Diary of a Mad Brownie

by Bruce Coville

She shook her head. “I am going to leave the room. When I come back, you’ll probably be gone. That will be good. But maybe I need to see a shrink. I don’t like that idea, but I don’t like the idea of being crazy, either. I’m going now. When I get back, please be gone.”

  And out of the room she goes.

  The moment she left, I scurried back to the closet and climbed up to my hiding place. I try to respect the wishes of my human when I can. Even so, sooner or later she is going to have to accept that I am real.

  10/9 (Fri.)

  OMG! There is something so weird going on at my house that I am afraid to write about it even here. If someone found it, they would think I was going crazy.

  Actually, I’m afraid that maybe I really am going crazy. I wouldn’t be the first in my family, according to my father. He still likes to tease Mom about her great-uncle Albert, who used to think he was an eggplant and was always worried about people trying to cook him.

  I wonder if he saw little people, too?

  Friday, October 9

  When Alex came into her room after school today and found it once again tidy and spotless, she let out a little shriek.

  Then, standing in the middle of the room, she said loudly, “All right, I admit you’re real. Are you satisfied now?”

  I climbed out of my shoe box and down the Wall of Mess to the floor. Then I scurried from closet door to bed so fast it appeared as if I just popped up in front of her.

  “Aye, I’m satisfied, and glad of heart to be acknowledged as real. ’Tis most unpleasant to be a living, breathing creature and be thought unreal. I’ve not come to harm you, miss, nor to make you angry. I came because I had to, and because I yearn to be of service.”

  “I don’t understand the ‘I had to’ part. I’ve already told you, I’m not a McGonagall. I’m a Carhart.”

  “Aye. And what was your father’s mother’s name before she married?”

  “Chase,” the young snip said smugly. “And don’t say anything bad about my grandmother. She is a wonderful person.”

  “I’m sure she is. But tell me…what was her mother’s maiden name?”

  I could see Alex waver. “I don’t have any idea,” she said at last, sounding a bit irritable.

  “Ha!” I cried, getting irritable myself. “No sense of family, have you? Rude, and irreverent as well. Well, I’ll tell you what you should have known all along. Your great-grandmother on your father’s side was a McGonagall—Agnes Ailsa Paisley McGonagall, to be precise.”

  “So why did this relative of mine assign you to me?” demanded Miss Mess, stamping her foot.

  As I am writing this down, I begin to see some of the problem. It’s not just that this Alex of mine is a messy young creature.

  It’s that she has the same temper I do.

  Fortunately, I was spared having to answer when her lout of a brother bellowed, “Hey, Al! Hurry up and grab your sneakers. We have to leave for soccer NOW!”

  “We’ll talk about this later!” she said as she grabbed her trainers and raced out of the room.

  I gathered from this that the Americans call trainers “sneakers.” What an odd term. But what in the world is this “soccer” she was running off to?

  Well, leave that to solve later. Right now I am going to go out and look for some mischief to do.

  I would like to pull a prank on Miss Alex, but I do not think it would go well. She is too angry about my being here to find it funny if I were to stuff all her socks into her pillowcase.

  Text messages between Ellen Carhart and Dennis Carhart

  Ellen

  Den, the weirdest thing happened this morning. When I was emptying the dishwasher and went to put away the silverware, I found the entire drawer rearranged.

  Dennis

  What do you mean?

  Ellen

  The forks and spoons had been moved around.

  Dennis

  What’s so weird about that?

  Ellen

  We’ve put the utensils in the same place for twenty years! The kids swear they didn’t move anything. It’s almost enough to make me believe Alex’s story about someone secretly cleaning up her room.

  Dennis

  Have you been sniffing the dishwasher soap, dear?

  Ellen

  Careful, buster, or you’ll end up doing the dishes by hand, then sleeping in the doghouse. And remember, we don’t have a dog!

  Saturday, October 10

  Alex was away for soccer practice for much of the day. (I have learned that this is the American term for what any sensible person would call “football.”) When she came home, I gave her time to get cleaned up. (Thank goodness she is at least attentive to her own hygiene!) Then I went out to talk to her. As we were chatting, she said, “I’ve been trying to figure out who you sound like, and I’ve finally got it.”

  “And who might that be?” I asked.

  “My mother works at an old folk’s home, and there is an old lady there, a really old lady—”

  “Are you sayin’ I sound like an old lady?” I cried angrily.

  “No! And the only reason you think that is because you interrupted before I could finish. So don’t talk about me being rude.”

  I had naught I could say to that, for she was right. So I folded my hands primly in front of me and let her go on.

  When she saw that I was resolved to listen, she said, “This old lady has an accent just like yours. I’ve been to the home with Mom a few times, so I’ve heard her.”

  Oh, my heart twinged with longing to once more hear the language as it ought to be spoken! I wonder if I can ever get Alex to take me to meet the old lady.

  Sunday, October 11

  One awful incident per day should be sufficient. However, this day brought two, the first terrifying, the second horrifying. While a person might think those words mean the same thing, the two experiences were quite different. In the first, I was in fear of life and limb. In the second, though I was in no immediate danger, a surge of cold dread enveloped my heart.

  Here is what happened.

  After the Carharts departed for church, I decided to go outside for a bit of fresh air, as I had not been out since I first arrived. That did involve, of course, making sure that it was safe to pass through the kitchen. Fortunately, the dreaded cat was nowhere in sight. Out of caution, I pushed open Satan’s Flap just a wee bit so I could make sure the demon spawn cat was not lurking just outside the door.

  All clear, out I scooted.

  ’Twas a glorious day, and I felt free to romp and frolic a bit in the grass, which clearly had not been mowed for a while. After a bit of that I decided to lie in the shade beneath a tree to take a nap. Feeling at once that I was too exposed, I decided to cover myself with some fallen leaves. Made quite a nice bed, they did, and I fell into a deep and lovely sleep.

  I have not had sufficient rest since I left Scotland.

  I don’t know how much time passed before I was woken by loud laughter. I nearly sprang to my feet, which would have revealed my hiding place, but caught myself in time. Pulling aside a leaf, I peeked out and saw that Alex and Bennett were playing soccer in the backyard. Well, not really playing soccer…more like just kicking the ball around. It gave me pleasure to see that both were quite adept at it and, as they were intent on what they were doing, I felt safe to sit up and watch more intently.

  I was quite enjoying myself until Alex made a kick that went wild and sent the ball, which is nearly as tall as I am, hurtling directly at me! I leaped to my feet and sprinted away, but it was as if the cursed thing had my name on it. No matter how I zigged or zagged, it changed course with each bounce and kept coming at me. I knew if it landed on me it would knock me out, possibly kill me. It was hard on my heels, a great orb of death about to flatten me. So when I saw a hole ahead of me I plunged into it—much to the startlement of the rabbit who lived there.

  “Have we met?” asked the poor bun, sounding confused.

  “My apologies,” I gasped. “I was fle
eing an enemy!”

  “The cat?” asked the rabbit, suddenly more sympathetic.

  “No, a soccer ball!”

  “Ah, yes,” said my host, nodding solemnly. “I was nearly beaned by the thing myself just last week when I was out nibbling some grass. Feel free to stay here until the coast is clear.”

  As it turned out, the rabbit was quite a friendly fellow—which was just as well, as now that the Carharts were home, I didn’t really dare return to the house until dark had fallen.

  Which was when the second dreadful event occurred. Once I made it back into the room, I found Alex sitting at her desk. She had undone her braid and was brushing out her hair, and I must say that its richness and astonishing red color would have been worthy of the Enchanted Realm.

  “I was wondering where you had been,” she said when I slipped through the door.

  Before I could answer, a voice that I recognized as belonging to her big brother said, “Hey, Al, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the door open. It was all I could do to scurry under the bed before he spotted me.

  “Bennett!” Alex cried. “What are you doing here?”

  His answer sent a chill down my spine.

  “I was working on some poems, and I’m stuck. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Why are you writing poetry?”

  “I…I don’t know for sure. It’s just something that’s come over me the last couple of days.”

  I peered out from beneath the bed and my heart twisted within me. I could see it in the lad’s face, hear it in his voice. And when he read his poems aloud, I cringed.

  I had hoped it could not cross the ocean.

  I had hoped it had faded away.

  My hopes were in vain.

  I have brought the Curse of the McGonagalls with me to this house!

  Maybe I should have let that soccer ball run over me after all.

  THREE POEMS BY BENNETT CARHART

  TO MARIE

  Sweet Marie, my turtledove

  You’re my chocolate queen of love

  All right

  You’re white

  That’s not the point

  I want to be your boo tonight!

  MY ACHING SOUL

  Today at lunch I felt such pain,

  I thought I’d never smile or laugh or be happy again.

  At first it seemed like indigestion,

  Then I asked myself a question.

  Is this just the result of a bad burrito?

  Or have I been bitten by love’s mosquito?

  Oh no! I’ve caught the itch of love,

  My ookie wookie turtledove.

  MY HEART BENEATH YOUR FOOT

  My heart is squashed beneath your foot

  Like a too-ripe tomato stepped on by a cow

  And all that tomato juice, splattered and oozing out

  Is like my blood. Oh! What shall I do now?

  Monday, October 12

  I have been in a lather all day, trying to think what to do about the curse.

  There is no answer, of course. But I’ve never been in a house where it struck before, and I am appalled to think of what is to come.

  To show how distressed I was, I was not even able to clean!

  I did, however, get into the cellar. It is massive! And it is also like no cellar I have ever seen. I am used to cobwebs and dirt floors, a place cool, dark, and earthy. This cellar is vast (and dry!). It has furniture and games and another huge television set.

  It’s as if the Carharts actually like spending time down here!

  The reason I was able to get in was that Mr. Carhart did not go to work today. Instead he went into the cellar, leaving the door open a crack.

  I had to be careful, of course, but when I went down, I saw no sign of him. There was not much to map, as it is mostly open, but one room was quite mysterious to me. I suspect it is where he must have spent the day.

  The sign on the door said MAN CAVE.

  What in the world is that supposed to mean?

  To: Anthony Wilson Jr., Vice President

  From: Dennis Carhart, CPA

  Date: October 12

  Dear Tony,

  It is not without some sorrow that I write this letter to confirm my resignation. I have enjoyed my time with WWW&W, and been made to feel most welcome here. However, as we discussed in your office today, my heart tells me the time has come to follow my passion.

  I have been writing songs for years and had some success with them.

  Now I need to do more.

  Though I am sorry to leave the firm, and truly appreciate the many kindnesses you have shown me during my years at WWW&W, I must now follow the siren call of my music.

  I have a song to sing-o!

  Sincerely,

  Dennis Carhart

  (Former) CPA

  Tuesday, October 13

  When I came out to talk today, Alex was very upset. I asked her what was wrong, and her answer struck new horror into my heart.

  “Dad quit his job. He’s decided to chase his dream of being a songwriter. I’m afraid we’re going to starve to death.”

  It’s the curse, and no doubt about it! I now have great fears that the Carharts will lose their home and be put out upon the street. I try to tell myself that I have read too much of Charles Dickens (the greatest guide to human behavior that ever there was!) and this could not be in this time, in this great America.

  I tell myself this, but I do not convince myself of it.

  I feel such guilt. But what can I do? I am doomed to carry the curse with me, and I am doomed to stay in this house, where I will bring grief to the people I want only to serve.

  Why, oh why, could I not have been sent to a house that had only women? Then all this would have been avoided.

  It has been a long time since I have read the curse. In all my years with Sarah, I never had to worry about it. I will take it out tonight and examine it, to see if there is any ray of hope.

  The Curse Bearer

  Now do I, Greer M’Greer, Queen of Scotland’s Enchanted Realm, also known as the Queen of Shadows, lay this curse upon you, Seamus Cairns, and upon all your descendants as well.

  First, you shall be brownie-­bound to the family of Ewan McGonagall until such time as the curse upon that family shall end.

  Second, your binding shall be in this fashion: You shall go to the youngest female who is of age, that being ten years or more. Attached to her shall you be until the moment of her death, at which time you must make your way to your next mistress, who shall be the youngest female of the McGonagall line who is of age, be she pauper or princess, fair or foul, tidy or a slattern. And you serve and protect until the time of her death, when once again you shall go to the youngest female of the line who is old enough to have you.

  And so it shall be forevermore, for you and for the eldest male of each generation that follows, the chain unbroken until what was lost to me shall be restored. But oh, what a burden on the houses you inhabit shall come with your service! For each of you shall carry the Curse of the McGonagalls, and when you arrive every male in the house shall be afflicted with it.

  May their tears be enough to water a thousand fields and their sighs be enough to fill the sails of a thousand ships.

  So say I, Greer M’Greer. And so shall it be!

  Tuesday, October 13 (late at night)

  I read the curse three times but found no hope. The only way to lift it is to return to the queen what was lost. But I canna imagine any way in which that can be done.

  I DESPAIR!

  10/14 (Wed.)

  I seriously hope no one ever reads this because if they do, they’ll decide I’m totally crazy.

  Hmmm. I suppose it’s possible that I am. I mean, if you think about it hard enough, you can imagine that everything you know is just some delusion and you’re really just a brain in a tank somewhere.

  But that’s too scary to think about for long.

 
Besides, I don’t think it’s true.

  So if I am not crazy (and I don’t think I am), then the brownie is real!

  SERIOUSLY!

  Now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, I’ve decided this is the coolest thing that ever happened to me.

  I mean, I have a magical creature living in my closet! Sure, the little dude can be annoying. Even so, having him here is the neatest thing in the history of my life!

  So that’s the good thing.

  The bad thing is that last night Mom and Dad had a big fight about Dad quitting his job. Mom is freaking out and I can’t blame her. He didn’t even talk to her before he did this!

  Also, Bennett is starting to act really weird. Last night at dinner he said he was thinking about quitting soccer!

  When Mom asked why, he said, “I need more time for my poetry.”

  If Mom had actually read any of his poetry, she probably would have spit out her herbal tea when he said that.

  I figured Dad would be mad, since he’s very big on sports. But he just clapped his hand on Ben’s shoulder and said, “I understand, son. I understand.”

  And I guess he does, given that he just quit his job for his songwriting.

  Now that I think about it, maybe having a brownie move into my closet was the least weird thing that’s happened this week!

  Wednesday, October 14

  I have been in the midst of a major fret all day, wondering whether to say ought to Alex of the curse.

  Given how upset she is already, it can only make matters worse.

  I would leave if I could, but that is not to be. I knew the bringing of the curse was possible, but never having been in a house where it actually happened, I had no idea how bad it would be.