The Whistle, the Grave, and the Ghost
Page 12
Stan shrugged. “See you at the Scout meeting, okay?”
“Okay,” said Lewis. He hurried on, trying to sort out his feelings. Everything was strange, as if he had been dead and had come back to life. And he couldn’t tell whether he was happier or sadder to be back.
He banged through the front door of his house. Mrs. Zimmermann met him and said, “Old Grumpy Gus wouldn’t stay in bed. He’s stretched out on the parlor sofa.”
Lewis and Mrs. Zimmermann went in to see him. Uncle Jonathan was a sight. He had lumps and bruises and scrapes, and a swollen left eye. “You two carry on as if I’m at death’s door,” he growled. “I’ll be fine in a day or two!”
Rose Rita came in from the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug. “Here’s your chicken soup,” she said. She had a couple of scrapes on her arm and one black eye. She had told her parents that she had taken a spill on her bike, something that had happened once or twice, and they had accepted that explanation. The lamia had merely swiped her aside, though, and she looked hardly the worse for wear, unlike Jonathan, who had been brutally pummeled by the angry creature.
“I brought the aspirin,” said Lewis, holding out the drugstore bag.
Mrs. Zimmermann made Jonathan take a couple, and then she sighed. “What is the church going to do about replacing Father Foley?” she asked.
Jonathan shook his head. “Search me. They say he died of a heart attack, but we know better. He went when the lamia went. Until she passed from the earth, he couldn’t die.”
Mrs. Zimmermann shook her head. “It’s like the myth of Tithonis, who asked the Greek gods for eternal life but not eternal youth. He withered and withered away, getting older, weaker, and more miserable year by year. No wonder poor Father Foley was so hard to get along with. He carried the weight of centuries on his shoulders.”
“Is the lamia really gone?” asked Rose Rita. “For good?”
Mrs. Zimmermann frowned. “Well, with Father Foley’s soul at rest, it can’t come back to this earth, anyway. Not without that glorified magical kazoo!”
Rose Rita looked unsatisfied. “Are you really sure? I mean, you couldn’t find any trace of the lamia when we first went to the grave, and then it didn’t seem to trip up any of Mr. Barnavelt’s magical traps.”
“There’s a reason for both of those things,” put in Jonathan. “You see, the lamia wasn’t exactly a ghost, but a spirit from the ancient times of deep magic. She had never really been alive to begin with. And Frizzy Wig was specifically trying to find ghosts at the grave.”
“True,” agreed Mrs. Zimmermann. “And then Furry Face set his traps to catch a magician—someone with a body, not a spirit drifting on the wind. And like all vampires, she couldn’t actually come inside the house until she was invited in. She tricked Lewis into giving her the invitation. The traps would not work against a guest, you see. Just against an intruder. But to answer your real question, I’m certain that the lamia has been banished from the earth. Her tie to this world was through Father Foley and the whistle. Bless him, Father Foley gave his life to banish her. If it’s any comfort, I think the old man was ready to go.”
“May his soul rest in peace,” said Jonathan, sipping the hot soup. “I certainly had him pegged wrong. Wish I’d had the chance to tell him that.”
“Maybe he knows,” said Lewis in a small voice.
“Amen to your wish,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “He certainly saved our bacon. Though I should have thought about destroying the whistle myself. Did you see what happened to the stone?”
Jonathan shook his head. “All I remember is that snaky thing whapping me. After that it’s a blank until I woke up in bed with Doc Humphries taking my pulse. What happened to the stone, Haggy?”
“It got sucked down into the earth,” answered Rose Rita. “As if the ground under it turned into quicksand.”
“Good riddance,” grumped Jonathan. “I’m only glad Lewis didn’t blow that danged whistle for the third time. What was it that stopped you? Was that a magical phrase that Father Foley shouted at you? I couldn’t make head or tail of it!”
Lewis gave a sad grin. “It wasn’t exactly magic, but I was so scared of him that when he ordered me to translate the Latin, I had to try! I think that distracted me enough so he could levitate the whistle out of my hand.”
“It wasn’t real Latin, was it?” asked Rose Rita.
Mrs. Zimmermann chuckled. “It was indeed! It is a very old joke that very old Latin teachers love to give to their classes. In fact, considering Father Foley’s true age, I suspect it is a positively ancient joke. Lewis, did you work out the translation, or shall I?”
“I think I got it,” said Lewis. “ ‘How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’ ”
Jonathan Barnavelt laughed. Then he shook his head. “Who would have thought that old priest had a sense of humor? Well, I say again, may his soul rest in peace.”
And with all of his heart, Lewis agreed.
John Bellairs’s Lewis Barnavelt in
The Whistle, the Grave, and the Ghost
Brad Strickland