered a swarm of black bugs in her cot. Normally, she found insects interesting, and had often collected specimens from her garden, temporarily keeping them in a glass jar with holes punched in the lid, but she did not enjoy sharing a bed with them. She threw off the blankets and jumped up. She was busy scratching when she heard a knock.
“Oh dear,” Oliver said. “I see the fumigators were unsuccessful. We’ve had a recent infestation of Stinking Stable Scarabs. I’ll have to schedule a second round of spraying. I’m sorry about the smell–they have a terrible odor.” He scrabbled around in one of the trunks and pulled out a tube of ointment. “Here,” he said. “This will help the itching. Normally, the scarabs only eat saddle leather, but I’ve treated all the saddles with repellent. When no leather is available, they don’t mind eating human skin or whatever else happens to be nearby. If we don’t eradicate them soon, they’ll eat this entire barn.”
The ointment stopped the itching. Still, it seemed an ominous beginning to her first full day in Finland. She could see one wall of the Pink Castle through the window. “I’m supposed to cook breakfast for Paavo,” Celia said, “and I don’t know what to make. In fact, I don’t even know how to cook.”
“May I suggest French toast?” Oliver said. “It’s very easy—just dip slices of bread in a few beaten eggs. Melt a chunk of butter in a skillet until it sizzles and then plop the bread in, one or two pieces at a time. Cook both sides until lightly browned, sprinkle with powdered sugar, or perhaps cinnamon, and voila! Everyone will love it.”
“Everyone?”
“The rest of the family.”
“What family?”
“Paavo has a wife and three children. His wife’s brother also lives with them.” Oliver looked at his shoes, as if this were information he wished he hadn’t had to give her. “They aren’t the nicest people in the world, just so you know.”
