By morning, Carly had a cave full of axes and an angry mob looking for her. She didn’t think it was safe to go home. And she knew she had to get out of the woods before the sun rose. She couldn’t risk falling asleep outside. She wanted to go back to the tunnel and see Green but feared she wouldn’t get there in time—the sky was already growing lighter.
She would have to sleep in the cave; it was her only option.
But before she did, she checked the red hat, which was nearby after all, and found a new note in it that said:
Lew Kunderskool
A name? she thought irritably. It was giving her a name? What help was that? Why wouldn’t it tell her where the Crank was?
But then she realized she had heard the last name before. It was Green’s uncle’s last name, wasn’t it? Was the note telling her to find him? Was his first name Lew? Green had never said.
But then she remembered Green didn’t really have an uncle. His grandmother had made him up because the school had to think he was living with someone and everyone thought she was dead.
Before she could think about it more, the first rays of sunlight burst through the trees and Carly knew she had to get back to the cave fast.
She turned to run, but had taken only a few steps when she heard the whisper. “Sleep . . .” the whisper said, just as it had at the smoking whistle root tree so many nights before.
Carly spun around, looking for the griddlebeast, but her eyes were already closing. It was morning. She had been caught outside in sunlight.
The last thing she heard before falling into a terrified sleep was the sound of griddles echoing through the air around her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE WOOP OF THE WITTERY
WHEN CARLY WOKE UP, she saw fire, rocks, and feathers—exactly what Lewis had described when they’d gone to the smoking whistle root tree.
She was in the griddlebeast’s burrow.
Her hand went immediately to her neck, but the whistle roots were gone. She was lying on the ground and knew she wouldn’t be able to stand up—there wasn’t enough room. She would have to crawl out of the burrow. But before she could move, she realized that she wasn’t alone.
“I believe you have my hat,” a voice said.
Carly looked around and saw a little man standing beside the fire. He was only about a foot tall and had a red marching band hat on his head—just like the one from the cradle. The only difference was that his had a large feather stuck in the top of it. He wore gray pants tucked into long black boots and a dark blue jacket with brassy buttons on the front and tails in the back. His shaggy white mustache and goatee made him look very old. In fact, everything about him looked worn and tattered. The epaulet on one shoulder had even been replaced with a crab.
“Who are you?” asked Carly, although she had already begun to guess. “Are you the one who sent the notes?”
“Of course,” said the man. “The rats put a white cradle in the woods, didn’t they?”
“Well, yes,” said Carly. “But that’s because they have this old saying, ‘A white cradle in the woods brings hope’ and—”
“The saying is actually, ‘A white cradle in the woods brings Woop,’” said the man, interrupting Carly. “I knew I should have written it down for them . . . but they couldn’t read . . . I really should have taught them how to read. Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” He pulled a telescope from his pocket and stared through it toward nothing in particular that Carly could see. “Oh, for goodness sake!” he said, and put the telescope back in his pocket.
“What were you looking at?” asked Carly.
“Someone put a clock in a cabbage patch,” the man said bitterly.
“You saw that from here?”
“Not very well . . . my telescope is easily distracted.” The man began dusting his uniform with his hands. “Haven’t been in a rabbit burrow in years,” he said, and immediately fell asleep—while still standing.
The crab, which Carly had assumed was dead, suddenly jumped to life and pinched the man on the ear. It then went back to being an epaulet.
“Thank you, Crustace,” said the man, wincing and opening his eyes. He then unscrewed the cap from his canteen and poured a little water on his shoulder. “Reminds him of the ocean,” he said to Carly, who had begun to think she was still dreaming.
“Who are you?” she asked again, since she hadn’t really gotten an answer.
“I’m the Woop of the Wittery,” said the man. “And I’ve traveled far to be here tonight. Oh, excuse me again, will you?” He pulled his telescope back out and looked in a completely different direction. “Oh, the impatience!” he exclaimed. “If they put one more spoon in that spider web, I may not answer them at all.”
“Oh, the impatience!”
“What do you keep looking at?” asked Carly, although she had already decided that the little man was completely mad.
“Trifling, trifling,” said the man. “It’s always something trifling. Why do they bother me with trifles?”
“Who?” asked Carly. “Who’s bothering you?”
“Everyone!” said the man plaintively. “Everyone I’ve ever helped.”
“Did you ever help the rats?” asked Carly, remembering what he had said about teaching them to read.
“Of course,” said the man. “I taught them to speak and I taught them to fly. Though if I hadn’t, I’d probably be back at the Wittery enjoying a nice trout supper right now. But Crassifolia was always wanting—” There was a sudden popping sound and the man jumped and swore and swatted at his ear as if something had stung him. A small piece of white paper fluttered out from under his hat and landed on the ground in front of him. He snatched it up, read it, and tore it into tiny pieces while grumbling angrily to himself. He then yanked the feather out of his hat and scribbled something on a piece of paper that the crab had pulled from his pocket and handed to him. When finished, he tucked the note up into his hat and there was another popping sound and the man jumped as if having gotten a shock. He then poured more water on his shoulder and continued exactly where he had left off. “—favors for the young king and I did feel sorry for him. So I traveled to the Endroot and taught the rats to speak like she asked and—”
“Do you mean the Moon King?” asked Carly, interrupting him. But even that was only one of a hundred questions she wanted to ask.
“Yes, of course,” said the man. “That’s what the guards called him. And then the rats began calling him that too. But they did it respectfully, whereas the guards were just cruel. They wouldn’t let anyone visit him. The rats were the only creatures able to reach him in the dungeon. And Crassifolia thought they could carry messages to him—and they did—but they also befriended the young king. And he, clever boy that he was, taught them to play the instruments his family had been playing for centuries—the fiddle, the horn, and the drum—which spooked the guards unendingly because they could never figure out where the music was coming from. The boy made the little instruments himself, of course, and sent the rats to gather whatever materials he needed. I even have a drum he made sitting beside my bed at the Wittery. I used to play it whenever I couldn’t sleep. But I never sleep now—my hat and telescope won’t let me—and if I do fall asleep, I’ve taught Crustace here to wake me so they don’t get the pleasure.”
He patted the crab affectionately and then pulled his telescope back out and looked in another direction entirely.
“You said you taught them to fly,” said Carly. “Did Crassifolia ask you to do that too?”
“Oh, no,” said the man, putting his telescope away and scribbling angrily on another note. “That was the boy’s plan. He asked me to create an army of flying rats—and I did—though it took time. I taught them to speak and fly, and he taught them to play music. Not all of the rats could learn to play, mind you, but many of them could. And when he had enough, he unleashed them on the Kingdom of Endroot like a plague.”
A strong gust of wind rushed into the burrow, roari
ng powerfully and circling Carly and the man.
“Not yet, my old friend!” said the man loudly. “Please wait outside! We don’t want to lose the fire!” The wind rushed back out and the man tucked the note he had written up into his hat and jumped again when the popping sound came. He then continued his story. “The rats played their music endlessly, on every roof of every house that had been built since the whistle root trees were chopped down. And they played all over the castle too, tormenting the king, who was the boy’s oldest brother. And when anyone tried to catch them, they just flew away on the breezes as I’d taught them to do. This went on for weeks and no one in the kingdom could sleep. And then the boy told the king that he could get rid of the rats if he was allowed to leave the dungeon.
“The king was desperate by that point—and only half awake—and agreed to release his brother. And so, the boy walked out into the moonlight for the first time in three years. He immediately called for his father’s fiddle and played it as he traveled through the kingdom gathering the rats to him.”
The man abruptly pulled his telescope out again and looked directly at Carly.
“Stop showing me that!” he said, and struggled with his telescope to get it back into his pocket. “I’ve already given it to her!”
“Were you looking at me?” asked Carly.
“No,” said the man. “The telescope was showing me that name again.”
“What name?”
“The one I sent you,” said the man. “Didn’t you get the last note?”
“I did,” said Carly. “But what did it mean? It was just the name of a man. I don’t think he even exists.”
“How should I know what it means?” asked the man angrily.
“You sent the note, didn’t you?”
“I can’t control what the telescope shows me. I just know when it wants to show me something.”
“Has it shown you where the Crank is?”
“No.”
“But you’re sure there is one, right? Your note said—”
“I know what I wrote,” the man interrupted. “And wherever there are whistle root trees, there is always a Crank, and always only one. It has to be in these woods somewhere. And turning it is the only way to stop the griddlebeast, which is why I’ve come.”
“You’re going to help me find it?” said Carly. “Oh, thank you! I didn’t know where to look and there’s no time to waste because—”
“Oh, I didn’t come to find the Crank,” said the man. “I came to get my hat back. I think you’re lying on it.”
Carly felt around with her hand and found the hat from the cradle crushed beneath her. She remembered she’d been holding it when the griddlebeast whispered her to sleep.
“You could have taken better care of it,” said the man disapprovingly. “I have so few of them left. But I suppose its condition won’t matter much in the cabbage patch.”
“You’re sending it to a cabbage patch?”
“They put a clock in it, didn’t they? Just like you and the rats put a white cradle in the woods. I tell everyone something different—it just has to be unique so I know who’s calling me. And someone is always calling me, which is why I rarely travel anymore. I’m too busy at the Wittery. Speaking of which, I should be getting back, so if you’d just give me the hat—”
“Wait,” said Carly. “You have to help me!”
“I’ve helped you all I can,” said the man. “And I don’t know where the Crank is, so there’s nothing more I can do. Though it is a shame the whistle root trees will be gone soon—again—just like in the Endroot. It certainly is odd how people are always chopping them down. They’re lovely trees really.”
“Is there another way to make them ring?” asked Carly. “Without the Crank, I mean. One did, a few nights ago, but I don’t know how it—”
“Someone must have turned the Crank,” said the man with certainty. “There is no other way to make them ring. And if only one rang, then the Crank must have been turned only a little. The oldest trees ring first, you see. I wonder why they didn’t turn it more?”
“Could it have been the Moon King?” asked Carly, knowing the question might be foolish. “I’ve heard fiddle music—in the woods—and the rats have all left or been taken by the owls.”
“Impossible,” said the man. “He’s been gone a very long time, my dear. And I’m afraid these woods will soon be gone as well, unless you find the Crank, of course. And I am sorry, but I really must go. So if you’d please give me the hat, I’ll be on my way.”
Carly didn’t want to give the hat back, but it seemed childish to refuse. She straightened it out as best she could and handed it to the man.
“What happened after the Moon King had gathered all the rats?” she asked. He could at least finish the story for her, and maybe there would be some clue that would help her find the Crank.
“Well,” said the man, inspecting the still crumpled hat, “he marched them into what little remained of the forest and was never seen in the Endroot again.”
“Is that when he came here?”
“Yes. Crassifolia helped him, although it still took almost a year of traveling. And she gave him a bag of seeds, just like the one she’d given his father. But it wasn’t a mixed bag of seeds like his father’s had been—the one she gave the Moon King had only the seeds of whistle root trees in it.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to give him the strongest protection possible. And he planted them in an empty land, much like the Endroot had been, although the ground wasn’t made of ash. And on moonlit nights, he wandered among the young whistle root trees playing his father’s fiddle to help them grow, for the trees needed moonlight and music even more than the sun. And the rats helped him and began to play only in moonlight as well. And they played only in groups of three—one for the fiddle, one for the horn, and one for the drum—just as the Moon King’s family had always done. And when the trees grew tall, the Moon King told the rats to play up high so that they’d be safe from the animals that had moved into the new woods and were a danger to them. But even up high, they still had to worry about the owls, so the Moon King asked for my help again. And I traveled here and taught the owls to enjoy the rats’ music and even to dance when they heard them playing. But that was a long time ago. I don’t know any of the rats living here today, and I haven’t been back to these woods until tonight.”
“And what about the vegetables?” asked Carly. “Why do the rats always replace a lost band member with a vegetable?”
“Oh,” said the man, looking a bit sheepish. “They still do that, do they? Well, that was a bit of foolishness on my part. It’s funny how a whim becomes a law, isn’t it? Or is that scary? I forget which.”
He suddenly pulled his telescope out again and stared toward the tunnel leading out of the burrow.
“The griddlebeast’s coming back—he’ll be here soon,” he said, and then jumped and swore and swatted at his ear as another small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. “Oh, really!” he said irritably, as he picked it up and handed it to Crustace. “I won’t answer it till Christmas!” The wind blew back into the burrow and the man reached out and moved his fingers up and down as if playing a piano. “Tisk, tisk, tisk,” he said, and then he was flying, almost bumping into Carly. “Down the tunnel, my friend!” he called, and the wind rushed out of the burrow, pulling the man by his arm like a child being dragged to bed.
“WAIT, TAKE ME WITH YOU!” yelled Carly. Then she remembered her own experience with the wind and how it had fought her every attempt to steer it. “YOU CAN CONTROL THE WIND?”
“THIS IS THE ONLY GUST I TRUST!” the man yelled back.
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE OLD OWL AND THE WHIRLWIND
CARLY STARED AFTER THE MAN for less than a second and then crawled frantically out of the burrow, squeezing her way down the tunnel. As soon as she was outside, she took off running. She didn’t even stop to look b
ack at the smoking whistle root tree.
It was night again. That must be why she had woken up. Carly wondered if the griddlebeast had thought she wouldn’t.
She ran away from the sounds of axes chopping down trees. She was constantly afraid she would hear whispers—but instead, after several minutes had gone by, she heard howling. It came from the direction of the burrow and she knew the griddlebeast had discovered she was gone, which made her run even faster.
She ran for a long time and was soon deeper in the woods than she had ever been before. When she couldn’t run anymore, she stopped briefly to rest. She wondered if the griddlebeast was following her and listened for noises that might let her know. Instead of footsteps, she heard the sound of a fiddle, and quickly but quietly crept toward it.
And when she finally saw who was playing it, she cried out, “Lewis! Lewis!” and ran toward him.
Although Lewis saw her, he didn’t stop playing his fiddle, which wasn’t all that odd since he never wanted to stop playing. But he was also playing on the ground and by himself, which certainly was odd.
He acknowledged Carly with a grin and then nodded his head toward something a little farther away. Carly stopped and looked and saw a large old owl hopping from foot to foot on top of a small dead tree. The owl was only about ten feet away and was watching Lewis intently. And whenever there was a pause in the music, it lifted its wings and lowered its head as if preparing to fly directly at him.
Lewis changed songs abruptly from the fast one he was playing to a slow one that reminded Carly of a lullaby. She watched as the owl closed its eyes and tucked its head lower within its feathers. And when the song was over, the owl seemed completely asleep.
“What are you doing here?” Lewis whispered to Carly.
“I heard you playing,” Carly whispered back. “Well, I didn’t know it was you. I thought you were dead. Oh, Lewis, I found the squash and the onion on my roof and thought the owls had gotten you.”
The Mysterious Woods of Whistle Root Page 9