“You can eat later. Now you must tell a story. That’s the proper order of things.” Peter’s tone insists, even though his voice is soft. There’s a soothing hum to it, like a note played on a flute, too low for her to properly hear. She feels it nonetheless, thrumming in her breastbone. It’s like the wind blowing through cattails and dancing in the tops of the trees. It makes her want to go along with everything he says, though she has no idea why.
Perhaps she can remember one of her mother’s stories about the Tailor and the Little White Bird. One story couldn’t hurt, could it? She takes a breath, thinking how to begin, but all the tales she’s heard over the years go tumbling out of her head. She knows the Little White Bird is always tricking people, from emperors and kings all the way down to stable boys and the other birds he claims are his friends. But beyond that, she can’t think of a single specific detail—not one of his adventures or his tricks or anything at all.
She thinks about the Clever Tailor instead. Maybe she could start the story there. Sometimes the Tailor is the Little White Bird’s friend, helping him with his traps and games, but in other stories, the Tailor is the one trying to stop the Bird from getting what he wants. Or is she remembering it wrong?
“I think…” She pauses. The idea of stories makes her sleepy, makes her think of her mother tucking her in, and now she wants to lay down. She yawns, her jaw cracking as her mouth stretches wide. Peter shakes her shoulder, and she sits bolt upright.
“Once upon a time,” he prompts.
“Once upon a time.” She repeats the words dutifully, even though her tongue feels thick and clumsy. “There was a Bird who wanted to go to the king’s palace. So the Bird asked the Tailor to make him a suit of all the feathers he could find. The Bird couldn’t fly anymore, so the Tailor helped the Bird build a kite.”
She stops, shaking her head. She’s getting the stories mixed up. Those things happened in two different tales. She wants to snuggle down into her blankets and listen to her mother tell the story right. It would be raining outside, and every now and again a big crash of thunder would make the story more delicious. All the angry scary things outside, like the storm, and her safe inside with her mother.
When she was very young, some of the stories about the Little White Bird would scare her. She could never work out exactly what sort of bird he was supposed to be. Sometimes he seemed fierce, like a hawk, and other times he would strut around proud like a peacock. Still other times, he was as small and gentle as a dove, and he seemed terribly sad. The way the Bird kept changing so she could never tell exactly what he was, so that at any given moment what he pretended to be might be a lie, frightened her most of all. Beside her, Peter taps his foot impatiently.
“You aren’t telling it right.” His voice is snappish.
Her shoulders hunch automatically, forgetting Cook’s lesson and shrinking in on herself. How has she managed to get it all so wrong? There are other stories, aren’t there? Stories where the Little White Bird is sweet, where he is the kindest, most gentle creature in the world.
She can almost see her mother’s face, alight with a mix of wonder and melancholy, as though her heart was breaking with too much joy and too much sorrow all at once as she mimed cupping the Little White Bird in her hands as the Clever Tailor did in her story, rescuing the Bird from a nest of thorns. It’s the story of how they met, how they became friends, when the Tailor saved the Bird’s life. A happy story. Perhaps Peter would like that better.
“Come on.” Peter taps his foot again, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out air.
His annoyance sharpens her focus, calling up annoyance of her own. How would Peter know her own stories better than she does, or whether she’s telling it right or not? She straightens her shoulders, clears her throat and tries again. Even if she gets it muddled up, she knows one thing—right now she doesn’t feel like telling a story where the Little White Bird is kind and nice at all.
“The Bird went to the market where all the other birds were selling pies they’d baked or wooden toys they’d made.” Her voice grows clearer, stronger. “He went in disguise, rubbing ashes on himself, so he could steal a feather from every bird at the market and turn himself into the most beautiful and strongest and fastest bird of them all.”
Around her, the boys set down their bowls, watching her intently. They look interested. Only Peter doesn’t seem to approve at all. He scowls, brows lowering over his strange-colored eyes.
She thinks she remembers the next bit, where the Tailor goes in disguise too, sneaking around to all the other birds to tell them the Little White Bird’s plan. They turn the Bird’s trick around on him, and by the time he reaches the end of the market, it’s all his feathers that have been plucked. He looks so foolish he can’t possibly go to the king’s palace, so he goes away to hide on an island in the middle of the ocean until his feathers grow back.
Except she can’t remember exactly how the trick works, even though the stories where the Tailor gets the best of the Little White Bird were always her favorite. They feel important, like her mother was trying to teach her something, trusting her to be clever enough to puzzle
