Bones

by Lois Metzger

  Behind us, I could hear the man’s footsteps thud faster on the sidewalk. He was jogging, too.

  My dad’s words repeated in my mind: “He has the Third Sight. Stay away from him.”

  Only two blocks to school. If we could make it there, we’d be safe.

  I began to jog faster, leaving Aaron behind. Sweat ran down my forehead. My legs felt shaky and weak.

  I glanced back. The three-eyed man was gaining on us. Swinging his fists hard. I could feel his eyes burning into my back.

  The Third Sight …

  I grabbed Aaron by the arm. “We … we can’t outrun him,” I gasped.

  Panting hard, I spun around to face the man. Aaron uttered a weak cry.

  My legs almost buckled.

  The three-eyed man strode up to me. He raised a big fist.

  “I’m sorry!” The words burst out of me in a high, shrill voice. “Sorry about your flowers.”

  He grumbled something under his breath. Then he stuck out a big hand and gave me something. “You dropped this,” he said. He had a low, whispery voice.

  I grabbed it in my trembling hand. My wallet. It must have fallen from my backpack. “Uh … thank you,” I stammered.

  He closed his middle eye and stared hard at me. “I can see that you will need me soon,” he said.

  “Huh?” I gasped. “What do you mean?”

  He opened the middle eye. It gazed at me, wet and yellow as an egg yolk. “You can repay me then,” he muttered.

  The words sent an icy shiver to the back of my neck.

  He didn’t explain. He nodded his big head, turned, and began to lumber back to his house.

  I tucked the wallet into my jeans pocket. My hand was shaking like crazy. And my heart was pounding so hard, I could hear it!

  “Wow. Scary guy!” Aaron exclaimed. “Did he say you would see him again?”

  “See him again? No way,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”

  But of course I was wrong.

  A few nights later, Mom asked me to take Rusty for a long walk. “The poor guy hasn’t had any exercise in days,” she said.

  So I took Rusty to the Stimson Woods, a big forest area a few blocks from school. It was a warm, clear night. A pale full moon hung low overhead. The wind smelled all piney and fresh.

  Rusty loves to smell all the smells and run over the dead leaves and through the thick trees. He gets so excited, he whimpers.

  As we walked deeper into the woods, the moonlight disappeared. The shadows deepened to black. The air grew cooler.

  “Rusty, let’s turn back,” I said.

  I heard a flapping sound overhead. Bats? As I gazed up, I felt a hard tug on the leash. Then I heard the sharp crackle of leaves—Rusty running fast.

  “Hey!” I let out a startled cry. The big dog had slipped out of his collar. I couldn’t see him in the darkness. But I heard him running, running free.

  “Rusty—come back!” I shouted. I hurtled after him. Stumbled over a tree limb or something. And fell hard to the dirt.

  “Rusty—stay! Stay!” I cried. “Rusty—!”

  I pulled myself to my feet. And listened.

  Silence now. Birds cooing in a high branch nearby. Wind whispering through the fresh spring leaves.

  “Rusty? Hey—Rusty!” My voice cracked.

  I had a heavy feeling of panic. Oh, please, I thought, don’t run away, Rusty. Don’t get lost in the woods.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted. “Rusty! Rusty, come! Rusty!”

  In my panic, I started to run after him in one direction. Spun around wildly. Tore off in another direction. Shouting the dog’s name over and over.

  He’d never done this before. He’d never slipped his leash. He’d never run off on his own.

  “Rusty? Rusty?”

  Silence all around. The birds cooed again. A big tree branch cracked and rattled in the wind.

  I had no choice. I couldn’t just stand there in the middle of the dark woods. “Rusty—I’m going home!” I shouted. “Home! Are you going to follow me? Rusty—come!”

  I trudged home with my hands buried deep in my jeans pockets. I kicked leaves and tromped loudly on the ground, hoping Rusty would hear me.

  But no sign of the dog.

  And when I burst into the den and told Dad what had happened, I couldn’t keep the tears from my eyes. I was really upset and scared.

  “Don’t worry, David,” Dad said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Rusty will find his way home. He’s a smart dog. He won’t get lost. You’ll see. He’ll be back tonight. Or maybe tomorrow morning.”

  “Dad, what if he can’t find his way?” I asked in a trembling voice. “He’ll DIE out there!”

  “He’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow,” Dad said. “I’ll bet you.”

  Dad lost that bet. The next morning, I jumped out of bed and eagerly ran downstairs. No Rusty.

  I opened the front door and gazed up and down the street. No Rusty. He wasn’t in the backyard, either.

  I couldn’t eat my breakfast. I felt as if I had a heavy rock in my stomach.

  Mom took the car and went driving around the neighborhood, searching for Rusty. Dad and I walked to the woods. I tried to retrace my steps. We shouted Rusty’s name over and over.

  The dog didn’t come.

  I wanted to keep searching for Rusty. But Dad said I had to go to school.

  I sat in class like a statue. I don’t think I heard a word anyone said. All day, I just kept thinking about my poor, lost dog.

  When the last bell rang, I ran all the way home. I searched for Rusty in every yard. I burst into the house, shouting his name.

  No one was home. And no dog.

  I tossed my backpack against the wall. I gripped the back of the couch with both hands, shut my eyes, and tried to force my heart to stop racing.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Just thinking about it sent chill after chill down my body. But I knew I had no choice.

  I had to go see the three-eyed man.

  The tulips in his front yard were still bent and broken. I shuddered as I walked past them, up the driveway to his front door.

  I kept gritting my teeth. My muscles felt all tight.

  I knew it was fear.

  The three-eyed man had predicted I’d need him soon. And here I was.

  He had the Third Sight. Maybe that meant he could tell me where to find my dog.

  I didn’t see a doorbell. I raised my hand to knock on the front door—and it swung open. He stood there with a tight grin on his face, as if he’d been expecting me.

  His middle eye was closed. His brown eyes flashed, and his grin widened. He was wearing the same outfit—black sweatshirt and black sweatpants.

  “Enter,” he rumbled. He stepped back to make room.

  I took a deep breath and walked inside. I gazed around the living room. The walls were red brick. They were covered with strange paintings. The paintings all looked like big smears of color. The couches and chairs were all black leather. I saw a line of furry toy animals on the mantel.

  “My dog—” I choked out.

  “I can find him for you,” the three-eyed man said softly.

  I gasped. “How did you know he is lost?” I blurted out.

  He opened the yellow eye. “I have the Third Sight,” he said.

  I heard a clock ticking loudly in the next room. The loud, fast ticks matched my heartbeats. My mouth suddenly felt too dry to talk.

  “I will tell you where to find your dog,” the man said. “But then you must return. And pay the price.”

  I swallowed. “I don’t have much money,” I said.

  “I won’t ask you for money,” he replied softly. Then he leaned forward. The yellow eye floated right above me.

  “You love your dog, don’t you,” the man said. “You’d give almost anything to have him back, wouldn’t you?”

  “Uh … almost,” I stammered.

  He shut his three eyes and concentrated for a long
time. Finally, he said, “I see him.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Where?” I cried. “Is he okay?”

  It took him a long time to answer. Then he opened his eyes and narrowed them at me. “Do you know the pond in Stimson Woods that used to have fish?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Rusty and I walk there sometimes.”

  “There is a deep ravine behind the pond,” the man said. “It’s filled with broken tree limbs. Look in the ravine.”

  “Is … is Rusty okay?” I asked again.

  “Look in the ravine,” he repeated.

  He rubbed the yellow eye with one finger. “Afterward, I’ll see you back here, David.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Was Rusty okay? Was he really in the ravine behind the pond?

  The three-eyed man pushed open the front door, and I stepped outside. The sky had turned dark, with black storm clouds rolling low overhead.

  I ran to Stimson Woods. I was crazy … out of my mind … frantic. I didn’t stop running or look when I crossed Peach Street. A car squealed to a stop. I heard a woman screaming at me. But I didn’t look back.

  I felt a few cold raindrops slap my forehead as I darted into the trees. The wind rattled the dead leaves all around me. Tree limbs shivered.

  I felt as if the woods had come ALIVE!

  I ran too fast. I slammed my head against a low limb. I kept tripping over roots and fallen twigs.

  The small pond glowed black under the dark, stormy sky. I slipped in the wet mud on its banks and kept running.

  To the ravine.

  Rain pattered the ground. A blast of cold wind pushed me back.

  The ravine was a deep hole. Like a canyon that had been cut into the ground. I gazed down at fallen trees, broken limbs, thick, dead shrubs, and underbrush.

  Lightning flashed. And then a sharp crack of thunder seemed to shake the ground.

  The steady rain blurred my vision. I saw a white sneaker down there. A red square of cloth flapping in the wind. Some soda cans.

  “Rusty!” I screamed over another boom of thunder. “Rusty—are you here?”

  And then I saw him.

  He was struggling … pulling … whining…. His back legs trapped in the thick brambles.

  “Rusty!”

  My heart pounding, I slid down the side of the ravine. The dog saw me but kept whining and struggling to free himself from the prickly brush.

  “I’m here, boy. Don’t worry.”

  I pulled a burr off his left ear. His fur was thick with sticks and caterpillars and dead leaves. His eyes were wild. His snout was all frothy. His tongue hung over the side of his mouth, and he uttered horrible groans as he struggled.

  “Easy, boy. I’m here. Easy, Rusty.”

  I grabbed the brambles and pulled them apart. Thorns dug into my hands. But I ignored the pain. I pulled the brambles until Rusty was free.

  I rubbed my cut hands on my jeans. I shook off rainwater. “Let’s go home, boy! Come on. Let’s go!”

  He jumped on me once. I guess that was his way of saying thanks.

  Then he began loping toward home, his tail wagging, head bobbing up and down as if nothing had happened.

  By the time I got him home, I was drenched to the skin. But the rain felt good. Clean and refreshing.

  Still no one home. I fed Rusty and gave him a big biscuit as a treat.

  Was I happy? Yes. I was thrilled to have good old Rusty home safe and sound.

  But I knew I didn’t have long to enjoy it. I had one more thing to do.

  I had to go pay the three-eyed man for finding my dog.

  The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark as night. A river of water ran down the side of the street. I jumped over deep puddles as I made my way slowly to the house on the corner.

  I stopped in front of the house and gazed at it. The windows were completely dark.

  I tried to convince myself that the three-eyed man meant me no harm.

  He found Rusty for me.

  He used his special sight to help me.

  He isn’t going to ask for any big kind of payback.

  So why did I have this sick feeling in my stomach?

  I trudged up the driveway, onto his front stoop. Again, the door swung open before I knocked.

  The three-eyed man waved me inside without a word. I followed him into the living room. The only light came from two flickering candles on the coffee table. It sent long shadows dancing over the brick walls.

  “You—you were right,” I stammered. “I found Rusty—right where you said.”

  “I know,” the man said in his low, whispery voice. “And now you’ve come to pay me.”

  I nodded. I tried to say yes but my voice cracked.

  “It won’t hurt,” the man said.

  I blinked. “Hurt? What do you mean?”

  “Your payment, David.” He stared at me intently with all three eyes.

  I took a step back. “What is it?” I managed to choke out. “What do you want?”

  “Follow me,” he said. He moved to the back of the living room and pushed open a door. “Into the den.”

  I forced my trembling legs to cooperate. I stepped into the den.

  He flashed on the ceiling light—and I SCREAMED.

  The wall in front of me—it was covered with EYES!

  Eyeballs from the ceiling to the floor. Row after row of them, staring straight out from the wall.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stared back at them.

  Brown eyes … blue … silvery eyes … green …

  “Yes, they’re real,” the man said. “But they’re of no use to me anymore.”

  “I … I don’t understand,” I whispered.

  “After I use the Third Sight, my middle eye loses its power,” he said. “I can only use the middle eye once. Then I need to replace it with a fresh one.”

  I took a step back. “No—please….”

  “It won’t hurt,” he said. “I used the Third Sight for you. Now I need one of your eyes. It’s a fair payment, David. You know I’m being fair.”

  A shuddering cry escaped my throat. “No! I can’t! NO!”

  I tried to run, but my whole body was frozen in terror.

  He moved quickly. He wrapped his hands around my head. Then he plucked out one of my eyes.

  “AAAAAAIIIIIIII!”

  I screamed—and waited for the pain.

  But he had told the truth. It didn’t hurt.

  “My eye!” I cried. “I don’t believe it! My eye!”

  My hand went up to the empty socket. It was wet. I could feel soft, mushy skin in there.

  “Now I have only three eyes!” I cried. “Only three! Now I’m just like you!”

  He smiled. “That’s not true,” he said. “You still have the eight eyeballs on your fingertips.”

  I raised my hands and stared at my eight finger eyes.

  The eyes trembled on the edges of my fingers. My whole body trembled.

  Okay, okay, I told myself. It didn’t hurt. And I can still see clearly.

  But what will my five moms and dads say when I come home with only eleven eyes?

  BONES

  by Margaret Mahy

  There was something strange about the house they were moving into. Pete knew this immediately. It was as if something was recognizing him, even though he had never been there before. Something came to meet him and began pulling him inside. Pete leaned backward a little. His mother must have noticed his hesitation. She was good at noticing things. She had had a lot of practice.

  “We won’t be here long,” she said in a comforting voice. “It’s just a stopover place until our own house is finished. And when that happens, we’ll have our own space again … our own furniture, our own toys and pictures and things.”

  “I think it’s just great,” said Pete’s sister, Gwen. “I wouldn’t mind living here forever. It’s so—so rich.”

  This furnished house they were renting until their own house was finished was certainly
grand. There were velvet cushions on the chairs. The ceilings were not just flat but curved above them in a majestic, echoing way. But the dark, shining rafters (curving, too) looked to Pete like giant ribs of brown bone, so he felt for a moment that this house was swallowing him. And then he felt as if he had somehow sent the idea of “bones” out into the air around him, and the house had tasted his idea, then welcomed it. This house was a house that knew exactly what bones were.

  Over the fireplace in the sitting room hung a picture in a dusty frame. A large girl (who was probably about Pete’s age) stared down at them, looking as if, just for a moment, the world was taking her by surprise.

  “Does she live here?” Pete asked. “When we’re not here, I mean.”

  “She used to, I think,” said his mother. “But it was a long, long time ago. Look at the way she’s dressed.”

  The girl was wearing a bulkier dress than any of the girls at Pete’s school ever wore. On top of the dress, she was wearing a long, lumpy blue coat, and her feet were buttoned into black-and-white boots that looked as if they would be too heavy to walk in. Certainly no dancing in shoes like those. Pete couldn’t help thinking it would be hard to play hide-and-seek (or any game at all) dressed as the girl in the picture was dressed. Her clothes had closed in on her. She was their prisoner.

  The bedrooms were all in the second story of the house. The room that would be his for a few weeks had a big tree close to the window, scraping at the glass, as if it were ordering him to let it in. Pete felt strange, climbing upstairs to bed that night, leaving the kitchen world behind him, and all because, for some reason, he found this strange house scary. He imagined himself staying awake, on guard until morning, but, as it turned out, his bed was soft and comfortable and, after all, he was tired. Sighing and blinking, he fell asleep, no trouble at all. Asleep. But then, all of a sudden, he found he was wide-awake again, staring into darkness, knowing for sure that someone else was sharing that bedroom darkness with him. He took a deep breath and, as he did this, a thin voice came out of the night around him. It seemed to come from several directions at once.

  “Dancing in the dark …” someone was singing. Not only that, something was rattling in time to the song … rattling just a little, but rattling clearly. Pete blinked—blinked again—sat up and peered into the shadows around him. The air in his bedroom was perfectly still—still with a curious, rigid stillness that made him feel that he, along with his bed, was somehow set in glass. No going forward! No going back! Even time was frozen. If there had been a clock in the room, it might have ticked, but it would never have moved on to tocking. And yet there was that rattling … that strange rattling … soft yet sharp as well. What could it be? There was certainly no breeze to rattle any door, to rattle coat hangers in a wardrobe—nothing to make a possibly loose window tremble a little.