by Ruth Chew
Sarah wished they could stay in the woods. But Running Doe stepped out of the stream. “Come,” she said. “Tomorrow you have a long journey. Star Watcher is going to take you back to your paleface friends.”
Sarah put her moccasins on again. She and Running Doe took turns carrying the heavy jug of water. When they got back to the little house they found that Timothy, Brave Eagle, and Beaver had come home.
Timothy looked tired. “I’ve been trying to walk in the woods without making any noise,” he told Sarah. “I stepped on a dry stick when Beaver was aiming at a rabbit.”
“Did the rabbit get away?” Sarah asked.
“Yes. I was sort of glad he did. But Beaver wasn’t. He said he learned not to step on sticks before he was three years old. It made me feel dumb.”
“Then maybe you won’t mind that we’re going back to New Amersfoord tomorrow,” Sarah said.
“How?” Timothy wanted to know.
“Beaver’s grandfather knows the way. He’s going with us,” Sarah told him.
“You mean the witch doctor?” Timothy whispered. “He’s spooky.”
Sarah put her finger to her lips. She too thought there was something strange about the old Indian. But she didn’t want to scare Tim.
Timothy and Sarah slept that night in the little house with the Indians. Mats of woven grass were laid on the floor. Then they all lay down with their feet toward the fire.
Timothy fell asleep before Sarah did. She stayed awake listening to the strange sounds in the woods outside. An owl was hooting. The crickets were making a terrible racket. She heard what she thought must be a wolf howling.
Sarah rolled over onto her stomach and pretended she was in her own bed at home. The owl’s hoots turned into the cuckooing of the clock in the downstairs hall. The crickets became the steady traffic noises coming from Church Avenue. And the wolf’s howling was the wail of a siren on a police car going down Ocean Parkway.
Sarah’s eyes closed.
The next thing she knew, it was morning.
Star Watcher was already up. He was waiting for Timothy and Sarah. Moonglow had a bowl of boiled cornmeal ready for each of them.
The children changed into the clothes Vrouw Maarten had given them. Running Doe handed Sarah a comb and a mirror to use.
“I didn’t know Indians had things like this,” Sarah said.
“We trade furs to the palefaces for them,” Running Doe told her. She helped Sarah braid her hair.
When Moonglow saw that Sarah and Timothy had no shoes, she let them keep the moccasins Beaver had lent them.
Sarah hugged the Indian woman. “I know how hard you worked to make them.”
Moonglow smiled. “If you could stay with me, I would make you a beautiful dress,” she said. “But Star Watcher says you must go.”
The old Indian stood silently while the children said good-bye to Beaver and his family.
“Thank you for all you have done,” Brave Eagle said.
Star Watcher started off at a trot down the trail. He didn’t even look back to see if the children were following. They had to run to catch up with him.
In a few minutes both of them were out of breath. Timothy slowed down. He began to trot, just as the Indian was doing. Sarah held up the long skirt of her dress and tried to keep up with the other two.
Hour after hour they trotted along. They left the trail and went into the deep woods. Star Watcher kept looking at the sun to make sure he was going in the right direction. Sarah was tired. Her clothes felt heavy and hot. Timothy wished he was still wearing only the little leather apron.
When they came to a small rocky stream, Star Watcher turned around to look at the children. “Rest,” he said.
Sarah and Timothy sat down on the rocks at the edge of the water. The Indian gave each of them a hunk of half-cooked cornbread and a piece of dried meat. “Eat!”
They chewed the tough meat and choked down the bread. Sarah saw that Star Watcher was bending over the stream to drink. “He must know if the water is safe,” she whispered.
Timothy nodded. He cupped his hands and scooped up the cool water. “Great!”
Sarah had a drink, too. The water washed down the food she had eaten. She felt better. Star Watcher stood up. “We go on now,” he said.
The children followed him through the wood. The ground was getting flatter. They came to an open meadow. The Indian started across it at his steady trot. Sarah and Timothy hurried after him.
The meadow was covered with rough grass. At one point they passed a tangle of raspberry bushes. Sarah wished that she could pick some of the berries. But Star Watcher was trotting even faster than before. Sarah held up her skirt and kept going.
The ground began to be marshy. The air smelled salty. Then, in the distance, Timothy and Sarah saw a big barn with holes under the eaves for the birds to fly in. There, by a dirt road near the sea, was a gray clapboard house.
Timothy and Sarah began to run. They raced past the cabbage patch and around the barn to the long front stoop of the house. Sarah banged on the door. Vrouw Maarten opened it.
For a minute she just looked at them. Then she stooped and hugged them both at the same time. Sarah threw her arms around her.
“Why are you crying?” Timothy asked.
Vrouw Maarten straightened up. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “We found a bear sitting beside your shoes in the middle of the road,” she said. “We looked for you all day. I thought something terrible had happened to you.”
Vrouw Maarten stepped off the stoop into the road. “Come, children. We must tell Heer Maarten that you are home safe.” She walked to the barn. Timothy and Sarah came after her. “Hendrick!” Vrouw Maarten called.
Heer Maarten had just finished milking the cow. He came out of the barn.
The old Indian followed him.
“Jannetje,” Heer Maarten said, “look who’s here!”
“Star Watcher!” Vrouw Maarten held out her hand. “It’s good to see you.”
“He brought back our children,” Heer Maarten said. The miller put his arm around Timothy. He stroked Sarah’s hair. “Let us all go into the house.”
Sarah and Timothy left their dusty moccasins on the front stoop. Vrouw Maarten took their sneakers out of a chest where she had put them away. She looked at the clothes they were wearing. “Those need washing.”
Sarah untied the sash of woolen socks from around her waist. Timothy was already unbuttoning his shirt. Vrouw Maarten had washed their blue jeans and polo shirts. She went to get them. Then she poured water into the basin on the wash-stand. She handed Sarah the soap. “See that Tim uses it, too,” Vrouw Maarten said.
Star Watcher sat at the long table in the kitchen-living room with Heer Maarten. The Indian spoke in a low voice. Heer Maarten was smoking his long-stemmed pipe. When the children came out of the back room, the miller turned to look at them.
Sarah helped Vrouw Maarten get supper. Star Watcher was the honored guest. During the meal Sarah and Timothy told of their adventures. Heer Maarten was angry when he heard about the pirates. “I’ll complain to the governor,” he said.
When the last crisp cookie had been eaten, the Indian stood up. He looked at Vrouw Maarten. “You are my friends,” he said. “And I know you are fond of these children. My people and I are fond of them, too. But they do not belong here.”
Star Watcher walked to the fireplace. He took the leather bag from around his neck and opened it. From inside the bag he took a pinch of dried herbs. He threw the herbs into the fire.
At once the room was filled with thick black smoke. There was a strange musky smell. Sarah’s eyes were stinging. Timothy started to cough. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door.
The children stepped out into the clear air outside. They rubbed their eyes and looked around. Where was the road and the barn? Where was the sea?
Timothy blinked. “Sarah, we’re back in the museum!”
Sarah walked slowly around the house.
There were the cases of clothes and furniture. And there was the picture of the house as it used to be. She came back to the door and looked in.
The smoke was gone. No fire burned on the hearth. No dinner dishes remained on the table. And both the Maartens and Star Watcher had disappeared.
Sarah stepped inside the house. She started to walk into the room.
Smack! She banged into a glass wall.
Timothy came in and stood beside her. He tapped on the glass wall.
“We can’t get back in,” Sarah told him.
For a few minutes Timothy was quiet. Then he said, “I don’t want to look at the mummy after all, Sarah. Let’s go home.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ruth Chew was born in Minneapolis and studied at the Corcoran College of Art and Design in Washington, DC.
Working as a fashion artist, she started writing stories about witches for the youngest of her five children. The first of these, The Wednesday Witch, was a big hit, and her new career was born. Ruth Chew went on to write twenty-nine tales of magic and fantasy that have enchanted generations of readers.
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