"Yup. They both had 'em, and they were growing every now and then too."
"When they bullied someone," I guessed.
"Chances are," Grandpa B agreed. "And then one day in late March, or maybe it was early April, just about the time when the ice was going out, they heard a real ruckus down to the river. Huntington dashed down there and found a pretty young lady trapped on an ice floe with a flock of sheep. They were floating away from shore, farther and farther every second, with no hope of ever getting ashore, not unless someone came to their rescue."
"Couldn't she swim?" Lillie asked, astonished.
"Not a stroke. And particularly not in the river. Back then folks thought the river just sucked you right under. Today it's lots calmer."
"Did they go to her rescue?" I asked.
"Certainly did. Huntington nearly drowned himself doing it. He could hardly swim a lick himself, but somehow or other, he got that young lady and all her flock ashore. Cold as that water was, he was blue as a jay by the time he was done. But when he climbed out of the river, he'd shed his horn and had his own handsome Bridgewater nose back."
"He'd done an act of genuine kindness," I whispered to myself.
No one was paying much attention to me, though. They were waiting for Grandpa to finish the story. He knew it too. You could tell by the way his shoelaces all of a sudden needed retying, and then his pocket watch needed winding, and then he got to working on his neck, where he always got a kink whenever you tried to hurry him along.
"All right," Mom complained, tapping a foot, "what about this Uncle Floyd? What happened to him? You said it was his story too."
"Oh, he stayed on shore, calling Huntington coarse names," Grandpa B said.
"So he didn't lose his horn?"
"Not that day. I think it even grew a little. There was a lamb or two that went missing around suppertime."
"Did he ever lose his horn?" Fran asked.
"Don't know," Grandpa confessed, putting a hand over his heart to show that he was telling us exactly what he'd been told himself, without any of his famous add-ons. "He disappeared about a week later, never to be seen again. He went down to the river one night, to fetch a bucket of water, and never came back."
"Are you sure about that?" Dad asked.
"Heard that part on good faith from the young lady that Huntington saved."
"How'd you ever get a chance to ask her such a question?" Mom was eyeing Grandpa suspiciously.
"Well, she turned out to be my Great-Grandmother Nettie—great-great-great to you girls—who lived to a very ripe old age and had a talk with me when I was a sprout."
"What was she like?" Lillie wanted to know.
"Pretty as you, and kindly."
"So what happened to Floyd?" I said.
"Rock trolls," Grandpa B reported with a satisfied nod.
"Don't you think," Mom asked, "that it's far more likely that he somehow fell into the river and drowned?"
"Along this stretch of river?" Grandpa scoffed. "Why, who knows what might have happened, but I can tell you this much for sure: old Huntington never saw his brother again, even though he more than once offered to give away everything he owned if it would bring Floyd back. I think he felt kind of to blame, him being the eldest and all."
Grandpa looked about to launch into further details, but a station wagon whipped up in front of our house without cutting its headlights. A sour-looking Dr. E. O. Moneybaker struggled out the passenger door. One-shot, who'd been driving, tried to lend the doctor a hand but got waved off.
Once I explained who they were, everyone stampeded down to meet them.
"Bad pictures," Dr. Moneybaker barked, waving a grainy print under the streetlight beside our sidewalk. "We're trying to find Duke so we can take another batch."
"Isn't he home?" my mother asked.
"Not at the moment," the doctor groused, dabbing at his forehead with a folded hanky, "though his folks are. I'm afraid there's been a small accident."
"How small?" Grandpa called out. Aunt Phyllis was his youngest child.
"It appears," the doctor said, blinking at us through his thick eyeglasses, "that Duke's parents have been turned to stone."
There was a general all-round gasp.
"Stone?" Grandpa B fumed, pushing his way up front. "What kind of stone?"
"Does it matter?"
"And you call yourself a doctor?" Grandpa B snapped. "Gangway! There might still be time to save 'em."
Eight
Stone
Grandpa always shed about seventy years whenever anything rivery was going on, so he got to Duke's front door first. Without knocking he barged in, declaring, "It's me."
Right behind Grandpa came Dad, still in his pajamas, who called out, "Phyllis?"
The rest of us crowded in behind Grandpa and Dad, none too brave. So far as I knew, no one in our family had ever been turned to stone before.
When Dr. E. O. Moneybaker and One-shot arrived, the doctor announced, "They're in the kitchen."
Everyone flocked to the back of the house, straining not to touch anything on the way. The rooms were so still and watchful that there had to be a spell at work somewhere. In the living room, the old-fashioned mantel clock was still ticking, but its hands kept bouncing off 8:28, as if some hidden wall were keeping them from reaching the next minute.
We all squeezed into the kitchen, where the empty purple leash was lying on the floor and the back door was hanging wide open. There was no sign of Duke. His parents were facing each other across the breakfast nook, still as the bowl of plastic fruit between them. They were stone statues, all right, yellowish sandstone of the kind that shows up here and there along the river. Kids loved to scratch their names and the year into the stuff.
Uncle Norm had been zapped while patting Aunt Phyllis's hand. He was a large kindly man who had never met a dog who didn't want to lick him. At the moment, he was sitting with his mouth hanging opening, looking as though he were saying famous last words.
Aunt Phyllis's head was tilted slightly forward, as if petrified in the middle of a woeful nod yes. Crouching at their feet, just as solid as they were, was Duff, the family spaniel. That explained why we hadn't been bowled over and licked clean as a spoon when we stepped through the front door.
Then I noticed something about Aunt Phyllis.
"What's that?" I said, pointing.
One of Aunt Phyllis's cheeks was moist. As we watched, a tear gathered at the corner of her stone eye and seeped downward.
"We're not too late," Grandpa called out, twice as loud as necessary. "But we'll need some river water to save 'em."
"How much river water?" Dad asked.
"Fill this," Grandpa said, grabbing Uncle Norm's silver thermos off the kitchen counter. "And quick. Don't spare the horses."
Nine
More Stone
Duke lived just seven blocks from the river, but it seemed to be taking Dad most of forever to get back. Finally, Tessa couldn't take it any longer.
"Grandpa, what happened to Aunty and Unc?" she asked.
"River trolls."
"You don't know that," Mom protested.
"Sure do," Grandpa replied. "Your second cousin Alfie had a run-in with some of 'em down to Five Creeks. They turned him into stone just like this."
"River trolls?" Dr. E. O. Moneybaker snorted. "This is the first I've heard of them being involved. All the old wives' tales blame this kind of nonsense on rock trolls."
Grandpa scoffed, saying, "Haven't you ever heard the saying 'River trolls use rocks and rock trolls use river'?"
"Well, of course I have," the doctor crabbed, "but as a man of science, I'm not convinced it means anything."
"And I suppose you think these two people here haven't been turned to stone either," Grandpa said, resting his case.
The doctor worked his jaw up and down plenty without thinking of a comeback to that. Finally, he turned away from Grandpa and snapped at One-shot, "More pictures."
"They
won't turn out any better than the ones of the kid," One-shot predicted, but he started clicking close-ups and side shots. Meanwhile, Dr. Moneybaker was tugging on a pair of surgical gloves lifted from a pocket, sliding his eyeglasses on top of his head, and leaning over Aunt Phyllis.
"Those gloves won't protect you any," Grandpa warned. "Not with stone this fresh. It's got to sit for years before it's safe to touch stone such as this."
"Don't interrupt," the doctor grumbled.
"Gloves didn't help Cousin Ernie," Grandpa said.
"Who's Cousin Ernie?" I asked.
"Cousin Alfie's brother."
"Cousin Alfie being the one turned to stone down to Five Creeks?" asked Dr. Moneybaker, who'd stopped leaning toward the breakfast nook.
"Yup," Grandpa nodded. "And Cousin Ernie couldn't stop himself from touching Alfie, just to make sure he'd really been turned to stone. 'Course, he got turned to stone too, the instant he touched Alfie. And even though he had sense enough to put on a pair of leather gloves before he went touching anything."
"And how, pray tell," the doctor said, "did they turn him to stone?"
"Wouldn't know," Grandpa cheerfully admitted. "Do I look like some kind of river troll to you?"
"Dad," my mom spliced in, using her be-nice tone, "who told you this story?"
"Got it straight from the horse's mouth," Grandpa said. "Alfie and Ernie told it to me, and anyone else who cared to listen. Not many did."
"So they didn't stay stone?" I asked.
"At least somebody's listening," Grandpa declared, pleased. "Ernie no more than touched Alfie and got sha-zammed to stone, than someone came up behind them and pushed them both into the river. Soon as they hit the water they got turned back to flesh and bone. My personal opinion? The river water saved them."
"How long ago did all this happen?" the doctor asked, fumbling for his notebook.
"Oh, they were young fellows then," Grandpa allowed. "Didn't know any better. It would have been back in the Depression."
The fact that it had happened seventy some years ago didn't bother the doctor in the slightest. Right away he asked Grandpa if he'd ever heard of anyone growing a horn like Duke's.
"Of course I have," Grandpa said, dragging out the story of Huntington Bridgewater and his brother Floyd.
Having to tell a story twice never slowed Grandpa down any. What's more, the doctor scribbled notes and even asked Grandpa to repeat dates and places. Grandpa was pretty near in heaven.
They were still at it when the siren came woo-wooing down the street, cutting off right in front of the house. Seconds later came a bam-bam-bam at the front door. Rushing through the living room, we found Dad still in his pajamas and looking kind of sheepish. Standing next to him was a tall, thin sheriff's deputy who was holding Uncle Norm's thermos.
Ten
Even More Stone
"You got a couple of people turned to stone in there?" the deputy asked.
"We certainly do," Mom answered.
"Then you better let this man through," the deputy said, handing Dad the thermos. "He's carrying river water."
"Home remedies won't help," Dr. Moneybaker scoffed.
"You some kind of doc?" the deputy said, sizing him up.
"I am."
"You ever heard of fish scales?" the deputy asked.
"Don't be impertinent."
"On people?" the deputy persisted.
"Of course on people. Around here I've heard of everything."
"Good," the deputy said. "Then maybe you can tell us what's the best way to get rid of fish scales."
"As a general rule, you don't."
"Tell that to my Aunt Buffy," the deputy shot back.
"Let me guess," Grandpa B said. "River water?"
"Mixed with a little mustard and goose fat," the deputy agreed with a nod. "So when I pull a guy over for speeding, and he's wearing pajamas and holding a thermos between his legs, the first thing I do is ask what's in the thermos. When he says, 'River water,' I say, 'Better let me see.' And when it really turns out to be river water, I help him get to wherever he's going—fast. We've got orders directly from the sheriff himself on that one. So step aside in the name of the law."
"Now, hold on here," Dr. Moneybaker balked. "I haven't conducted any tests yet."
But he said it from behind us. Dad had already pushed past him, and the rest of us weren't collecting dust either.
"Where you planning on pouring it?" the deputy asked.
That question brought Dad to a dead stop in the living room, right in front of the stalled mantel clock.
"Does it matter?" Dad said.
"It can make all the difference in the world," the deputy told him. "Aunt Buffy got her best results by pouring it over her heart, even though the scales were on the back of her legs."
"Uh-uh," One-shot disagreed. "I've always heard you should pour on the top of the head."
"From what I've heard," Mom said, "you pour where the spell touched them first."
Hearing that from Mom stunned us all. She never admitted to having the least bit of interest in river gossip.
"How do we know where they got touched first?" Dad wondered.
"Time's a-wasting," Grandpa blurted, and, grabbing the thermos from Dad, he took off for the kitchen, where he skidded to a stop in front of the breakfast nook.
Grandpa was unscrewing the thermos cap when Dr. Moneybaker shoved his way forward, saying, "I still need a sample of the moisture on that woman's cheek." He lunged for the thermos.
Grandpa B and the doctor were both old as the hills, but Grandpa's hills were in better shape, and he was winning until the deputy tried to separate them. They all got tangled up with each other and toppled forward, falling into the breakfast nook.
I closed my eyes, afraid to watch. When I opened them, there were five stone statues crammed in that breakfast nook. Six if you counted Duff. Dr. Moneybaker was sprawled across Uncle Norm's back. The deputy was standing on one leg, with a hand on Aunt Phyllis's arm for balance. Grandpa was stretched out beneath the table, the back of his head touching Duff's tail. His mouth was open as if about to shout something colorful.
The thermos with the river water had gone flying, so I retrieved it and with some help from Dad unscrewed the cap. Pouring river water over their heads didn't undo anything, though. They looked as stony as ever, and wet. Aunt Phyllis kept right on tearing up too. Those of us who hadn't been turned to stone weren't too surprised—Grandpa's stories weren't known for their accuracy.
Eleven
Catfish, Buffalo, Pots of Gold
The clocks may have been stuck, but the phone, though full of static, was still working. Dad didn't waste any time getting ahold of the police. Hearing that a deputy had been lost to stone, the dispatcher immediately rang the sheriff at home.
Sheriff Tommy Pope wore a crisp brown uniform with a shiny bronze star directly over his heart. The top button of his shirt was undone, but nothing else about him said he'd been relaxing at home. His well-padded gut and gray sideburns made him look as capable and dependable in person as he did in all his re-election posters, the same posters that sprouted up all over town every four years as if by magic.
What the sheriff's reelection posters didn't prepare you for was a talker. One glance at the breakfast nook had him sighing as if he'd been through all this a hundred-plus times before. Without introducing himself, he leaned back against the kitchen counter, hitched his thumbs inside his belt, and said, "First things first. One-shot, it's time for you to hit the road. The last thing we need is a newspaper man hanging around."
"You know that paper of mine," One-shot protested. "It won't go anywhere near a story like this. Not for anything."
"Still and all," the sheriff said, "these people might like some privacy."
"Oh." One-shot acted a little embarrassed for not seeing that himself. "Sorry," he added, and with a nod, he left.
We scrunched together a little closer to hear what the sheriff might say next.
"There's folks in this town that choose not to believe in fortunetelling catfish, or low-flying buffalo, or whatever," the sheriff remarked, staring at a spot on the ceiling rather than at us. "I'll tell you straight out, I'm not one of them. After all I've seen during my years of sheriffing, I'll believe most anything and then some. Even these TV talk shows wouldn't touch half the things I've had reported to me. There's a woman over on Huff Street with talking mice in her walls. The thing is, I've had a word or two with them myself. Real polite, they are. And you can't hardly get by a rainbow around here without two or three honest citizens calling to ask if anyone's lost a pot of gold. And that new housing addition out west of town? There's a coyote trying to burn it down. I've seen it running around with a flaming branch in its mouth. Not to mention the troll sightings, ogre swindles, and blue-wing fairy disturbances." Lowering his gaze to us, he went on, "What I'm getting at is this—you can feel free to tell me exactly what's happened here. I won't be poking fun at it or spreading it around. On that you can be sure. Antagonizing voters isn't my style at all."
So Dad told him. The sheriff un-huhed and ahem-ed through everything. When Dad pointed to the stopped clock on the mantel, the sheriff clicked his tongue and said that spells generally raised hob with clocks. When Dad got to the part about his being escorted back by a deputy, the sheriff smiled proudly and confided, "That's what I tell 'em. If somebody's rushing somewhere with river water, help 'em get there. Time's a-wasting."
"The river water didn't help," Mom said.
"Generally doesn't," the sheriff agreed. "Always worth a try, though."
After Dad finished the rest of his story, the sheriff nodded thoughtfully and crossed over to the wide-open back door.
"Not a scratch." He whistled lowly in admiration as he shined a flashlight on the lock. "There never is. Two or three times a month we find 'em open like this. You won't be able to close this door for years." To show us what he meant, he slammed the door shut and quickly stepped away. It flew back open immediately, as if flung by an unseen hand. "Unless you're willing to leave it open until the spell wears off, the only thing you can do with a door like this is pay Secondhand Tim to haul it away. He's got a back room full of 'em."
Horns & Wrinkles Page 3