by Temre Beltz
Birdie froze.
Ten spiders? Because yes, the manor housed a fair amount of arachnids, but ten swinging all in a row? As Birdie had occasion to glance more carefully around, however, she noticed there were not actually ten spiders. Crawling along on the ground, scaling up and down the walls, and winding down from the ceiling, there looked instead to be at least fifty spiders.
And they were all trickling out from under the library door that lay just ahead of Birdie. Birdie gulped. Ms. Crunch warned her a curse might be on the way, but refreshing storm clouds and an army of spiders were two very different things!
“Help us!” came a muffled cry.
“Somebody, please!”
Birdie wrapped her suddenly sweaty hand around the doorknob. She gave a mighty tug. But it wouldn’t budge! Birdie banged her hands on the door.
“I can’t get in!” she shouted. “Is everyone okay in there?”
“There are so many of them!” Cricket’s voice cried out.
“Long live . . . Wanderly” came Francesca’s breathless voice.
“Keep pulling on the doorknob, Birdie!” Ralph shouted. “And when it budges, hang on to something!”
Hang on to something? Birdie thought. That’s an odd thing to say.
Nevertheless, she did as Ralph suggested. And after several more epic tugs, when the door came barreling open, and the tidal wave of spiders came tumbling out, it all made sense. Birdie yelped as the spiders gushed past her. She dug her fingernails into the doorframe as her feet rose upon the spiderly swell.
Inside the library, the other Tragicals were perched along bookshelves and wrapped around marble columns. They swayed from chandeliers and even the scanty plumes of dusty, artificial plants. And lying beneath them, stretching from one end of the room to the next, were books. Hundreds of books. Not one single book remained on a shelf; they had all been tossed to the ground. Their front covers lay open in a gesture of surrender, and spilling forth from their spines were spiders. Spiders gleefully trouncing upon the very, many terrible words Mistress Octavia read to the children day in and day out. Spiders that kept right on coming.
Birdie attempted to wade through the spiderly tide to where Cricket clung to a column. On the way, the six-year-old boy who Mistress Octavia insisted on calling “Tom,” but whose name was actually Benjamin, blew his nose on the sleeve of his gown and sobbed, “I always knew these books were gonna get us one day!”
“Hush!” Francesca chided. Unlike the other children, Francesca had not sought a safe, high-up spot. She instead sat in a reading chair, holding a book opened wide, while the spiders crawled all over her so that it looked like she was wearing a wriggly jumpsuit. “Any minute now, one of these spiders will get hungry. Their fangs will pierce my skin, and the venom will enter my bloodstream. I will have minutes, maybe even mere seconds. I don’t want to miss it! With my last dying breath, I want to say something important for Wanderly!”
Ralph swung by from a chandelier. “I wouldn’t wait around too long,” he said. “These spiders don’t even bite.”
Francesca’s left eye flew open and rolled in Ralph’s direction. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I squished one by accident. You know what happened? It exploded—”
“Ewwwww!” a chorus of children cried.
“Not like with blood and guts and stuff. It exploded into powder because these spiders aren’t ordinary,” Ralph said. “These spiders are magical.”
Whoosh! The Winds of Wanderly swept onto the scene. They swirled and whirled outside the library windows, but no one seemed to notice except Birdie.
Especially not Francesca. With wide eyes, she jabbed a shaking finger in Ralph’s direction. She sputtered, “You—you—you shouldn’t have said that word!”
And for once, Francesca may have been right. Because the largest mound of spiders—the one in the dead center of the room—suddenly shuddered and shook! It twisted and writhed! It looked as if it might swirl up in a gigantic spidery tornado, but what emerged instead was something much worse.
It was Mistress Octavia.
It was Mistress Octavia dripping with spiders. It was Mistress Octavia with spiders clinging to the strands of her hair, swinging from the threads of her black cardigan, and spilling down the folds of her skirt as if it were a playground slide.
Wheeee!
Except not.
“These are not magical spiders!” Mistress Octavia shrieked.
The spiders, however, did not seem to like that very much.
The spiders began to pour out of the books faster.
The youngest Tragicals began to whimper. The sixteen-year-old girl, Mildred, tossed her eyeglasses into the air because the sight was becoming too horrendous to watch. And Birdie bit her lip because, however delightful it was to see Mistress Octavia’s terrible books taken down a notch or two, the fact remained that the children simply could not share the manor with an endless flood of spiders. At least not for very long.
But how to get rid of so many?
Sir Ichabod must have been thinking the same thing, because he sprang out of the shadows and into action. He sucked up a deep breath. He dove headfirst into the growing tide of spiders and attempted to wrangle the books’ front covers shut. But every time he surfaced for a heaving gulp of air, the covers popped right back open and even more spiders gushed forth!
Outside the library, the Winds of Wanderly stirred faster. They tap-tap-tapped on the windows like a curious child who desperately wanted a peek inside. Some of the other children began to notice too. And though their eyes grew wide in fright, Birdie wasn’t a bit worried. In fact, Birdie could barely contain herself because the Winds of Wanderly had given her a brilliant idea!
Birdie jumped down from the tabletop where she had taken refuge. She pushed through the spiders with all her might, cupping her hands in front of her and scooping whole handfuls up and aside.
Mistress Octavia, who had since retrieved her broken broomstick handle, was so focused on walloping the spiders’ bulbous bodies or, quite eerily, dipping her broomstick in and stirring them up as if she were positioned at a cauldron, that she wasn’t paying a lick of attention to Birdie.
With her chest heaving, Birdie drew near to Sir Ichabod. “We need to let the Winds inside. We need to open up the windows. Sir Ichabod, I need your help!”
But Sir Ichabod wouldn’t even look up at Birdie. His eyelids hung heavy; his shoulders were slumped; he was staring down at all the very many spiders as if he would never find his way out from beneath them all.
Birdie reached out and touched his arm. She kept her voice low so Mistress Octavia couldn’t hear. “Sir Ichabod, the other night you told us that being a child was more important than being a Tragical. What if being a grown-up is more important too? Please, Sir Ichabod, I can’t do it alone.”
Sir Ichabod looked up. He blinked his eyes. Sir Ichabod was stirring awake. And ever so slowly, he nodded. With every child watching, with Birdie’s heart soaring, and with Mistress Octavia’s jaw gaping, Sir Ichabod strode to the window. He tossed open the thick black curtain, and a wave of stone-gray light tumbled into the room.
The children gasped. They held their hands up in front of their eyes.
Everything was so bright! Everything was so beautiful! How different everything looked when washed by the light!
The Tragicals looked upon the faces of one another. Benjamin stopped sobbing long enough to notice that beneath his tearstained sleeves, a small cluster of freckles on his arm formed the curious pattern of . . . a heart. A heart on a Tragical. He rolled his finger over it, wide-eyed, but it didn’t disappear. Whether or not he could see it, it had always been there, and it always would be.
Sir Ichabod Grim wasn’t finished yet. He reached for the window locks. He began to wriggle and jiggle them about. He turned to his right, wrenched a chair free from the swell of spiders, lifted it high overhead and—
“SIR ICH-A—” Mistress Octavia began, but a particularly
hairy, particularly gruesome, spider slunk across her mouth and planted its fat body square atop her lips, rendering her to nothing more than a harmless “MWARGH! MMAWWW!”
Without a clear order from Mistress Octavia—and with beads of sweat rolling down his face, and his arms trembling from the weight of the chair—Sir Ichabod sucked up a breath and brought it crashing down against the glass.
The Winds of Wanderly met him there at that window.
The Winds of Wanderly took hold of the broken shards and cast them far off into the distance.
And then the Winds swept into the manor.
The Winds gleefully tossed the thick window curtains over Mistress Octavia’s head and wrapped her up tight like a mummy, tickled the cheeks of the gawking Tragicals, and blew all the covers of the books gently closed. They ruffled toward the spiders and propelled each of their eight legs toward the window. And, in one great marching exodus, the spiders heartily obliged.
The spiders followed the Winds of Wanderly all the way up to the windowsill, leaped into the Winds’ open arms, and were carried gently away. Every single one of them billowing and parachuting down along the Winds’ invisible hem.
Except for a very disappointed Francesca, the Tragicals cheered aloud. They scrambled down from their high places. Wobbling atop a bookshelf, Amelia reached her short arms out to Birdie, and Birdie helped her jump to the ground. The Tragicals peered gratefully in Sir Ichabod’s direction, but he was leaning heavily against the wall, and his face was a peculiar shade of gray. While Mistress Octavia continued to roll uselessly back and forth in her curtain, even the manor joined in the celebration, gulping in breath after breath after breath of fresh air.
In the midst of a feeling as unfamiliar as excitement, no one saw Ralph. No one noticed him leap off the swaying chandelier and line the toes of his shoes up against the open window. No one saw him bend low and jump out the window.
No one, that is, except for Mistress Octavia’s ravenous pack of wolves waiting just below the windowsill.
Oh Ralph.
Twelve
The Healing of a Boy
Despite what you may think—despite how very many of them find their way onto our pages—most books, including myself, are not fond of so-called “cliff-hangers.” And so I shall tell you immediately because I cannot keep it in a moment longer: Ralph did not die! Ralph was alive!
Please feel free to cheer a bit. Happy moments are meant to be celebrated, and I shall gladly wait for you.
It is no small thing to pick up a book about a house full of Tragicals—eighteen, no less—and be brave enough to read it. The fact that we have come this far without losing a single one, especially in the presence of such formidable foes as witches and wolves, is not to be taken for granted.
This isn’t to say that Ralph didn’t suffer any injuries. He did. And Mistress Octavia had banished him to the infirmary the moment Sir Ichabod carried him back inside the manor.40 To Mistress Octavia’s utter disappointment, the bulk of Ralph’s injuries occurred during his fall from the library window, i.e. her ferocious wolves had barely touched him. In fact, before Sir Ichabod had managed to distract the wolves by waving about a large piece of beef, Ralph had even coaxed two of them into lying down. As if wolves were the sort of creatures that could be tamed. As if he was the sort of boy who could do such a thing.
But how?
Birdie was still asking herself this question as she stirred a giant pot of blueberry mush alongside Cricket in Sir Ichabod’s kitchen. Sprinkles, seated on Cricket’s shoulder, tended to his silver plume while Cricket stared at the edge of the dish towels hanging along the oven rack. They were moving. Or rather, fluttering. It was just one of the many oddities the children had been stumbling across in the manor because—though Mistress Octavia had ordered Sir Ichabod to board up the library window hours ago—little wisps and hints of the Winds still swirled throughout.
Sir Ichabod emerged from the pantry with a frown on his face. “We are lucky a Council meeting was scheduled for this evening. It’s the only event Mistress Octavia would leave the manor for after an episode like today’s.”
Cricket’s eyes lit up, and she bobbed up and down. “Lucky? But, Sir Ichabod, Tragicals are never lucky. Maybe this means we are getting less tragical!”
Sir Ichabod’s expression, however, remained blank.
Birdie lifted the wooden spoon out of the mush and set it beside the pot. “Sir Ichabod, do you think it would be a good idea for us to visit Ralph? Even though Mistress Octavia ordered you to keep visitors away from the infirmary?”
Sir Ichabod thrust a tray of blueberry mush, bandages, and tape toward Birdie. “You two are not visitors. I am far too busy to attend to him myself, and so—as—as punishment, I am sending you to be his caretakers.”
With a small smile on her face, Birdie nodded. She wrapped her fingers around the tray and stepped toward the door. But Cricket hesitated.
“Sir Ichabod,” she began in a quiet voice. “How did it feel?”
Sir Ichabod froze. Birdie did too. An image of Sir Ichabod popped into her mind. Sir Ichabod, tall. Sir Ichabod lifting a chair high overhead. Sir Ichabod with the Winds of Wanderly swirling around him.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Sir Ichabod whispered.
“How did it feel to be a grown-up?” Cricket said.
“I—I don’t know exactly.”
“Was it scary?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately.
Cricket nodded. “It was scary being a child, too. Not a Tragical child, but a normal one. I know I’m not, of course. That’s just how it felt when you broke the window. All that wind blew in, and we saw Wanderly, and it almost seemed like . . . Well, it almost seemed like Wanderly was happy to see us.” Cricket drew near and whispered, “I think I forgot to breathe.”
“So . . . you didn’t like it?” Sir Ichabod asked, small.
“I loved it. I’m just saying I was scared. But maybe that’s all right. Maybe being scared isn’t what matters most. Maybe even the best things are scary sometimes.” Cricket paused. “Sir Ichabod, may I look at your medallion?”
Sir Ichabod’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He stared at Cricket for a good long moment and finally leaned down to where she stood on tiptoes. Her small fingers brushed gently against the cold, hard metal, and then suddenly, without any warning at all, she yanked on it with all her might.
“Ouch!” Sir Ichabod cried, straightening up and rubbing his hands against his neck, which was already turning a bright, angry shade of red. “What did you do that for?”
Cricket frowned. “I had to try. I just thought maybe if someone else tried to get it off, it might work.”
“You think it’s as easy as pulling it off?”
“I—I don’t know. But I’m sure you do. I’m sure you must have tried everything already. I’m sorry, Sir Ichabod.”
Cricket linked her arm through Birdie’s and pulled them both in the direction of the door. But Birdie couldn’t help noticing how Sir Ichabod hadn’t moved; how he stood frozen, with his hand hovering atop the medallion, almost as if he were afraid to touch it, as if maybe he never had before.
Holding tight to Ralph’s tray, Cricket and Birdie scurried down the hallway. When they reached the infirmary, they heard an ominous series of moaning sounds coming from behind the door. The girls exchanged glances, but Birdie, nevertheless, raised her hand to knock. No one answered. Birdie proceeded to knock again, but there was still no answer. Birdie raised her hand to knock one more time, and a muffled voice finally called out, “Go away.”
“But it’s not Sir Ichabod, it’s us!” Cricket said, pressing her lips against the door.
It was quiet for a whole minute at least. Birdie began to tap her foot. Cricket twiddled her thumbs, and quite curiously, Ralph asked, “Is Sprinkles with you, too?”
As if Sprinkles understood, he threw back his ratty shoulders and rose up on his haunches like the distinguished gentleman he was. “Of course!�
�� Cricket said, and couldn’t have looked prouder of her rat, who was turning out to be not only a hero, but an astute diplomat.
“Come in, then,” Ralph said.
The girls entered the dark room and tried not to gasp. Ralph had a thick bandage wrapped around his head. His left arm was wrapped from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. His right leg was elevated on several pillows, and he had a series of angry scratches on his cheeks and one particularly nasty one across the bridge of his nose.
“It’s, uh, not as bad as it looks, I’m sure,” he said. But when he tried to point toward the foot of the bed, his face crinkled up with the effort, and his breathing grew heavy. Birdie and Cricket plunked down as quickly as they could so as not to cause him any more pain.
Ralph looked toward the tray. “Where’s Grim? Did you steal that out of his kitchen?”
Birdie bit her lip. She wanted to tell Ralph who Sir Ichabod Grim really was—not just the oldest Tragical in all of Wanderly, but a grown-up who might be on their side. But it also seemed the sort of story that was Sir Ichabod’s to share.
“Not exactly,” Birdie said. “We asked him if we could visit you. We wanted to see if you were okay and . . . are you?”
Ralph’s expression darkened. “As okay as I always am being stuck at the manor. I thought . . .” He pressed his eyes shut for a moment. “I thought it was different this time. I thought it was the perfect opportunity.41 I thought . . .”
“What did you think, Ralph?” Birdie pressed gently.
Ralph’s voice was tight. “I thought the Winds of Wanderly would carry me off the way they did for those spiders. But I don’t know why I thought the Winds would do something like that for me.”
“Maybe they will someday. Maybe they left you here for a reason that’s more important.” Birdie’s voice trembled with urgency. “I don’t think the Winds are the sort of thing you should give up on.”