by Matthew Ward
“And, go,” said Cordelia, long before her brother was ready.
Arthur clutched at a stone far above his head and scrambled to jam his right foot into a crevice between two stones at the base of the wall. Heaving himself up with his arms, he straightened his right leg and shifted his weight onto it. As Arthur’s other foot left the ground, he realized there was no turning back. He would have to retrieve the rocket or die trying.
After several harrowing moments of hunting for handholds and hoisting himself higher and higher up the wall, Arthur briefly paused to catch his breath. He had always heard that one should refrain from looking downward when climbing at extreme heights, so he had been careful to avoid all eye contact with the ground below. But the more he thought about it, the more curious he became, and the more tempted he was to peek. He fought back and forth with the destructive impulse to look, until finally, he could no longer contain his curiosity, and the impulse prevailed.
Arthur peered over his shoulder—and started at his distance from the ground. It was only three feet away.
He glanced back at his siblings, and found—instead of the impromptu cheering squad he had been imagining in his head—a row of perplexed faces, baffled by their brother’s ineptitude at timed stone-wall climbing.
Apparently sensing the awkwardness surrounding him, Hamlet trotted up to Arthur and licked him on the cheek (which still wasn’t much higher than the dog’s normal eye level)—as if to say, “It’s all right, little friend—you can start climbing now.”
Arthur turned back toward the wall and did his best to resume the ascent, hoping that by focusing on climbing, he might forget about his recent embarrassment. Finding a solid handhold to his left, the boy pulled himself up a few more inches.
After an exhausting climb (and more than a few near falls), Arthur finally planted his feet on the murky turf of the Crosley estate.
“I made it!” he shouted back over the wall.
There was a strange silence, and for a moment, Arthur wondered if his siblings had left him behind. But then the comforting sound of his older sister’s condescending voice met his ear.
“Eight minutes, seventeen seconds,” called the voice. “I don’t think you quite broke the record there, Arthur.”
He had suspected as much, but now it was official. His last possible record attempt before his impending doom had failed. Miserably.
“I can’t see the rocket from here,” Arthur called back. “I’m going to try and follow the string.”
“Best shove off soon,” urged Franklin. “There’s a stiff breeze blowing nor’-nor’-west with a bit of the old ‘sea smoke’ on it.”
“Looks like prime spider habitat,” added Penelope. “Bring me back a specimen if you can.”
“Be careful, Arthur,” Beatrice warned in a loud whisper.
“And try not to anger the ghosts,” called George.
Arthur turned toward the Crosley grounds. In the haze of the setting sun, he could hardly make out the glint of the fishing line through the tangled branches overhead—but he did his best to follow it as it led away from the massive stone wall behind him.
Though the Crosley estate was horribly overgrown with gnarled trees and twisting vines, it was—at least so far—surprisingly ghost free. This, of course, was no small comfort to Arthur.
Perhaps it isn’t haunted after all, he thought. Perhaps I’ll actually make it home alive.
But after walking through mud and brambles for several minutes, the boy’s doubts came swiftly racing back. Hard as he tried, he could no longer see the guiding string above him. Glancing backward, he found he could no longer see the wall either. A thick fog had rolled in and surrounded him on all sides, not only inhibiting his quest—but his escape, as well. Not knowing what else to do, Arthur pressed forward, hoping he might regain sight of the line further up ahead.
There was only one problem with this course of action: Arthur no longer had any way of knowing which direction “forward” was.
By the time he realized this, however, it was too late. He’d become completely and utterly lost. From where he stood, the scenery looked eerily similar from every angle as dark, contorted branches stabbed at him through the grayish fog.
Arthur thought of all the stories he’d read in which some poor child has found himself lost in the woods and suddenly discovers that the trees have come to life, their branches mutating into massive spiky hands, clawing at the poor child in an attempt to pull him into a gaping, fanged mouth that only moments before had been merely an oversized knothole. Luckily, Arthur was not so gullible. He knew that such stories were largely exaggerated, and that trees—however sinister they might appear when you were lost amongst them—did not generally eat children. He had learned long ago from Dr. Twigg, his Record-Breaking Botany instructor (and one of the Whipple children’s many tutors), that trees gained the vast majority of their nutrients through the process of photosynthesis, while receiving water and minerals through the soil. Indeed, the amount of a tree’s diet that was composed of lost children was so minuscule, Dr. Twigg had explained, that really, it was almost not worth mentioning.
And so, feeling he had a far greater chance of falling into a bottomless pit or being murdered by ghosts than he ever had of being eaten by a tree, Arthur decided to sit himself against the nearest trunk and wait for the fog to clear.
With each passing minute, Arthur fell deeper and deeper into despair. The fog was not clearing. And with fog so thick, and daylight fading so quickly, he had no idea how he would ever find the rocket and escape before nightfall. Cordelia and Abigail would be forced to cancel their official launch the next morning, and in the days to follow, someone would find Arthur’s cold, lifeless, recordless body still leaning against the spookiest tree on the Crosley estate—with no rocket to show for his efforts. Once again, he would prove to be an utter disappointment to the Whipple family name.
In a fit of desperation, Arthur flung his head back against the tree—and was suddenly filled with hope.
There, in the branches above him, was the faint outline of what appeared to be a model rocket.
Until that moment, Arthur had felt so down, he had entirely forgotten to look up—and now he could scarcely believe his eyes. But there it was, on a branch about eight feet up—the rocket, in all its miniature glory, waiting patiently to be found.
The boy leapt to his feet. Though he was no record-breaking tree climber (unlike his brother Edward, who held several records in the sport), the thought of actually living to see his twelfth birthday gave him a sudden boost of energy.
Arthur made light work of the trunk and quickly clambered through the tree’s lower branches—until he reached the limb that held the object of his quest.
The rocket was positioned toward the end of the branch, a good three yards from the trunk—and well out of Arthur’s reach. With great care, the boy wrapped his arms and legs around the limb and began to inch his way forward.
Soon he was out on the branch, completely separated from the security of the trunk. As Arthur neared the rocket, he felt the branch creak beneath his weight and sensed that if he ventured much further, it would no longer be able to withstand the strain. But he was almost there. Just another foot or so, and he would be within reach of the rocket.
The decrepit limb bowed further and further as Arthur made one last push forward. With his index finger fully extended, he barely brushed the tip of the rocket’s nose—but he dared not move any closer. Inhaling, he strained to use every bit of stretchiness left in his body—and just managed to grasp the rocket’s nose between his thumb and forefinger. As he pulled the rocket toward him, Arthur felt the tension in his bones melt away. He had done it.
Before he could climb off the branch, however, he was startled by a peculiar noise. In an instant, Arthur forgot all about his recent accomplishment.
A strange swirl of mist rose up from the ground below. And then, as Arthur watched in surprise and terror, a ghostly figure emerged from the f
og.
Arthur froze. He had never seen a ghost before; he could only hope the ghost would never see him.
The figure continued its advance and then stopped a few yards from the base of the tree, almost directly below the boy’s position.
His view obscured by the branches beneath him, Arthur could just make out the vague features of the wraith’s terrifying form.
It appeared to be a girl. And she appeared to be crying.
His heart racing, Arthur watched as the ghost sat itself on a tree stump and put its head in its hands. Despite his terror, he could not help but pity the poor spirit. How awful it must have been to be killed at such a young age by ingesting toxic toffee. But Arthur was no fool. He knew that malevolent spirits often assume sympathetic forms as a way of luring in their victims. If he allowed it to get close enough, it would no doubt transform into its true monstrous self and devour his soul.
As this was not an acceptable outcome for Arthur, he decided to remain perfectly still and wait for the ghost to pass.
But instead of returning to the foul mist whence it had come, the ghost lingered. It sat on the stump and continued to quietly sob, as if nothing else existed. The more Arthur watched it, the more enchanted he became. Its sympathetic guise had taken its effect, and the boy was powerless to stop it.
Convincing himself his current vantage point did not offer the clearest view, Arthur leaned his head out for a more suitable perspective. That was all it took. There was a sudden crack. The ghost girl looked up. And then Arthur was falling through the air.
In a dreamlike state, the boy crashed through the branches below, until the ground provided an unwelcome wake-up call. Arthur struck the earth with a gut-wrenching thud.
He gasped for breath and peered up—only to find he was now lying at the phantom’s feet. Unable to look away, he locked eyes with the sinister spirit. Its face was pale and streaked with tears, which streamed from two sparkling green eyes pink at the edges from so much crying.
It began to move closer.
Paralyzed by fear and still gulping for air, Arthur watched helplessly as the demon-in-disguise approached its fallen prey.
Then, from out of the night, came a distant yet familiar voice.
Arthur! it called.
Arthur and the wraith turned toward the voice with a start. There, shining through the fog, was the far-off beam of a flashlight.
This was Arthur’s chance.
Summoning his will to live, the boy leapt to his feet, scooped up the rocket, and bolted toward the light.
As he tore through the undergrowth, Arthur dared not look back. Soon he could see the shape of the wall looming before him, the battery-powered beacon gleaming down from its spiked ridge.
“Arthur, is that you?” asked the voice behind the beam.
Standing atop the wall, Cordelia shined her flashlight in the boy’s face.
“It’s him!” she shouted down the other side of the wall. Turning back toward her brother, she added, “Where in the world have you—”
“Catch!” yelled a breathless Arthur, tossing the rocket up to his sister as he approached the base of the wall.
Cordelia—who incidentally held the record for one-handed arrow catching—effortlessly caught the rocket with her free hand, examined it in astonishment, then dropped it behind her for the other members of the search party to retrieve.
Arthur’s lightning pace slowed only slightly when he reached the wall and began to climb. Soon he was passing Cordelia at the top and scrambling down the other side.
It was not until he’d planted both feet safely on the ground—and off the Crosley estate—that he stopped to catch his breath.
“You did it, Arthur,” whispered Beatrice as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Woof!” said Hamlet.
“My thoughts exactly,” smiled Abigail.
“Glad to see you all as well,” panted Arthur.
“One minute, sixteen seconds!” called Cordelia, holding the flashlight to her stopwatch as she peered down at her brother from the top of the wall. “Quite an improvement, Arthur—but still not quite good enough. I’m afraid stone-wall climbing just isn’t your event. On the plus side, it seems you’ve managed to preserve our record quota by retrieving the rocket you lost—though you certainly took your time about it. We walked all the way back to Neverfall to fetch a light, and you still weren’t here when we got back. I climbed up the wall for a closer look—and then suddenly, there you were, charging at me like a wounded wildebeest. What in good Grazelby happened over there to make you run like that?”
“You mean you didn’t see it?” gasped Arthur.
“See what?” said Cordelia.
“Never mind,” Arthur replied, too exhausted from the ordeal to recount it.
Cordelia shot him a skeptical glance, then tossed him the flashlight and started down the wall.
As Arthur held the light for his sister, he began to wonder if he had simply imagined the entire thing. But when he recalled the spirit’s tears and sparkling, swollen eyes, he became convinced it could not have been just a dream.
It was certainly a relief to be out of the haunted grounds of the Crosley estate, but Arthur had not escaped entirely unscathed. Now, he too was haunted—by the memory of his mysterious encounter.
As the rescue team headed home under the moonlit sky, Arthur did his best to push the otherworldly images to the back of his mind. Traumatic as the day had been, it had not been entirely fruitless. His second attempt at the wall had garnered him a failure quotient of 1.55, which—while still technically a failure—was a vast improvement over any of his recent numbers. He could hardly wait to tell his father. He had finally returned to only failing moderately, instead of miserably. And all it had taken was the threat of having his soul devoured by a shape-shifting poltergeist.
ARTHUR WHIPPLE’S BIRTHDAY WISH
It is more or less common knowledge that a leap year occurs once every four years, and that in this year, an extra day is added to the end of February, creating a twenty-ninth day when there are usually only twenty-eight. The reason for this is simple: a long time ago, some very clever scientist types discovered that it actually takes the earth slightly longer than 365 days to travel around the sun—about 365.242375 days, to be exactish. Of course, that extra 0.242375 of a day is pretty close to 0.25, or a quarter of a day, and four quarters equals one whole. So instead of tacking on an extra quarter of a day every year, which would just be a headache for everyone involved, these very clever scientist types decided to add one whole day every four years. It must have seemed a good idea at the time. They probably even won some kind of science award for it. But with all their intelligence and test tubes and telescopes, they failed to realize one fatal flaw in their solution: from then on, every child born on the twenty-ninth of February would be doomed to only having a birthday once every four years. These ill-fated individuals have come to be called “leaplings,” and, of course, Arthur Whipple was one of them.
It is suspected that some leaplings’ families have tried to soften the blow by celebrating their luckless child’s birthday on the twenty-eighth of February or the first of March in non-leap years, but unfortunately for Arthur, the thought had never occurred to the Whipples. And so he became accustomed to celebrating the day of his birth rather infrequently. It didn’t help matters that, besides Arthur, every person in the Whipple family shared the same birthday—on the very day which, by all good sense, should have been his own.
Every non-leap year, at the end of February, Arthur would get the thrilling sense that his birthday was coming very soon. But every non-leap year, to his dismay, the first of March would arrive instead—and with it, the Whipple Family Birthday Extravaganza.
It certainly wasn’t all bad, though. On that day, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple always let Arthur have an extra piece of cake to make up for his lack of birthday parties. Indeed, Arthur very much enjoyed his family’s enormous yearly celebration—but celebrating someone else�
��s birthday, however fun it may be, is never quite the same as celebrating one’s own.
Unfortunately, leap years did not seem entirely his own either. Though the boy finally got his own party on his actual birthday, everyone was so preoccupied with planning the next day’s festivities, Arthur’s party tended to be a bit rushed. He tried not to notice. Truly, he was happy just to have a party at all. Arthur was turning twelve years old, and this was only his third birthday party.
Arthur’s party had been relegated to the study, which was virtually the only room in Neverfall Hall not bustling with preparations for the ensuing extravaganza. On the table in front of him was one last unopened present. He had just finished unwrapping the World’s Quietest Noisemaker, which had been a gift from his parents, and before that, the Tiniest Model Train Set on the Planet, which conveniently came with its own microscope, so that the train’s owner might actually see what he was playing with.
Seated around the table were Arthur’s parents and siblings, as well as Uncle Mervyn, while Mrs. Waite, the housekeeper, and Wilhelm, the butler, stood dutifully behind their employers. It was a meager gathering, but one could hardly expect such important friends of the Whipples to attend two parties in two days at the same location—and so the foreign dignitaries and millionaires and movie stars had only been invited to the family’s Birthday Extravaganza, leaving the guest list for Arthur’s party terribly short.
Arthur picked up his last unopened gift. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a leather cord. Sticking out from beneath the bow was a small card. It read: To Arthur. May this bring you luck in times of need. Your devoted uncle, Mervyn.
The boy was intrigued by the inscription, but he hesitated for a moment. It would be another four years before he would get to open another birthday present….
His youngest bother, George, checked his watch.
“Arthur, dear,” prodded Mrs. Whipple, “we’ve still got a dozen records to break tonight if we’re to make the championships eligibility requirement by the end of the extravaganza tomorrow—not to mention the additional preparations and inspections to be done in light of the French Toast Fiasco. If we wish to silence our critics, we must take time to ensure there are no further incidents. So, do you think we might hurry it up just a bit?”