And his mother always said he had his grandfather’s nose.
Leyland was a saver. A keeper. A boxer-upper. A legendary
collector of rare and unusual things.
Beneath his bed, in nearly a
dozen large black plastic hide-away boxes, Leyland kept his things.
Things like...
...thirty-eight differently shaped pinecones, some open,
some still sticky and closed-up tight.
...and the front headlight and chrome retainer ring assembly from a
1979 Volkswagen.
...and a thick brown bag nearly bursting with exactly eleven dollars
and forty-three cents in antique pennies that had wheat sheaves on
the back where the Lincoln Memorial usually was.
...and an old Ant Farm that still contained the remains of Leyland’s
last great ant colony: nearly 300 dead red worker ants and their
queen. Leyland had made a post-mortem count of them many times;
he still felt badly for the role he had played in their demise.
He knew better now: ants need only so much water and no more.
Guilt, and an unspeakable attachment to his old ants, kept him
from establishing a new, and much dryer colony between the Ant
Farm’s clear walls and green frame.
...and nine yo-yos, including one special free-spinning silver yo-yo
that came with a 55-page How to do Yo-yo Tricks instruction book.
It was supposed to be excellent for impressing friends and
family. Busy with his collections, Leyland had never taken
the time to learn anything more difficult than Rock the Cradle.
...and an assortment of rusty bolts and nails found in various vacant
lots in his neighborhood and during his summertime travels with
his family.
...and an old bottle with an unusual Pepsi logo on it, a couple of
old license plates, the shards of several old ceramic plates and cups, and
a few pieces of ancient Indian pottery, light brown with black
lines still painted on the surface.
...and a heavy box of rocks of different sizes and varieties labeled
with their geologic names like “basalt” and “granite” and “schist”
in black marker on aging masking tape.
...and, in one small box, which he kept always near the center-most
point of his under-the-bed cache, labeled in loud red pen to warn
pokers and prodders to “Beware the contents!” Leyland kept his
bones. His magic bones.
Leyland’s rocks, they were just rocks. And his yo-yos were just yo-
yos. Likewise, his Ant Farm was just a terrarium for dead insects and could never be returned to the store for a refund, especially not in its
present condition. His bolts would never spin again and his nails were
beyond straightening. His headlight and retainer assembly, worthless
without a car to go behind them. And as for his pennies, he had been
told by a collector at a coin show that they were worth little beyond
their face value, with only a few possible exceptions.
But Leyland’s bones, they were magic.
Or they were almost magic.
Or they could be magic someday.
But of their magical potential at least, he was nearly certain. Just
as certain as he was of the worldly worthlessness of all the other
treasures in his collection.
Few knew of Leyland’s bones; fewer believed in their magic.
One who did believe was Leyland’s best friend, a heavy, redheaded,
freckled, and oft-teased boy named Norman. Norman was a true believer;
The Letter had convinced him, though it had failed to convince many
others.
And also because, Norman had helped Leyland collect some of his bones.
