Fen set the stew pot upside down
beside the wagon wheel.
“We leave before the sun,” he said.
“Get sleep. That’s the whole deal.”
Kit tipped his hat. A silver coin
hung from its leather band.
Arlo’s mule reached through the rails
to sniff the cook’s bare hand.
“Your mule eats anything,” said Fen.
“She tried to eat my shirt.”
Arlo moved the calendar
above her reach—or thought he did.
Its nail was loose in wagon wood;
the paper shook and stirred.
“She has a taste for better things,”
said Arlo. “Let me tell.”
Fen rolled his blanket halfway out.
Kit rang the supper bell.
Arlo’s missing Tuesday
“My mule ate Tuesday, whole and raw,
before I caught her chewing.
She took the date right off the page
and left next Monday brewing.
“We rode all day through Wednesday hills
and crossed a Thursday creek.
By Friday she had grown so full
she couldn’t face the week.
“I offered her a Sunday rest.
She would not lift her head.
I tried to tempt her with a month.
She wanted June instead.
“So if you ask where Tuesday went,
I’ll tell you where it lies:
inside a mule with iron teeth
and very patient eyes.”
Fen tapped the pot beside his boot.
“Then tell me, if you please:
who ate two suppers yesterday
and asked for extra peas?”
“A missing day makes hunger worse,”
said Arlo, smooth as cream.
“The first was supper in this world.
The next was in a dream.”
Kit clapped. Fen pulled his blanket back.
“That dream has left a stain.
If Tuesday comes around again,
you wash this pot again.”
Kit’s bargain with the weed
Kit stood to give the second tale.
His hat coin caught the light.
“I met a singing tumbleweed
on that lost Tuesday night.
“It sang about a railroad bride
who married half a train.
It sang so high the moon sat down
and begged it to refrain.
“I asked the weed to fetch our day.
It named a fearful fee:
the last bright silver coin I owned,
paid out by humble me.
“It rolled away across the flats
and brought back Tuesday noon,
wrapped in a pair of borrowed pants
and humming out of tune.”
Fen pointed at the silver coin.
“Your last one, did you say?”
Kit felt his hat. “It paid me back
to make me go away.
“I sang along. I sang so bad
it dropped the coin and fled.”
“Then sing to us,” said Arlo.
“I’d rather sleep,” Fen said.
Kit sang one note. The mule stepped back.
Fen covered both his ears.
“That weed was wise to pay you off.
It saved itself some years.”
Fen’s sheriff of the week
Fen took the bell from Kit’s cold hand
and set it by the dishes.
“My final tale is shorter still.
Then sleep, with no more wishes.
“A sheriff came to claim our days
for singing after dark.
He caught each Tuesday in a sack
and signed it with his mark.
“He locked the sack beneath his bed.
He kept the only key.
Without a Tuesday left in town,
we had two Mondays free.
“But every Monday was his turn
to scrub the pans and plates.
He washed until his fingers ached
and cursed the missing dates.
“He let those stolen Tuesdays loose.
They ran beneath the moon.
Then one came back to ask for stew
and stole his silver spoon.”
“The spoon was mine,” said Arlo.
“The sheriff’s name was Kit.”
“I know a fourth tale,” Kit began.
Fen groaned, but let him sit.
The fire sank low. The tales grew long.
They argued every rhyme.
Each time Fen said, “That is the last,”
Kit said, “Just one more time.”
At dawn the porridge had gone cold.
Three heads dipped over bowls.
The mule had pulled the loose nail free
and dragged the page past blackened coals.
“Is Tuesday gone?” Kit asked at last,
too tired to lift his spoon.
Fen read the scrap beside her hoof.
“Worse luck. She’s eaten June.”
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