Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (9 page)

Beau Fox watched proudly as the little dog conquered the fourth, fifth, and sixth steps of the steep lighthouse staircase. Once Tango reached the first landing without a misstep, he tackled the second flight of stairs. Going up, Beau observed, took spring and strength. Coming down required bravery and balance.

Beau found himself looking forward to these nightly excursions. Tango was the first animal he’d allowed himself to become close to in all the years since Tawny was killed by the red car.

“Tonight’s the night,” Tango announced as they trotted toward the lighthouse, eight nights after entering for the first time. “I can feel it in my bones—I’m going all the way to the top!”

Tango revealed his plan. “Tomorrow, we’ll sneak in before Big Bart unlocks the door. Doc Tucker
keeps talking about the new bridge. Maybe Manhattan’s just on the other side.”

“Hmm. McKenna once spoke of a long bridge she wanted to cross. But we must hurry,” Beau urged. “A storm is brewing.”

Thunder rumbled. Filaments of lightning scratched the midnight sky. In the bay, frothy waves churned and slapped against the rocky shore. Gliding on the whistling wind, a squadron of seagulls cawed and cackled with displeasure.

Fear displaced the determination in Tango’s eyes. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Too late for that,” Beau barked. “Go inside! Quick!”

The heavens cracked open. Rain came down in sheets. The two rain-soaked canines crawled into the lighthouse.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning illuminated the pitch-black interior and a terrifying creature. Beau froze, speechless, mesmerized by a grotesquely misshapen animal—bigger than Tango but smaller than Beau—with dazzling white fur. In the dark, the animal’s two beady eyes glowed rose. Tango cowered by Beau’s side.

A second bolt of lightning flashed. A long, tapered hairless tail slashed like a knife as it swished across the floor.

“Beau, we’ve got to get out of here!” Tango cried.

The albino beast opened its jaws; its four front teeth were enormous. The sound that came out of the beast’s mouth was neither laughter nor crying, but a freak combination.

“Didn’t you hear me, Beau? Run!” commanded Tango. “Now!”

Beau and Tango scrambled out of the lighthouse into the unrelenting rain. They bounded at full speed toward McKenna’s shed, where inside a light was burning.

When they were both safe in his tunnel underneath the shed, Beau struggled to catch his breath. Could
that
be the giant rat that haunted the upper floors of the Pitiful Place?

It was big. It was white. What else could
IT
be?

Beau hadn’t believed that the monstrous rat truly existed. The cats, he figured, had fabricated the phantom creature. What better way to keep other animals out of their space?

“What was that—that
thing
?” asked Tango.

Beau panted and wheezed. “A… very … large… disfigured… rat.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.”

A pain stabbed Beau’s chest—a grim reminder that his days were numbered. Beau squeezed his eyes and waited for the pain to pass.

“Now what?” Tango complained. “We can’t go in the lighthouse again—not if that huge rat is there.”

Beau didn’t say anything. At the moment, he was too tired to deal with the often self-centered little terrier and the dog’s single-minded determination to go back home.

A wave of sympathy and understanding washed across Tango’s face. “How old are you, Beau?” he asked softly.

“Why do you ask?”

“Old? Or old-old?”

“Old enough to be one of the oldest foxes on the island, I imagine,” Beau answered. “I’ve seen fifteen summers.”

“How long do foxes usually live? Do they live as long as dogs?”

“Fourteen summers, it is said.”

“But, but that means—”

“Do not worry. My time has not yet come. And when it does, it will be a welcome journey.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, Tango. In your own time, you will.”

Stand up straight, speak up, brush your hair out of your eyes.
That’s what Augusta wanted to say when she opened her shop door and found McKenna standing there. Instead, Augusta waited patiently as McKenna hemmed and hawed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Miss Gustie, uh, you know …”

“Yes?”

“You know how you gave me all the candle stuff, I mean, you and Doc Tucker, and you said that the instructions were in the bag, and they were, but …”

“Yes?”

McKenna’s lower lip quivered. “The thing is, I’m not the best reader, and—”

“You’re finding it hard to follow the instructions?”

“Pretty hard. I mean, I understand most of what I’m supposed to do, but—”

“You could use some help?” Augusta asked. “Certainly.”

“But you’ll only need to tell me once. I’m a fast learner,” added McKenna eagerly. “I put everything out in the barn, like you told me.”

“Meet me out there at nine, after I close up shop. Bring a couple of Bart’s hurricane lanterns from the wharf—we’ll need some light. And the longest extension cord he’s got, for the electric burner.”

“Okay.” The girl nodded.

“And tie back your hair, for heaven’s sake, or you’ll catch us both on fire.”

Augusta’s small barn had once housed a team of horses, a wagon, a pony, and a buggy. These days it held a lawn mower, gardening tools, and a wooden dory that leaked. Barn owls, bats, and pigeons took refuge in the rafters.

“Like I said before,” Augusta began, “candle making takes more patience than skill. Patience and practice. You can’t expect perfection on your first try.”

“No, ma’am.”

“No need to call me ma’am—makes me feel older than I already am.”

Suddenly, a smile broke on McKenna’s face. “Oh, look!”

McKenna pointed at Pup, who was curled into a ball up on top of a stool. “How’d he get up there?”

“Sometimes I think that Pup’s part monkey,” Augusta said. “Why, the other day, I found him on top of my dresser, pawing through my jewelry box. Every time I turn around, he’s sticking his nose into something.”

“That’s weird. Have you decided what you’re going to call him?”

“Well, now,” Augusta said, wanting to stick to business. “Step number 1: We need to prime the wicks. Use the double boiler there. In the bottom half, add a couple of inches of water. Use the garden hose. Next, bring it to a boil.”

Once McKenna got the water boiling, Augusta continued. “You pick out the size mold you want, and I’ll show you how to measure the wick.”

McKenna chose an octagonal steel mold. Augusta shook her head. “Too hard for a beginner. Try a round one.”

McKenna chose a cylinder about seven inches tall.

“Good. Now, melt a little paraffin wax in the top of the double boiler, about this much.” With her fingers, Augusta measured one inch. “Leave the wicks to soak in the wax for five minutes—set the timer. Then we have to let them dry.”

Augusta told McKenna to hold on; she hustled off to get a cookie sheet from her kitchen cupboard.

When Augusta came back, McKenna asked, “Should I cover the sheet with anything?”

“Yes, good thinking. Cover the sheet with that greaseproof paper—there, in that bag of stuff Doc Tucker bought you.”

Step by step, Augusta showed McKenna the entire candle-making process in a way not unlike the way she may have taught a curious kindergartner. Pup was attentive to their every move. Augusta was relieved that he was sticking close to home. His mysterious disappearances at night were terribly upsetting.

“I’m going to make my candles Prince Edward Island colors,” McKenna announced, plucking wicks from the molten wax with a tweezers.

“And what colors are those?”

“Coral, like the sunset. Pink, like wild roses. Purple, like lupine, and—”

“Three is enough,” Augusta cautioned. “Each color requires a new batch of wax, remember. You’ll have to experiment to find the exact shade. Mother used to say…”

“You used to make candles with your mom?” asked McKenna, wistfully.

“Oh, yes.”

An awkward silence filled the space between them.

Augusta knew she shouldn’t pry, but before she realized it, the question was asked: “And where, may I ask, is
your
mother?”

“Since I don’t know
who
my mother is, it’s hard to say where she is.”

“I’m sorry,” Augusta said quietly.

As much as she wanted to ask about McKenna’s father, Augusta couldn’t think of a tactful way to question the girl further. She picked up the wax thermometer. “It’s time to test the temperature. When the melted wax is ninety-three degrees Celsius, it’s ready.”

McKenna dipped the thermometer into the wax. After waiting a minute, she held the thermometer up to the light. “Nope, not hot enough,” McKenna concluded.

McKenna petted Pup, keeping her eye on her work. “I’m part Mi’kmaq, you know.”

“Why, no, I didn’t know.”

“Annie Pike told me I was, and I believe her. Even if I’m not, I want to be.”

“It seems you either are, or you aren’t.”

“Yeah, I know. I mean, I want to practice their ways. The Earth would be a better place if we all did. That’s what I think.”

“And who is Annie Pike?”

“Annie was my second—no, my third foster mother. Annie was Mi’kmaq. She swore I was Mi’kmaq, too—she could feel it in her soul. Annie didn’t care what some county record said about me.”

“Your second or third foster mother? How many have you had?”

“Oh, after Annie moved to Toronto—that’s where I’m going, by the way—let’s see.” McKenna counted with her fingers. “Seven.”

Augusta shook her head. The very idea that this young girl had lived in—how many?—foster homes was appalling.

“You’re going to Toronto?” A vision of homeless girls living on the streets—hungry and desperate—sent shivers up and down Augusta’s spine.

“Yup, at the end of the summer. After I make enough money selling candles.”

“Do you have relatives there?”

“No.”

“Are you going to live with Annie Pike?”

“Um, maybe. But don’t tell anyone—you won’t, will you? Promise?”

Augusta didn’t know exactly what to say, but she knew better than to make any such promise. Perhaps teaching McKenna how to make candles—and money—wasn’t such a good idea after all.
But Augusta couldn’t back out now—certainly not tonight.

“Is the wax ready?” Augusta asked.

McKenna nodded.

“Pour it into the center of the mold. Don’t let any wax splash on the sides. Yes, that’s right. Good job.”

As it turned out, Augusta never gave an instruction more than once. Finally, when Augusta was all but sleeping on her feet, McKenna shrieked, “Look!” A candle slid out of its mold. “I did it! I did it!”

McKenna clapped like a toddler who’d blown out all the candles on her birthday cake. For a moment, Augusta saw herself when she was McKenna’s age—tall, skinny, uncomfortable in her own skin. But loved … yes, Augusta had been loved.

“That’s a good night’s work, McKenna.” Augusta yawned. “Mother always said that the hardest part is cleaning up, so we’d better get to it.”

“Can we make one more?”

“No, I think that’s enough for one night.”

“Please, please, please, Miss Gustie?”

“Oh, all right,” she conceded. “One more.”

McKenna didn’t ask for help, but her eyes sought Augusta’s approval every step of the way.

Finally, the long night came to an end. Augusta put Pup in her arms. Before leaving, Augusta paused, dying to ask McKenna just one more question: What—exactly—makes these candles
enchanted
?

After days and nights of practice—wicks too long, dye too dark, wax that wouldn’t harden—McKenna had molded thirteen pillar candles.

Into the hot paraffin she’d added threads of silver birch bark, purple lupine blossoms, and scrapings from the inside of blue mussel shells. She’d stirred the mixture with a heron’s tail feather for good luck.

Now, on the night before she would (finally!) open for business, McKenna practiced writing a set of instructions on squares of colored cardstock that Miss Gustie had given her. If customers were to believe that a candle possessed mystical powers, they’d expect a way to invoke its magic.

First, McKenna wrote:
At midnight, on the night of the new moon, light the enchanted candle. Make a wish. Repeat every night until the next new moon.

No, that didn’t seem mysterious enough. Maybe it should rhyme:
Enchanted candle, burning flame, see my wish, say my name.

No, that didn’t make any sense, although she liked the way it sounded.

Then McKenna tried:
Enchanted candle, burning bright, grant the wish I wish tonight.
Not bad, but nothing special. Plus, it sounded like
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

In the end, McKenna ripped up every card she’d written. Instructions were like a guarantee. What if a customer came back, called her a fraud, and demanded a refund? No, best not to put anything in writing. Name the candles, hope for the best.