Chapter 1: The Pasture, a Map, and a Nonsensical Break-in
The Misadventures of Leighton Fig
Thank you for reading The Misadventures of Leighton Fig!
The idea for this story came to me out of frustration. Two Christmases ago, I sought good, fun, and adventurous stories to buy my daughters. As my wife and I drove empty-handed from Barnes and Noble, I said, “That’s it. I’m going to write a series for our daughters.”
That evening, the Leighton Fig character lept into my imagination. My daughters read and approve the chapters as I write them. It’s been one of the most precious collaborations I’ve ever worked on. I’m writing the final chapters now. Enjoy!
Chapter—The Pasture, The Map, and the Missing Stars
“Consider the Jabberwock.”
Consider, indeed, thought Leighton Fig. The silly poem his father recited at odd moments and for no reason? Why should he?
“A clue, I’m sure,” huffed Leighton under his breath, his thoughts warbled and flared. “Slithy toves? The borogoves—all mimsy, or something of the sort,” he said, rolling his eyes.
The nonsensical words of the poem floated in his brain. It was impossible to make out any meaning whatsoever in the poem.
If you have yet to read the poem, written by the Oxford mathematician Charles Dodgson, better known by his pen name, Lewis Carroll, it reads like a run-on sentence or an unfinished and jumbled thought.
It’s called “The Jabberwocky.” It was the focus of the day’s lunch conversation between Leighton Fig and his father, Gibb Fig, on the terrace of The Big House, the main lodge of the family’s historic and sprawling vineyard, Red Oak Ranch.
“I don’t know. It all sounds like wrong words used in wrong ways,” Leighton argued.
“Wrong? Wrong! Who said anything about wrong?” said Gibb Fig, throwing his arms about in his typical dramatic fashion. “There are no wrong ways in poetry, Leighton—only wrong-headed people. The poem is a work of craft. It seems warped only because our imaginations suffer from lack of use.”
“All but yours, of course. Right, Dad?” said Leighton, chiding his father.
“Poetry, my dear boy, is the indispensable tool no one knows they need until someone dies. It is the poem, dear Leighton, that we run to first when comfort is needed.”
Here, Gibb Fig rattled off the titles of poems famous for their use at funerals. There was John Donne’s “Death Be Not Proud,” Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar,” and Christina Rosetti’s “Remember,” a favorite of Mr. Figs. Also, a favorite was the defiant poem, “And Death Shall Have No Dominion,” by the twentieth-century poet Dylan Thomas.” At the mention of this one, Gibb Fig stood to recite dramatically.
“Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.”
“You may not know too much about poetry now, Leighton. But that’s to be expected. The iPhone killed poetry, you see. It has been replaced with scrolling.”
And this is how the Jabberwock came up in the first place. It was used as an exordium—an introduction—in the conversation, or, as Leighton Fig liked to call it, a Family Dialectical Feud. You and I would call it a debate or a lighthearted argument. And we wouldn’t be wrong.
But everyday occurrences and ideas took on more profound significance in the Fig household. Some would say the Figs were a dramatic family, but drama is not the best way to describe them.
Perhaps the best way to describe the Fig family is to borrow from Leighton’s mother, Torrey Fig. She considered her family passionate—about life and family and learning—it was one of the characteristics that first drew her to Gibb Fig.
Gibb and Leighton word-sparred over a BLT lunch they enjoyed on the garden terrace of The Big House for the next several minutes. Gibb Fig chomped and chortled—a word he borrowed from the Jabberwocky poem to mean “laugh”—and was about to continue his verbal assault on the modern cultural forces that killed poetry when the sing-song voice of Torrey Fig called from the kitchen French doors.
“Gibb. Gi-iibb! I think it’s a call from work.”
Gibb turned toward The Big House, then back to Leighton, and smiled. “Talk about a poetry killer—try the real world. It’s murderous. If I had my way, Leighton, we’d set off, chasing the horizon guided by the stars and our imaginations,” he said with a wink as he stood.
Gibb Fig always had a way of turning conversations into pep talks.
“We’ll continue this later, ole chap,” said Gibb. “Or when the mome raths outgrabe.”
Leighton rolled his eyes and wobbled his head like it was about to roll off his shoulders. He laughed-chortled as he called after his father.
“Beware, old man! {Chortle, Chortle} Beware the JubJub Bird!”
“The fumious Bandersnatch!” replied Gibb Fig as he stole through the terrace as if acting in a play.
Leighton chomped down the rest of his BLT, then walked in the upper pasture. Leighton and his father often walked the upper pasture together, especially on cool spring nights when the winter wildflowers were still in bloom. Spring was near. The cool air and the warm Northern California sun made the pasture a dazzle-work of rugged beauty.
Ever since he could remember, Leighton loved walks. At sixteen, he was now beginning to steal out on his own and “have a think,” as his father liked to say. But walks were better with his father. They’d discuss the week’s literature, philosophy, and theology lessons, with a check-in on how Leighton was doing in math—Leighton’s least favorite subject. Gibb Fig would sizzle Leighton’s ears with inspiration and history stories and throw in Latin phrases to keep Leighton on his toes.
The walks were part of their family’s homeschool rhythm. Though Gibb Fig was called away monthly on odd work trips to Katmandu, Sir Lanka, Scotland, or other seemingly random locations, he was around the family ranch a good bit, working from his studio by the river.
Gibb Fig was well-read, having studied abroad his entire college career and went on to get a Ph.D. in philosophy. He met Torrey Fig in graduate school at the University of Cambridge. They married in Cambridge but then moved to Oxford, where Gibb was to begin a post-doctoral fellowship.
But after an extended holiday in the Lake District, he never returned to the fellowship. Instead, he “took a bunch of random jobs not worth mentioning,” as he once explained to Leighton.
Now, he worked as a consultant, which Leighton believed to be a job in which his father was paid to give his opinion about everything from art to local government to philosophy.
Leighton could not understand why companies needed a philosopher to provide them with his opinion on such matters. But he liked that his father was home a good deal and loved visiting him at his river studio. When work called The Big House line, it meant another trip.
“Dad will probably be gone by the morning,” thought Leighton “—such an ‘uffish’ thing—bah.”
Leighton was high on the pasture trail when he heard a voice. It was a girl’s voice.
“Leighton Fig! Wait up!”
It was his cousin, June.
June lived with her mom and dad, Helen and Caleb Long, in a house near the Fig’s home—to the northeast—on Red Oak Ranch near Big Bear Lake. They called it “Big Bear Lake” because, for three springs in a row, June and Leighton saw a California grizzly appear out of the woods and drink and wade in the cold spring waters.
June’s older brother, Tom, was out of college and living on the North Shore, near Boston. Leighton and June grew up on Red Oak Ranch, exploring the creeks and woods ever since they were old enough to ride four-wheelers.
June was seventeen, a year older than Leighton, a fact she loved to remind him of. One of their favorite things to do together was meet at the “Owl’s Room”—the name they gave their treehouse after they built it—and stargaze and tell ghost stories. Leighton was the best storyteller and loved to weave in characters from the constellations, Orion being his favorite.
Leighton turned and saw a distant speck moving up the rocky trail. The golden afternoon sun caught June’s blond mane.
Maybe June is a ‘mome rath,’ thought Leighton, chortling to himself. But do ‘mome raths’ have long blond hair thick like a horse’s? He chortled again.
Leighton waved June up and waited by a cluster of old ponderosa pines.
“Sorry to barge in on your walk, Leighton. I walked up to The Big House because Mom had to run out. Work or something.”
“Must be that time of year,” said Leighton. “So did my dad. Well, he didn’t run out; he just had to take a work call.”
“Uh oh. At The Big House? He’ll be gone by the morning.”
“Ha! That’s exactly what I thought.”
“Well, they are siblings. Maybe it runs in their family,” said June.
“What? Off-beat, sporadically busy but weirdly available parents who are always around but then they’re not. Disappearing to who knows where?”
“Yeah, something like that,” said June, smiling as she punched Leighton in the arm.
“C’mon,” said Leighton, grabbing his arm and wincing through a smile. “Let’s see if the eagles are down at the river. By the way, do you know what a chortle is?”
“Been reading Lewis Carroll, have we?”
“Guilty. So, do you chortle?”
“Definitely do some chortling.”
“How’s it feel?”
“To chortle?”
“No, sorry,” said Leighton. “I skipped a couple of thoughts in my head. About school next year—to be a senior soon.”
“Well, I have to finish Trinity Term. I’m so mad at Uncle Gibb for introducing that idea to our families.”
The two chortled together.
“It feels good to be staring into the last year of my high school saga—many unknowns. But I like it that way.”
“The spring Trinity Term is our parent’s excuse to introduce random poetry readings on us far into the month of June, like “Jabberwocky.”
“Well,” said June, “there are worse things in the world.”
“June, are you a ‘mome rath’?
She plugged Leighton again in the arm as they chortled loud and long.
“I am, Leighton Fig. I am.”
“I knew it!”
“The river looks cold,” said June as they walked into the shallow river basin. A light mist hung on the river as the cold water basked in the warming afternoon sun.
A family of eagles took up residence some years ago when Great Grandpa Fig was still alive. He loved the River Eagles, as he called them. The newest eaglets were busy each day shrieking and hunting. Leighton knew having several generations of eagles on the ranch was exceptional and loved it.
“Leighton, is someone in your dad’s studio? The front door is cracked open.”
“Who in the world besides our family even knows about Dad’s river studio? He must have worked here earlier this morning and left it open.”
“That doesn’t sound like your dad.”
Leighton walked to the studio door and peered in. The river studio was one of Leighton and June’s favorite places on the ranch. Sure, there was a horse paddock, vineyards, and walking trails for hundreds of acres, but the river studio was a special place. It sat on a low peninsula that jutted out over the river.
One of Gibb Fig’s friends from Vermont designed the studio and sent a crew to build it. The studio was airy and cozy, with a vaulted ceiling and antique wood floors. It contained books, paintings, easels, comfy chairs, and sofas around a grand open fireplace. You knew Gibb Fig was busy creating something when the fire burned late at night.
The studio was always locked when not in use, and only Leighton and June’s families knew where Gibb Fig hid the key. Leighton pushed the door slowly and walked inside. June inspected the door handle as Leighton stood in the center of the studio and looked around.
“Everything looks normal,” he said after a few eerily quiet minutes.
“Everything except the wood to the doorjamb being severely scratched. Leighton, I think someone broke into your dad’s studio.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. This door was forced open, Leighton.”
Leighton walked up the stairs to the loft where his dad’s writing desk looked over the fireplace. He surveyed the walls to see if all his dad’s paintings and wall hangings were accounted for. He knew they were worth a great deal, though his dad never disclosed their value. Every time Leighton asked about them, he always got the same answer.
“Oh, they’re all priceless to me, Leighton.”
Leighton’s favorite hanging was an ancient compass rose containing a map of the constellations. His dad told him he bought it on a trip to Scotland from a geography professor who was retiring from St. Andrews University.
Leighton was about to turn and inspect the studio’s west wall and respond to June when he spotted a cylindrical package on his dad’s desk.
“June, come up here.”
By the time June made her way upstairs, Leighton was holding the package, inspecting it in the sunlight that flooded through the three skylights just overhead.
“Looks like one of those archival map tubes,” said June.
“How can you look at a package and determine that, Juniper Sapphire Long?”
June chortled. “Well, you know how much I love the old things your mom collects. I remember your mom received a similar package before last Christmas. It was similar in size—maybe slightly longer. I was with Aunt Torrey when she opened it. It was an archival map tube. She pulled out that old map of Britain now hanging over the mantle in your family room. I love that map! I have no idea how our parents find these rare artifacts. But I love it.”
“Look here. There’s a label.”
“Whoever wrote that has perfect penmanship. It’s cursive! Who writes in cursive these days?”
“Someone from Scotland. Look at the address. Isle of Rum?” said Leighton quizzically.
“We should head back to your house and tell your dad about the studio door,” said June. “This is weird, Leighton. I’m sure Uncle Gibb knows about the package. How could he miss that? But he’s going to want to know about the door.”
“Agreed. Let’s go.”
“Wait. Maybe we should take the package too. We can’t lock the studio, and that package is probably worth more than some random Amazon box.”
“Even though there’s no living soul for miles besides our families, I agree.”
June rapped Leighton’s shoulder again, this time harder than usual.
“Ow! That one stung.”
“Serves you right for being a smarty-mouth.”
They chortled as they closed the studio door. Leighton handed the package to June.
“Here, since you love maps.”
“Thanks, Leighton.”
Returning to The Big House, they found Leighton’s parents in a deep discussion with Helen and Caleb Long, June’s parents. Gibb Fig noticed June and Leighton walk through the kitchen’s French doors. He saw the package, and his face betrayed that he recognized the package, but he didn’t let on. He covered his surprise with a hearty greeting to the teenagers.
He hugged June, who, though she was five feet ten inches tall, appeared to disappear in her uncle’s strong and engulfing embrace. Gibb Fig and his sister, Helen Long, were tall; Gibb was six feet four inches tall, and Helen was five feet eleven inches tall.
June looked identical to her mom in height and features—except, of course, the mane of blond hair. That was from her Dad’s side. Leighton was blue-eyed, walnut blond, crazy-wavey-haired, and a rangy six feet two inches tall. He handed the map tube to his dad while June explained how they found the studio door ajar.
“Uncle Gibb, it looked like it was forced open. Everything in the studio looked the same—nothing was disturbed as far as we could tell. But then we found this package and figured we bring it to you since we couldn’t lock the door. It looks important. Is it a map?”
Gibb Fig looked at June and smiled. He flashed a glance at his wife and sister and then looked at Leighton.
“Thanks for bringing the package to me. That was smart. But … “
He paused and looked at his sister, whose eyes were fixed on him. It was the kind of stare that sent a message. He looked down at the map tube in his hands.
“Yes, June. It is a map. I have been expecting this for some time. Earlier this morning, I was having coffee on the terrace, and a courier stopped in and delivered it. I was on my way to the studio, but I … I forgot my key. So, I had to pry the door open.”
Gibb Fig’s story satisfied Leighton, but June looked puzzled.
“Oh,” said June. “So, I guess … well, that makes sense.”
“But, thank you, kids, for being smart, closing the studio and retrieving this. Shall we open it?”
June’s eyes widened, and Leighton laughed. “I think that’s the best thing you could have said to June. She’s dying to see it, Dad.”
“But Gibb,” said Torrey, interjecting nervously. “What about the work thing—the call? Don’t you have to …”
“Oh, quite right! Kids, Gotta dash. I almost forgot. Something’s come up with work.”
June raised her eyebrows and glanced knowingly at Leighton, who smirked in response.
“It’s okay, Uncle Gibb. I can wait.”
“She’ll explode on the inside, but she can wait, Dad,” said Leighton.
Everyone chortled, and Gibb Fig disappeared upstairs with a “Farewell, sweet family. I shall return! And when I do, ‘Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ We’ll chortle for an entire day!”
And with that, Gibb Fig was gone, map and all.
How to Get the Next Chapter Sooner Than Next Wednesday
Tune in next Wednesday when things heat up for Leighton and June in Chapter 2—A Secret Rendezvous. If you can’t wait till Wednesday and want the next installment sooner, share The Misadventures of Leighton Fig with your friends and family and get them to comment, “Please, Mr. Tim, post the next chapter,” in the comment section below. If I get 50 comments, I will post the next chapter immediately.
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Please, Mr. Tim, post the next chapter.😉
Please, Mr. Tim, post the next chapter!