Marcel and the Red Footprints
Marcel came down on Saturday morning in his striped apron, ready to make pancakes. The flour was out. The eggs were out. But the big wooden spoon was missing from its hook.
— Mom! Dad! Someone has taken my spoon!
Mom and Dad looked at each other, and Dad's mouth twitched.
— Try looking in the pan, — said Mom.
Inside lay a note tied with string. It said: Your spoon has gone to find the sweetest strawberry in town. Follow the red footprints.
Red footprints, small as buttons, led across the floor and out the back door.
Marcel was already halfway out, apron flapping.
— Helmet first, my chef, — said Mom, and she held out his green helmet. — You're seven today, and the spoon has been awake since dawn.
Seven! Marcel had been counting the days for weeks, but he had been so busy with the spoon that he had nearly forgotten. He buckled the helmet under his chin.
— Take your scooter, — said Dad. — We'll be right behind you on our bikes. Spoons are quick, but bicycles are quicker.
— Not too far ahead, though, — said Mom. — Stay where you can see us wave.
— I will! — said Marcel.
He kicked off on his green scooter, through the gate and down the lane. Once he looked back. Mom and Dad were wheeling their bikes out of the shed, and both of them waved. Marcel waved back and felt very safe and very quick.
The red footprints went on and on, small as buttons. At one of them Marcel stopped and bent down. He sniffed.
— Jam! — he said. — Strawberry jam.
That was odd. But then, a spoon likes jam, and it was a delicious sort of odd. He scooted on.
At the corner by the tall hedge a sprinkler was turning in somebody's garden, hissing gently.
It had soaked the whole pavement. The red footprints were gone. The pavement was only wet and shiny, and it went three ways.
Marcel put one foot down and frowned. Left? Right? Straight on?
Then something white came trotting round the hedge. It was a dog with a red collar and a very wagging tail. His tag said: Biscuit. Lives at Strawberry Hill.
— Hello, Biscuit, — said Marcel. — Have you seen a spoon?
Biscuit did not bark. He only wagged, put his nose to the wet ground and sniffed along it. Then he stopped at a gatepost and pulled gently at a bit of string.
Under the string was one fresh red footprint, and a second note.
Marcel read it aloud: Find the knight with the shield of green.
Tell him the whitest thing you've seen, soft as snow and light as air.
You'll find it in each pancake there.
— A riddle! — said Marcel. — Come on, Biscuit. The white dog trotted beside the scooter all the way to the park, as if he had always been Marcel's dog. At the park gate stood a stone knight. His sword pointed at the clouds, and his shield was green with moss. In the stone block under his feet was a little hatch.
Marcel looked back. Far down the path Mom and Dad were pedalling, and Mom waved. Marcel waved too. Then he read the riddle once more, and his cook's nose twitched.
— Flour! — he said.
The knight looked very serious, so Marcel added:
— And maybe a bit of baking powder.
The hatch opened with a soft click. Inside lay a third note and a red ribbon. The note said: Up the hill, where the strawberries grow.
Biscuit wagged so hard that his whole body wiggled. The Sweetest Strawberry The way led uphill, and the path was steep and stony. Marcel's scooter was no good there.
He tucked it against the fence, tied the red ribbon round his wrist for luck, and ran, with Biscuit bounding beside him.
At the very top lay one last red footprint, small as a button. It stood by a little wooden gate. Beyond the gate were rows and rows of green leaves. It was the strawberry patch.
Behind him a bicycle bell tinkled softly. Mom and Dad came up the hill, a little out of breath, pushing their bikes.
— That spoon, — said Dad, — must be a very fast walker.
— I'm sure it's hiding somewhere close, — said Mom, and her eyes were shining.
Marcel walked slowly along the rows and lifted leaf after leaf. Nothing. Only leaves, and sunshine, and a bee that minded its own business.
Then Biscuit stopped. He pushed his nose under one big green leaf and nudged it aside.
There lay the biggest, reddest strawberry Marcel had ever seen. It was as big as his fist. And next to it, leaning against a flowerpot, stood his wooden spoon. On its round head sat a tiny paper helmet with a green feather.
Marcel laughed so hard that he had to hold on to his knees.
Then he straightened up and bowed to the spoon.
— Sir Spoon, — he said. — You did it.
He turned round. Dad was looking at the sky, as if it were very interesting. Something sticky was peeking from his pocket.
— Dad, — said Marcel. — What's in your pocket? Dad sighed and pulled out a cork. It was red and shiny with jam.
— It might have been me, — he said. — I used the jam from the second shelf.
— The footprints! — cried Marcel. — That's why they smelled of jam!
— You have a very good nose, — said Mom. — A cook's nose.
Then she opened the basket on Dad's bike. Out came a little camping stove, a bowl of batter with a cloth over it, and a frying pan. And at the very bottom lay a white chef's hat tied with a green ribbon.
— Sir Marcel, Cook of the Kitchen, — said Mom, — your pancakes are waiting.
She put the hat on his dark curls. It fitted perfectly.
— I mixed the batter, — said Dad proudly. — But I did not touch the pan. The pan is yours.
Marcel lit the stove, with Dad close by, and set the pan on top.
He took the knight-spoon, still in its paper helmet, and poured the first golden circle. It hissed softly and smelled warm and sweet.
While it cooked, he sliced the big strawberry into thin red moons, with great care, the way a real cook should. He flipped the pancake. Then another. Then another. On the top one he laid the strawberry moons in a ring, and Mom pushed a small candle into the middle.
Marcel looked at the little flame. Mom and Dad sang Happy Birthday, very softly, so that only the strawberries could hear. Biscuit sat down with his head on one side.
Marcel blew out the candle and made a wish, and he did not tell anyone what it was.
Biscuit got a bowl of water and one careful sniff of the pancake. Then they all sat in the sunshine among the green leaves and ate.
— These, — said Marcel with his mouth full, — are the best pancakes I have ever made.
— They are the best I have ever eaten, — said Dad. And the spoon, still in its paper helmet with the green feather, leaned against the flowerpot beside the family, the white dog and the very last strawberry moon.
