Carly looked down. Granny Pitcher reached over and gently lifted Carly’s chin with her hand. “But now I see that I was wrong. Please forgive me, dear child. I should have made you part of our little family long before now.”
Carly smiled and felt the blurry beginning of tears. Her head, however, was spinning with questions. “But how do you know all this?” she asked.
Granny Pitcher didn’t answer right away, and gazed at Carly thoughtfully with her ancient amber eyes. She started to say something but stopped, looked at Green lovingly, and said instead, “Why, the stories, of course, my dear. I thought they were lost when they took the cabin from me. I didn’t leave peacefully, you know—when they built the school—and I was only able to grab a couple of things before they dragged me out the door. Then Green found the first story and I realized that they still existed—in the library of all places, right above our heads, though we still have several more to find. But for now, I have something else to show you.”
Granny Pitcher stood up and went to one of the windows. She opened the locked shutters with a key from around her neck. A space had been dug where the window should have been. She pulled out a wooden case and walked back to the table. “Go ahead and open it,” she said.
Carly and Green flipped a few stiff latches and opened the dusty lid. They both gasped when they saw a very old fiddle inside with a small crescent moon delicately carved in it.
“Is it . . . did it belong to . . .” Carly tried to ask.
“It was the Moon King’s,” said Granny Pitcher. “And it was his father’s before him. But it was traveling with their family in the Endroot long before even that. Oh, and let’s see now . . .”
Granny Pitcher walked back to the open window. “Too many whistle root trees were lost this week. But luckily, I was able to grab one other thing when I was taken from the cabin.” She reached past the shutters, pulled something out, and walked back toward them. “I’m giving it to both of you, along with the fiddle. I think you’ll know what to do . . .”
Carly watched in disbelief, despite everything that had happened, as Granny Pitcher dropped a small bag on the table between her and Green.
Without even looking inside, Carly knew it contained seeds.
“TEACH YOU TO PLAY the fiddle?” said Lewis irritably several nights later in the rats’ cave.
“And Green too,” Carly reminded him.
“What? The boy who sleeps in tunnels?”
“I thought we could listen when you start teaching the new musicians, now that the owls are dancing again. We’ll even bring our own fiddle.”
“I should think you’ll have to,” said Lewis, looking critically at the size of her fingers.
Small flames burned festively throughout the village, one atop every house. The rats had returned and made their chimneys into candlesticks, stuffing them with bits of wick and wax.
“I never would have told the other rats everything that happened if I knew they were going to make this fuss,” said Lewis. “Moon Queen . . . who ever heard of such nonsense? You’re a musician, and there’s no greater honor than that.”
“I know,” said Carly, smiling at him. She was wearing the crown of twigs, ivy, and flowers that Breeza Meezy had given her during the ceremony, which had been a complete surprise when she arrived at the cave earlier. She was also sitting in the Moon King’s chair.
Carly stood suddenly and ran toward the entrance to the cave. She went straight to the old whistle root tree. Standing at its feet, she held her breath and tapped it sharply.
It didn’t shimmer, and the Moon Queen of Whistle Root happily returned to her throne.
The END
About the Author
CHRISTOPHER PENNELL studied briefly at Yale and graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with degrees in German and psychology. The Mysterious Woods of Whistle Root is his first novel, which he began writing after he and his wife moved into a house with a small woods behind it and their daughter was born.
About the Illustrator
REBECCA BOND grew up in northeastern Vermont, and now lives in Jamaica Plain, Boston. When she is not having fun painting and writing, Rebecca is busy fixing up her new (to her) old house. All through the year, Rebecca looks forward to moonlit summer nights when it seems like just about anything can happen.
The Mysterious Woods of Whistle Root Page 11