Wishtree(13)

“FLASH! STOP BEING DEAD!” Bongo yelled. She hopped over to Flash and gently poked him with her beak.

“How dare you peck my son!” HairySpiders yelled. “Flash! I’ll save you, baby!”

HairySpiders dashed out of her hollow, scrambled down my trunk, and promptly fainted.

“Oh, great,” said Bongo. “Just fantastic. Like mother, like son. What now, Wise Old Tree?”

“You grab Flash,” I instructed. “FreshBakedBread and BigYou, can you rescue HairySpiders? Pull her over to Fresh’s den, under the porch.”

“HairySpiders called my children ‘boisterous,’” BigYou said.

“BigYou said my children stink,” FreshBakedBread said.

Over two centuries of life, and I’d hardly ever raised my voice.

This was one of those times.

“NOW!” I commanded, just as the door to Stephen’s house opened.

You’d be surprised how fast raccoons and skunks can be when they’re motivated.





26


Stephen and his mother eventually gave up trying to find the mysterious baby opossum. Samar watched them from her living room window, but she didn’t venture out.

After about an hour, HairySpiders and Flashlight woke up and returned, on wobbly legs, to their den.

And that was that. Again.

“Don’t worry,” I told Bongo. “Third time’s a charm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just something people say.”

“Charm,” Bongo sneered. “Did you know that’s what people call a bunch of hummingbirds?”

“No, actually.”

“Hummingbirds! Which, let’s face it, are pretty much just overdressed flies. But a bunch of us crows together, guess what we get to be called?”

“What?”

“A murder! A murder of crows! Can you believe it? A bunch of trees, you’re a grove. A bunch of raccoons? A gaze.” Bongo flapped her wings. “But crows? We’re a murder.”

“Are you quite finished?” I asked.

“Sorry. I’m worried about you. And I get grumpy when I’m worried.” Bongo plucked out a piece of new grass and tossed it aside.

“I have one more plan to get Samar and Stephen talking,” I said.

“How about a plan to get you not turned into a picnic table?”

“I can’t control everything in life, Bongo,” I said gently. “And if I could, what fun would that be? But this little thing. This wish of Samar’s. I can make it happen.” I hesitated. “At least, I think I can.”

“I don’t understand why this matters so much to you.”

“She reminds me of a little girl I knew a long time ago.”

“You’re a buttinsky,” said Bongo wearily. “But I love you anyway.”

She looked at me with something like the crow version of a smile—beak open, head cocked, eyes gleaming. “So what’s Plan Number Three?”





27


Once night had fallen, I sent Bongo on her next mission.

“All you have to do is untie Samar’s wish,” I instructed.

“Oh,” she said. “Is that all?”

Bongo flew to the low branch where Samar had tied her pink, dotted fabric scrap. She yanked on it with her beak several times. “Easier said than done,” she reported.

“You’re a crow. Use a tool.”

Crows are well-known for making and using tools. They’re probably the brainiest birds around.

“Hmm.” Bongo poked and considered. “I have a paper clip in my collection. I’ll give that a shot.”

“It’ll never work,” Agnes predicted from her nest.

I think owls are secretly a bit jealous of crows.

One by one, heads poked out of my hollows, as well as the skunk den under the porch, to watch Bongo at work.

“What’s Bongo doing, Ma?” asked one of the Yous.

“It’s called tool use,” said BigYou. “No big deal.”

“Folks, if you can’t say something helpful,” I said, “please don’t say anything at all.”

Bongo returned with a small piece of twisted metal. “Straightened paper clip,” she explained. “Found it on the school playground.”

With great effort, she managed to slide the straight end of the paper clip into the knot. But try as she might, she couldn’t pull the knot free.

“Almost … got … it,” Bongo muttered between her clenched beak.

“Why is Bongo doing that?” Harold asked Agnes.

“There’s no explaining crows,” Agnes said.

“Because I asked her to,” I said. “Because it’s important to me.”

With a frustrated groan, Bongo let the paper clip fall to the ground. “It’s no use, Red,” she said.

“Maybe it’s time to give up on this idea,” I said with a sigh. “I’m not meant to help. I’m meant to sit here. Just sit.”

A gentle wind rippled my leaves. No one spoke.

“Wait just a minute,” said BigYou. “Maybe I can lend you a paw.”

“You’re awfully heavy for that branch,” Agnes pointed out.