Kate was just finishing her story when Marty rushed up from the front of the library. His eyes were wild with excitement. He carried the ruined copy of Local Flora in one hand and waved an open phone book over his head with the other.
“Kate!” he practically shouted. Every last bit of sadness seemed to have drained from him. “Great news!”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Y’know how you said you wished there was something you could do about the book?” he said. “Well there is. I always figured Muriel Tuttle died years ago, but she seems to have the gift of longevity.”
He thrust the phone book in front of her. It was open to the T section.
“Muriel Tuttle lives at 574 Concession C,” announced Marty with a smile. He handed her Local Flora. “And you can go there yourself, on behalf of the library, to let her know you destroyed her precious, precious gift to the literary world with your utter disregard and carelessness. Isn’t that great?”
Marty beamed as though he couldn’t dream of a better opportunity. Kate and John stared at each other, each thinking the same thing. Maybe Muriel Tuttle could help them figure out what Kronos’s blood was, and where to find it. And she just happened to live down the road from Aunt Bea.
“‘Great’ is the exact word I’d use, Marty,” said Kate, sliding the ruined yellow book back into her pack.
The phone was ringing.
Dirk lay face down on his couch. A line of drool spilled from his open mouth. He closed his eyes tighter and wished whoever was calling would just hang up.
The phone kept ringing.
Dirk opened an eye. In any normal household, the call would have been picked up by voicemail by now. Dirk, however, had a deep distrust of voicemail, a service he had long believed was part of a government conspiracy to gather details on the lives of private citizens.
The details of this particular private citizen had recently become rather complicated. Dirk had been up late the night before recording his first country and western album for B&M Records. He’d written some songs for the record himself, including a ballad about the solitary life of a tabloid journalist and an upbeat number about the joys of a perfect banana. But the record company had also insisted that he record the song he’d humiliated himself with on national TV. The song he’d recently begun to loathe.
“My wheels belong to the road…but my heart belongs to you!”
It was a sore spot with Dirk. In the weeks since the wereduck story hit the news, he had certainly become successful. Famous, even. But as time wore on, it was becoming clear to Dirk that he wasn’t famous for his journalism. Dirk was famous for being a fool. People didn’t like Dirk for Dirk. They liked Dirk because they thought he was playing a character: a parody of a country music–singing tabloid reporter.
If only he could prove to them he was the real thing. If only he could prove his wereduck story was true.
The phone was still ringing. Dirk rolled himself off the couch and onto the floor. His fall was cushioned by an ankle-deep pile of dirty laundry and discarded newspapers. He reached out and grabbed the phone on the coffee table.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Bragg?” said a cheery voice. “This is Gina calling from Via Rail.”
“Okay,” said Dirk. He closed his eyes and considered hanging up.
“Mr. Bragg, I am just following up on your recent online booking with us: two coach-class tickets from Leamington, Ontario, to Moncton, New Brunswick. Can you please confirm the details of your trip are correct?”
Dirk sat up. He had definitely not booked tickets to go anywhere, but the words “New Brunswick” jolted him to attention. That was where his adventure with the wereduck had taken place more than a month ago.
“Well, it doesn’t ring a bell, but I book a lot of trips for my work. Can you remind me of the details?”
“Sure, Mr. Bragg,” said Gina. Her cheerful smile sparkled across the phone lines. “These tickets were booked online yesterday using your credit card. Two tickets, leaving Leamington, Ontario, next Tuesday, the third. That is an overnight trip, with stopovers in Toronto and Montreal.”
“Right,” said Dirk. He was half-listening while shuffling through the cards in his wallet, looking for his credit card. It was gone. “And can you tell me the names on the tickets?”
“I sure can, Mr. Bragg,” sang Gina. “They’re booked in the names of John DeWolf and Kate Duckenstein.”
“DeWolf and Duckenstein?” repeated Dirk. His lips curled into a smirk. These kids were good, but they were sloppy. “Ah, yes. I remember now. My niece and nephew. Yes, of course I booked those tickets.”
“Well, that is a relief, Mr. Bragg,” said Gina. “There were enough suspicious details in the transaction that we thought we would confirm with you. Sorry to bother.”
“Oh, it’s not a bother at all,” said Dirk, his mind devising a plan. “In fact, while I’ve got you on the phone, can you book me one more ticket?”
“Of course, Mr. Bragg. Where would you like to go?”
“I’d like to give my niece and nephew a little surprise,” said Dirk. “You say there’s a stopover in Montreal?”
“That’s right, Mr. Bragg. The train arrives in Montreal at about seven-thirty in the evening and leaves again just after eight.”
“Excellent. Book me on that one, please.” He smiled with grim satisfaction. “I can’t wait to see their faces when they see Uncle Dirk climb aboard their train.”
“I still don’t understand why I have to wear this dumb tie,” said Bobby. He pouted as he walked with Kate and John up the tree-lined driveway of 574 Concession C—Muriel Tuttle’s house.
“Because we’re dropping in on an old lady,” said John. “Old ladies like it when little boys wear ties.”
Bobby tugged at the red and blue-striped fabric around his neck. “I hate this thing. I don’t need to be here. You guys won’t even let me go on your dumb train trip.”
“Let’s not forget it was your graceful antics that ruined the book in the first place,” said Kate. “We need this lady to tell us what Kronos’s blood is so we can finish the cure.”
“And remember to speak loudly,” interrupted John. “She’s likely deaf as a post.”
Bobby grumbled. The three approached the front steps to the white, wood-framed farmhouse.
“I hope she likes raisin cookies,” said Kate nervously, eyeing the plate in her hands. “I still think we should have made chocolate chip. Most reasonable people hate raisins.”
“Old ladies like raisins,” replied John.
“You sure seem to know a lot about old ladies,” said Kate. She knocked on the front door.
“Shut up,” muttered John a split second before the door opened. An older woman with white hair and a black dress stood in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” she said with a quiet voice.
“Hello,” said Kate politely. “We live just down the way. We were hoping to see Ms. Muriel Tuttle.”
The woman looked at each of them with sad eyes. “Do you know my aunt Muriel? Are you friends?”
“Well, not exactly,” said John. “We’re neighbours.”
“We brought cookies,” said Kate, holding up the plate.
“How very kind of you,” said the woman. “Yes, of course you may see her. Please, do come in.”
She stepped aside to allow the kids to enter. The door gave a soft click as it shut behind them. Kate couldn’t believe how still and dry the air seemed around her—like no one had opened a window in years. The house was so quiet she could hear a clock ticking in another room. The walls were papered in deep tones of red and gold. The heavy wood trim around the doorways was stained dark brown. A long hallway ran to the back of the house. The doors on both sides were shut. She led them through the kitchen and into an adjoining dining room.
The woman stopped th
em in front of a set of old wooden doors. She clasped her hands in front of her.
“My name is Netty Tuttle,” said the woman. “Aunt Muriel would be very pleased to know you’d come.”
“Oh, we moved in a while ago and have been meaning to introduce ourselves,” said John, turning to Kate. “Weren’t we?”
“Oh yes,” nodded Kate. She nudged Bobby.
“Right,” he added. “For weeks.”
“Isn’t that nice?” said Netty with a weak smile. “I only wish you’d come sooner.”
She slid open the doors to reveal an old-fashioned parlour. The drapes were drawn. The lid of the piano keyboard was shut. But the dominant feature of the room was most definitely the coffin. Inside lay the body of a wrinkled old woman, her hands folded across her chest.
Netty motioned at the box. “This,” she said, “is my aunt Muriel.”
“It is a lovely gesture that you’ve come to pay respect to my dear auntie,” said Netty, her eyes locked on the body in the coffin. “She was a fairly solitary woman. A bit of a hermit, actually. But I think you would have liked her.”
“Well,” managed Kate, choking back a combination of feelings that included shock, revulsion, and utter disappointment, “I—um—we, uh, just wanted to, uh, show how sorry we were….”
“So sorry…” said John.
“…to hear that, uh, Ms. Tuttle had died,” continued Kate. “It certainly is…disappointing. Right, Bobby?”
Her brother stood with his mouth wide open.
“Sorry,” Kate said to Netty. “He’s just so sad, as we all are.”
“I understand, dear,” consoled Netty. “I’ll leave the three of you for a few minutes to pay your respects.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that—” stammered Kate.
“Such a brave girl,” said Netty, patting Kate’s arm. “You go ahead and say goodbye in your own way.” Netty gave her shoulder a meaningful squeeze before excusing herself from the parlour.
The three stood staring at the body of Muriel Tuttle.
“Oh,” said Kate.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the sunken and wrinkled features of the old woman in the box.
“Yup,” said John.
“Oh,” repeated Kate.
John sighed deeply. “Yup.”
Kate turned to Bobby. He hadn’t moved in the last minute and a half. His mouth hung wide open. Kate realized her brother had never seen a dead body before. “You okay?” she asked.
“DEAD,” said Bobby, his eyes locked on Muriel.
She put a hand on his shoulder. The poor kid was probably upset.
“Now we’ll never know,” continued Bobby. He blinked and looked back and forth from Kate to John. “Now we’ll never know…whether she liked raisins.” He smiled.
John burst out laughing, then quickly clamped his hand over his mouth.
“This is serious, you guys,” scolded Kate. “How are we going to figure out what this Kronos’s blood stuff is if the only person who knows is dead?”
“Maybe this Netty lady knows something,” offered John.
“No way. We can’t bother her about this stuff. She’s in mourning,” said Kate.
“I’m not saying we put a spotlight on her and give her the fifth degree. I’m just saying—” John stopped talking as Netty re-entered the room.
“There now,” said Netty. “Such a neighbourly gesture of you to come. And look how nice you look in that tie,” she said, gesturing to Bobby. He blushed. “Why don’t you come to the kitchen? I’ve put on some tea, and we can have some of those cookies you brought.”
“Sure,” said Kate, relieved by the opportunity to leave the creepy coffin room.
They followed Netty to the kitchen and sat at a round wooden table. Light streamed through the window above the sink, illuminating a row of blue glass bottles. Kate smiled; they reminded her of the jars in her bedroom. She liked the way the light refracted through the glass, dappling the counter and floor with specks of blue light. This room wasn’t like the rest of the house. Netty poured each of the kids a cup of tea.
John reached for the pitcher of milk. “I really am sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet your aunt, Ms. Tuttle,” he said. “Such an interesting woman. What a life she led.”
Netty chuffed. “That’s nice of you to say. I dare say, most people around here didn’t even know she existed.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said John. “We’re big fans.”
“Fans?” asked Netty.
“Of her book,” said John. “We got it out of the library.”
“Oh, her book. You know, most people thought my aunt was a little strange, and that book was a big part of it. My father—Muriel’s brother—always said it was awful queer of a body to spend so much time mucking through field and stream in search of weeds. But I just thought the world of Aunt Muriel. There’ll never be another like her. She taught me everything I know about local flora.”
Kate and John shot each other a quick glance.
“Oh, really?” said Kate. “I’m surprised more people aren’t fascinated.”
“What a thrill to find someone who appreciates wild plants,” exclaimed Netty.
“We just think her book is invaluable,” said John. “Especially the folk names.”
“Right,” continued Kate. “Without it, we wouldn’t have been able to tell a beggar’s button from a cheese root.”
Netty’s eyes went wide. She rested her teacup in its saucer. “You had a need for those, did you?”
“Well, yes,” said Kate, worrying perhaps she was overdoing it. “We were making an old family remedy. Unfortunately, we had a bit of a problem before we could get all the ingredients.”
“What happened?” said Netty.
Kate slid her backpack from her shoulder and withdrew the sodden copy of Local Flora.
“We borrowed this from the library and….”
“Oh, my,” said Netty, taking the book.
“It was all my fault,” said Bobby, miserably. “We were looking for cheese root when I slipped and….”
“Oh, my,” repeated Netty. She flipped through the book. “You didn’t miss a page, did you?”
The room was quiet for a moment as Netty finished examining the book. She sighed and put it down.
“Well, what’s done is done,” she said. “Maybe I can still help you.”
“You can?’ said Kate.
“Well, I’m not Aunt Muriel, but I did spend the better part of seventy years following her around the woods.”
“Do you know about Kronos’s blood?” said John bluntly.
Netty levelled a gaze at him, suddenly serious. “I do,” she said.
“What is it?” he pressed.
“This is a curious combination of ingredients you’re talking about,” said Netty. “Beggar’s buttons. Cheese root. Kronos’s blood. What did you say it was for?”
Kate shifted in her chair. “An old family remedy.”
Netty paused a moment before answering. “There’s no mystery about blood of Kronos,” she said. “It’s just the sap of a cedar tree. Aunt Muriel has some of her homemade cedar syrup in the fridge, if you need it. She took a tablespoon every morning. Good for the blood, she always said.”
“Oh, that’d be great!” said Kate, looking relieved.
“And purple loostrife?” asked Netty. “You found some of that, I suppose.”
Kate blinked. “Yes.”
“And silver nitrate?” pressed Netty. “That give you any trouble?”
Kate shot a nervous glance at John. “We found some in an old chemistry set.”
Netty rattled off the remaining ingredients to the Cure for Werewolf. “Did you find them, too?”
“How do you know—”
Netty sat up straight and began to recite:<
br />
“If the wolf you seek to calm,
Let this potion be your guide:
A shot of silver, a soothing balm;
Still the beast that lives inside.”
All three kids stared at her in disbelief.
“I can recognize the ingredients for A Cure for Werewolf a mile away,” said Netty, delighting in the shock on their faces.
“Ms. Tuttle, are you a—” began John.
“No, no,” she said, laughing. “Not me. But you don’t spend a lifetime searching for ancient remedies without learning a thing or two about the mysteries of this world. Including werewolves.” She shook her head. “Oh, if only Aunt Muriel were here. She would have loved to have met you.”
“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?” said Kate.
“Heavens, no,” said Netty. “Why would I do a fool thing like that?”
She crossed the kitchen to the fridge and pulled out a pint jar. She poured a small amount of sticky syrup into a smaller jar and sealed it. “Now, be careful with this,” she said, handing the jar to Kate.
“Why, is it dangerous?” asked Kate.
“Oh, no. It’s just sticky as all get out. Impossible to clean out of your clothes and hair.” Netty smiled.
“Ms. Tuttle, can I ask you something?” said John.
“Of course.”
“This cure. Does it work?” he asked.
“I’ve never heard otherwise,” she said. “Though I hope you never need it.”
“Why’s that?” asked Kate.
Netty looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure what makes a sparrow a sparrow or a human a human,” she said, “but I do know that changing one’s nature isn’t something that should be taken lightly. It’s some powerful mojo.”
“Mojo?” said Kate. She raised an eyebrow.
Netty smiled. “One of Auntie Muriel’s favourite words, actually. Nature. Power. Magic. Whatever you want to call it,” she said. “Now, is there anything else you need?”
“This is more than we thought we’d find,” said Kate. “Thank you. And I’m really sorry your aunt died. I would have liked to have known her.”
Cure for Wereduck Page 6