His name was Robin, because all of the pumpkins in the patch were named after things they saw around them. Robin grew in the same row as Sparrow, Clover, Crow, Mouse, Sunshine, and Man With Big Boots. They all grew in a patch behind a castle, and were well taken care of until autumn came along.
Then the Duchess’s Gardener came around and admired them. “Good for pie,” he murmured, studying the pumpkins all around him, “Good for a good many pies.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Robin, “Need I be a pie?”
“Eh?” said the big man, looking around. “Was somebody talking to me?”
“I was, sir,” Robin said, “You are the man who pulls the weeds and makes sure the cows don’t get in and eat us.” He had never talked to anyone before, and didn’t know quite how to speak to the Man With Big Boots, except that to call him by name would only get answers from the pumpkin named after him, a huge orange cucurbita who usually only grunted. “I wondered if I must absolutely be cut up and cooked into a pie.”
“Well, you know a lot about this, for something growing on a vine,” said the gardener, leaning down to study Robin.
“The black birds tell us a lot of stories,” Robin replied, not wanting to us the word Crow, as SHE always took long naps this time of day. “And I’m not quite sure that’s what I want to do.”
The gardener laughed. “Well, I don’t suppose you HAVE to be a pie, Round One. The ladies up to the castle will be coming down to pick a pumpkin to be their jack-o-lantern this year. Sometimes, each sister needs to have one, and sometimes the lady of the house throws a big party, so she might need a dozen or more for the tables.”
“I see.” The crows had told Robin about jack-o-lanterns, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. The birds had ridiculous senses of humor. “That business where they cut you open and put in a candle? Isn’t there some OTHER job I could do?”
“You’re also pretty particular for somebody rooted in dirt,” the gardener said. “But nowadays, of course, we sell quite a lot of our pumpkins to companies that smash them up and spice them up into pumpkin spice matcha or pumpkin spice turnip tarts.”
“Oh, dear!” Robin turned these choices over in his head: being smashed and spiced didn’t seem all that much better than being carved or cooked. “Isn’t there SOMETHING else?”
“That’s pretty much all there is for pumpkins,” the Man With Big Boots told him, turning away. “But if I meet someone looking for a pumpkin for another purpose, I’ll surely let them know.” And, thinking this was a pretty good joke, he walked back to his shed.
Robin did NOT think this was a very good joke, but soon the ladies from the castle came out and chose pumpkins for carving, and he knew he didn’t have much time left. So, late one night, when the moon was full, he pulled as hard as he could at his roots, tore himself out of the ground, and ran away.
This did not go exactly as he’d planned, because although he had studied running and practiced it in his head he found he wasn’t especially good at this.” “Either keep moving or go back to sleep,” said Crow, drowsy and cross, “So I can sleep.”
“I can’t seem to run away,” Robin replied. “Maybe you need to have shoes for that.” He tried again, but his vines just were not designed for running.”
“And what’s all this, then?” A woman Robin had never seen in the garden was bending over him.
“A pumpkin,” said the badly dressed young woman behind her. Robin had seen her before; she seemed to be a maid of all work in the castle.
“I know that, dear,” said the older woman. She picked up Robin. “This is just the thing. You SHALL go to the ball!”
Robin had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded more interesting than being carved or smashed. And so it was, for the older woman waved a sparkly stick over his head and he was transformed into a long orange automobile even larger than the one the Duchess and her two daughters had driven down the road in earlier. And the woman waved her stick over and over until the maid wore an elegant gown that matched Robin’s shiny paint job, and robin found himself tooling along the country roads at quite an exciting speed, driven by a natty man in an orange uniform.
He was not altogether clear about a lot of what happened after that, but the maid apparently went to live at the much bigger castle of the king, where Robin was parked with other automobiles in a long garage. The young woman, called Cinders by her new family, often drove Robin around the countryside, who would come around and cheer for her and listen to her song and take turns sitting in Robin’s plush orange seats, admiring his handsome sheen and his green-sidewall tires, and his gleaming license plate (ROBINN1031).
This was a great deal more pleasant than being spiced or sliced, and Robin heard a lot of interesting stories, and had many drives in the country. But time went by, and newer cars came into the garage: shiny silver and back machines of quite different designs. The men with big boots who worked in the garage started to refer to Robin as “that old gourd”, and he hardly ever saw Cinders come to the garage. His tires started to lose their air as he sat there, largely unattended. A few spiders threw webs around his outside mirrors, and mice nested behind one of his fenders.
“Well, this is boring,” he muttered late one night to a rusty old motorcycle called Prince. Prince didn’t reply. He’d been out of gas for years.
“It is a little sad,” said a voice Robin only partly remembered. “Perhaps I could make you into a pumpkin again, as you were when you started.”
Robin blinked his headlights. It was the old woman with the sparkly stick. “Would you like to be a pumpkin again?”
“And then what?” Robin asked her. “A pie or cookie cream or a scary face?”
“Well, actually,” she told him, “You’re so old now you’d probably rot away at once. That’s what nature does with unused pumpkins.”
Robin thought this over. It was rather lonely in this dark corner of the garage, despite the mice.
Finally, je sad, “No, I don’t think so. I got this far doing things pumpkins aren’t supposed to do, so I think I’ll go on for a while and see what happens next.”
The old woman smiled, and waved her sparkly stick. “You were always rather busy, for a pumpkin.” The mice squeaked, and Robin felt the bounce come back to his suspension as rust melted away and a couple of holes in his upholstery disappeared as the orange leather was made new again.
“It was always back here,” somebody said to somebody else.
The lady and her sparkly stick disappeared as the lights were switched on the in the garage. “Back in the corner, next to Grandpa’s. There it is!”
Three young men stood staring at Robin. “I saw pictures but I never believed it,” said one.
“It’s a classic!” said another. “Does it still run?”
“Probably needs gas,” said the first one who had spoken. “Grandma said she hadn’t had him out for years and years.”
“Let’s try a test run,” said the second man, climbing behind the steering wheel where Cinders had so often sat. “Before we call the library.”
Each pf the young men had to have a turn at the wheel, and Robin found himself driven along country roads he sort of recognized, but which had been built up, rather, since his day. Somewhere after lunch the next day, he found himself being driven to a very tall building called Royal Library, where a great many people came to look at him and run their hands along his bumpers and upholstery. He didn’t quite catch what they were saying, but it was all very exciting.
The upshot of it all was that the Royal Library was dedicated to the years and Cinders and the Prince were running the country, and robin, as Cinders’s legendary limo, was given a room of his own, surrounded by pictures of the trips he had made when she was driving. Now and again, he would be taken out for a drive for special guests (going at a much more reasonable pace than the young men had used.) A velvet rope was put around him when he was at rest in the Library, so people wouldn’t reach over and get their fingerprints on his finish. But they did anyhow, and Robin didn’t care.
One of the visitors, come that October, was a small girl who was very impressed with Robin’s color and design. “Ooh, she said, “It’s like the world’s biggest pumpkin!”
“It’s a car, of course,” said her father. “Even if it was a pumpkin first.”
“I know that,” the little girl informed him. She looked around, and then reached out to touch an orange fender. “When I’m big enough, I’m going to drive orange cars. Really fast orange cars! Around a racetrack!”
“Things don’t work that way,” her father said. “Little girls grow up to bake pies.”
Robin blinked one headlight at the girl. He knew better.
