Cindy Baldwin - The Stars of Whistling Ridge

For Mahon,

who will always be my forever home

I n stories, the number three is important.

Three princesses.

Three woodcutters sons.

Three tasks.

My story is the same, I guess.

Three sisters.

Three fallen stars.

And three disasters.

Mama always says that disasters are like blessingsboth of them come in threes. They follow on each others heels, the way starlight follows moonrise, so that you cant untangle them even if you tried.

This is the story of how I proved her right.

Everywhere we travel, word about the wishes gets around. Youd think that for a family who lives on the road 100 percent of the time wed have to advertise, but somehow we just show up to a town, park our Winnebagowe call her Marthaand by that night weve already had at least one knock on the door.

Theyre all different, the wish-seekers. Sometimes it will be a young mother with tired eyes. Others, a granddaddy with a cane and a tightness around the mouth. Every now and then itll be a teenager, shifting from one foot to the other on the RV front step like his shoes are full of fire ants.

But they all want the same things:

Happiness. Peace. Resolution. And while Mama never barters a wish without first cautioning about how wishes have limits, and rules, and dont always work out the way you expect them to, the wish-seekers always leave with a lighter step, like the world is finally turning their way. Sometimes we see them again; sometimes we dont. Sometimes their wishes work out for the best; sometimes they dont.

But no matter where we go, they find us.

The evening we pulled up in Silverwood, Oklahoma, the visit came from a grandmotherly lady with short blond hair and a way of holding herself that made me think of the Queen of England. She wore a navy skirt and blazer without a speck of dust on themthe kind of outfit you could only get away with if you had a regular house with a regular closet, a laundry room, and a full-size ironing board.

Wed been wandering our way north from where wed been staying in the Louisiana bayou country, where Mama had spent a whole week trying to calm a wellspring of swamp magic that was pouring enchantment into the water and creating some very unusual alligators. When wed packed up our things and gotten back on the road, Daddy had asked where to go next, and Mama had pointed to a map. Even though none of us had ever heard of Silverwood before, Mama was never wrong about that kind of thing.

And once we reached Silverwood, we had barely plugged Marthas power cord into the campsites adapter before the stranger showed up.

There was no actual knock on the door this time, on account of the fact that we were all already outside: Daddy and Sophie were down at the lake fishing for our dinner, Elena and I were putting a tablecloth and dishes on the campsite picnic table, and Mama was crouched by the firepit, laying logs with more precision than most people build houses.

The visitor paused at the edge of our campsite, her feet together in their tan pumps, and cleared her throat.

Hello, said Mama, standing up and wiping char from her hands. Her hair swished and sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.

Mamas hair was long and white. Not stringy and white like an old ladys, and not white like people say when theyre describing hair thats so light a blond its nearly see-through. Mamas was bone-white, star-white, milk-white, shot through with glimmers of silver, so that sometimes when she moved it looked almost like water. Everywhere we went, people stopped to stare at Mama, at her golden-brown skin and white hair and eyes the clear gray-blue of moonlight on snow.

Nobody in the world looked quite like my mama and her sisters, Aunt Agatha and Aunt Ruth.

Can I help you? Mama asked, lifting a hand to shake the visitors. Im Marianne Bloom. These are my daughters, Ivy and Elena.

Beside me, Elena shrank into herself, her shoulders curling in and her arms folding across her chest. Elena sometimes reminded me of a mousebright and cheerful and energetic when she was alone, or with people she trusted, but trembling and quiet around strangers. Sometimes it got so bad she could hardly talk when people we didnt know asked her a question.

The navy-blazer lady only darted nervous eyes at us and then looked back at Mama, like she didnt want to say whatever it was shed come to say where me and Elena could hear her.

They were often like that, the wish-seekers, carrying their secrets in tight fingers.

Ivy honey, come here and get this fire going while I take our guest inside a minute, Mama called, and even though curiosity burned through me hotter than any campfire, I obeyed. The regal lady followed Mama into the RV, Marthas door swinging shut behind them with a bang.

For as long as anybody could remember, people had been wishing on falling stars. And over time, those wishes had grown heavy and solid and real enough to weight down tiny pieces of that stardust, and give them hearts that beat and wings that could carry them through the warm night air. Because fireflies had come from stars once, it didnt take much for a fallen star-woman to breathe the wishes back into them, reminding the fireflies where theyd come from and how theyd come to be.

All you had to do after that was whisper your wish as you released the firefly, and as it drifted up into the darkness it would take your wish with it, wrapping that wish up in its glowing golden magic.

What do you think its about this time? Elena asked, relaxed again now that the stranger was gone, as I stuffed some paper into the log cabin Mama had built in the firepit and lowered the lighter down after it. My charm bracelet jingled, the little silver RV on it catching the light and making my stomach twist unhappily. For something that used to make me smile every time I saw it, that bracelet was sure getting to be an annoying reminder.

Shh, I hissed. Maybe we can hear. Sometimes we knew what the wish-seekers wanted, sometimes we didnt, but Mama always respected their privacy if they requested it.

Two clicks and a burst of flame, and the paper caught. I sat back on my heels, straining my ears to catch the conversation from inside the camper. Mostly it was just murmuring, indistinguishable as the ocean, but every now and then Id hear something from the wish-seeker: Husband... fire... job.

A few minutes later the door opened again, and the visitor stood on the front step with her hands cupped around a glass jar, like it was maybe the most precious thing shed ever held.

Thank you, she said to my mama, in that trembly half-there-half-gone sort of voice people often had when they were leaving with a wish in their hands. Truly. Thank you.

May it bring you joy. And remember the rules, said Mama, the way she always did. Standing there in the gloom of the RV, she glowed just a little bit, silvery-gold light rolling from her hair and skin.

The visitor stepped down. Between her fingers I could see a glimmer of light, there and then gone: the firefly in her jar, blinking its golden glow on and then off quicker than a whisper. With one last grateful look at Mama, those fancy pumps carried her out of our campsite.

A minute later we heard the sound of a car engine turning over, and then she was gone.