by Diane Rios
A loud chunk came from behind her, followed by a scraping sound as a lock was turned. Mrs. Goodweather jumped back at the horrible screeeeeeee sound the doors made as they slowly swung open. Two white-coated attendants stood just inside the doors, blocking the entrance. At the sight of the doors opening, the crowd roared and surged forward.
The line of people crowded up the steps and tried to jam their way through the doors. The sheer mass immediately overwhelmed the white-coated guards and even caught up Mrs. Goodweather, moving her up the steps and into the hospital. Painfully squeezed and crushed against the wall, she fought to get her breath. The crowd poured in through the doors, filling the entryway and spilling into the waiting room.
In front of Mrs. Goodweather was the main desk with a nurse sitting behind it. Mrs. Goodweather felt a gleam of hope at the sight of a woman, but her heart sank as she saw the nurse’s grim expression. She would be of no help, that was certain.
The double doors leading from the waiting room into the hospital were padlocked. The only place the crowd could go from there was down the corridor to a desk with a red neon sign above it that said BILLINGS. Here the people were permitted to form a queue, a line of white-coated guards kept them organized, and Mrs. Goodweather could see white clubs attached to their belts.
Soon the angry crowd became nothing more than a second line, this time to the Billings desk. This reminded Mrs. Good-weather of still another line she’d seen that morning from behind the boulder—the line of pine boxes going out to sea.
This place was a regular factory, she thought with a creeping dread. It has assembly lines running all through it. Each of these three lines is part of the same diabolical puzzle. A line of ambulances delivering patients, a line of people paying money, and a line of long boxes going out.
Supply and demand, she thought bitterly. The hospital was turning a deadly profit.
She watched the crowd a while longer, hoping to learn any more details that might help their plan, but after realizing it could do no more, the crowd settled down, and the room of people became docile once more.
Mrs. Goodweather had seen enough and walked back to the entrance to leave. Outside the people were angrily talking to each other about what was going on in there and asking each other where the police were.
Mrs. Goodweather wondered the same thing as she quickly made her way past the crowd, and around the hospital to the little path up the hill.
Chloe, Shakespeare, and Brisco were watching eagerly for her return, and put down their cards as she climbed the steps to the little porch.
“It’s every bit as bad as we thought,” Mrs. Goodweather said. “As far as I can see, they are admitting people only to extort them for money. I believe that is the cursed place’s whole operation—abduct their victims and drain their bank accounts. And I’m sure that as soon as the families can’t pay, their loved ones are . . . er . . . disposed of.”
“Oh, how awful!” cried Chloe.
Brisco shook his head sadly.
Mrs. Goodweather went on, “However terrible that is, my dear, it does give me hope for your mother.” She smiled at the girl, who looked confused.
“It is likely that your family is still able to pay for her care, you see,” said Mrs. Goodweather gently. “And so, it stands to reason that she is most likely still alive! And my dear—we will find her! I know how we can get inside!”
Chloe and Brisco looked at the woman in surprise. Chloe felt a gleam of hope melt the misery around her heart, and she sat upright, the tears drying on her cheeks. “How, Mrs. Good-weather, how?” she choked out.
“There is to be a Grand Opening Gala for the hospital the day after tomorrow! It could be the perfect opportunity to slip the bigwigs our special pies. Isn’t it remarkable? We could not have asked for more fortuitous timing!” She clapped her hands in glee, her eyes twinkling.
Brisco looked unconvinced. He leaned his chair back as he said thoughtfully, “That’s all well and good, Mrs. G, but we still need to find a way in. It’s still a huge risk.”
“The day after tomorrow!” exclaimed Chloe. “That doesn’t give us much time!”
Mrs. Goodweather said, “I’ve thought of that. What we need are disguises.”
“Disguises!” said Chloe. “What sort of disguises?”
Mrs. Goodweather leaned forward and chirped, “Chloe and I can pretend to be servers!”
Her companions looked at her in shocked silence for a second, and Mrs. Goodweather went on, “That way we would be able to get to the tables where we could serve the pies to the proper people!”
“Genius!” gasped out Brisco, letting his chair fall forward with a thud.
“Perfect!” said Chloe, delighted. “But—how will we find disguises? They will have to look very convincing if we’re to be undetected. How in the world will we . . . ?” she asked.
“Oh, no worries about that, dear!” said Mrs. Goodweather. “I could easily sew us a couple of uniforms, if we could find some fabric.”
“Well that would be my department,” said Brisco, standing up from the little table. “I’ll look around for your fabric, Mrs. G. I’m sure I can scrounge up something,” he said confidently.
“I’m sure you can!” said Mrs. Goodweather, chuckling. “Well that settles it then. We have found a light shining in the dark. You know, child—there’s always something you can do, no matter how hard things seem. And once you do something, even something very small, it often turns into something big. Something that changes everything.”
She squeezed Chloe’s shoulders, adding, “Now, who wants some lunch?”
Perhaps it was the relief of having a plan, and the excitement of the preparation ahead that made them hungry, but suddenly they were all ravenous. While Mrs. Goodweather prepared another of her delicious meals, Brisco and Chloe and
Shakespeare played cards. Their game was much merrier for they all felt the energy of hope coursing through them.
It wouldn’t be easy. There was a lot to do before the day after tomorrow—the disguises had to be sewn, and the pies had to be made. There were a lot of details they still needed to discuss. The plan had to be foolproof, for there would be no second chances.
For the moment they needed to eat, and they all tucked in to Mrs. Goodweather’s delicious dinner of pot pie, creamed corn, and baked cinnamon apples. Brisco produced a bottle of honey mead from his bag and poured them all a small glassful. He filled a bottle cap with mead for Shakespeare, who tasted it and, finding it delicious, lapped it up as fast as he could.
“To us!” said Brisco, holding his glass aloft and smiling through his mustache. “To the courageous Chloe, the magnificent Mrs. G, and the chivalrous Shakespeare!”
“And to you, Brisco!” added Mrs. Goodweather, raising her own glass. “To the most masterful and cleverest carpenter the world has ever known!”
The three friends clinked their glasses and drank to each other’s health. Though their plan would be difficult and extremely dangerous, Mrs. Goodweather knew they all had that emboldened feeling one gets when one has a plan, any plan, after a long period of not having one. And that now they had a chance, however slim, and with hard work and a lot of luck, they might even succeed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZZZZZZZZZZZ . . . ACK!” THE ARTIST WOKE mid-snore to a terrible tickle on his neck. It felt as if a very large spider had crawled on him, and he bolted awake, brushing violently at the spot.
Whitestone the squirrel leapt back, greatly offended by the man’s flailing hands which had nearly slapped him on the ear. Whitestone regarded the Artist with great disapproval.
“Oh! It’s you, Whitestone,” said the Artist sheepishly, relaxing. “Sorry about that, but I’ve been woken by more spiders than squirrels. Did you have something to tell us?”
Whitestone remembered his message and chattered brightly at the Artist, who turned to Greybelle for translation. The mare said simply, “He says it is time to go.”
Whitestone chattered agreeabl
y.
“Let’s be on our way, then,” said the Artist, gathering up his things. “My Lord,” he said, gently shaking the sleeping earl’s hammock. The little earl came awake with a gasp.
“What in the name of God time is it?” he said crankily, trying in vain to arrange his hair.
“It’s time to go to the meeting, according to our fuzzy guide,” answered the Artist, nodding at Whitestone.
“Is there any coffee?” Lord Winchfillin croaked.
“I’m afraid we drank the last of it yesterday,” answered the Artist, patting Greybelle’s neck. “Go splash your face in the stream—that will wake you up, but be quick, I have a strange feeling we need to get to the meadow sooner rather than later.” He nodded upward as a large flock of birds passed overhead, drowning him out with their cries. “We don’t want all the best seats to be taken.” He winked.
The three quickly packed up what little they had with them. Lord Winchfillin knelt by the creek to splash his face, and they mounted the horses again. Moving off from camp, they hurriedly followed Whitestone, who leaped ahead through the trees. They were joined by more animals just arriving at the mountain. Scuttling and scampering through the underbrush alongside them were mice, rabbits, voles, chipmunks, weasels, and even two badgers, all moving toward the meadow. It seemed that every creature within twenty miles was on its way to the gathering.
Several more bears passed them, unnerving them all, and a herd of deer bounded by. Greybelle and Raja snorted at the sight of two mountain lions padding by on silent feet.
“This is going to be some party,” said the Artist, watching their twitching, yellow tails disappear up the trail. “I hope we can all stay civilized.”
“Civilized!” squeaked out the earl, his face white. “I just hope we can all stay alive!”
Up and up they climbed, animal, bird, and man, until they reached a place halfway up the mountain. Here the dense forest ended abruptly, and an expanse of alpine meadow stretched in front of them, dotted with wildflowers. Surrounded by trees, the meadow was the perfect amphitheater in which to gather. Its open sky and soft carpet of grass was a welcome relief from the steep and wooded terrain they had climbed. The meadow stretched out in front of them like a green lake with a tumble of boulders at one end.
Over the pile of boulders loomed a towering rock wall. Above the wall were the snow-covered peaks of the mountain. The summit was hidden in a swirl of clouds. Wy’east’s cap was white all year long, and in winter his sides were packed with snow and ice. But just now, the deepest snow had yet to fall and the meadow was in a protected hollow.
While the men and horses hesitated, other animals began to file in and take their place for the meeting. The first to enter the meadow was a shadowy pack of wolves that silently arranged themselves near the tumble of boulders. They stood watching warily, their eyes gleaming at the sight of the smaller animals. After the wolves, two bears strode defiantly out into the middle of the meadow and stood looking around, daring anyone to challenge their authority. Several groups of deer stepped nervously out of the cover of the trees, but wouldn’t approach the rocks where the wolves were. Smaller animals began pouring into the meadow, arranging themselves in groups, and watching to see the carnivores didn’t get too close. Group after group stepped out from the trees and found their places. Soon the meadow began to fill up and the animals were pressed closer and closer together. Nervous snorts and yips were heard as someone’s tail was stepped on, or someone bumped someone else. Everyone was on edge. No one completely trusted this strange, uneasy truce between predator and prey. How long would it hold? How long could it hold?
The animals passing by the group of men wrinkled their noses at the man-smell. They glared at the sight of the men and the wolves growled, showing their teeth and giving the humans a wide berth. Lord Winchfillin whimpered and stood as close to Raja as he could. The old gelding was no happier and crowded Greybelle.
The old meadow had never had such a gathering before. Hundreds of animals crowded together on the grass, and though there was tension, there were no fights, and every animal waited as patiently as possible for the meeting to begin.
The sun rose slowly above the mountain, turning its crown of clouds first lavender, then pink. The animals were silent, sensing a change in the wind. Was it beginning? Was Silas going to come? Where was the Stargazer? The limbs of the trees all around the meadow trembled then, as if an electric current danced through them, and a shower of pine needles dropped to the forest floor as someone stepped out into the meadow.
A small, wizened old man stood there. His face was brown and wrinkled, as were his hands and his bare feet. From his head hung long gray braids, and braids adorned his gray beard and mustache. He wore a simple garment of buckskin, and though he looked to be very old, he climbed the rocks like a much younger man. Silas the Stargazer had come down from the mountain.
No one knew exactly where Silas lived; it was rumored to be in a cave, high up on the peaks of Wy’east. He was very seldom seen, and the younger animals had never seen him at all, but only heard the legends and stories about him. He was rumored to be over one hundred years old. The legends said that only the stars could summon the Stargazer, and if that were true, then this meeting was even more important than they thought.
The old man stood there silently, gazing out at the multitude of animals before him. A hush fell over the crowd as they waited for him to speak.
“Why, he looks like the Duchess of Cheeves!” Lord Winchfillin giggled, almost unhinged by his nerves.
“Shhhhhh,” cautioned the Artist, putting his fingers to his lips.
Silas was speaking.
“Welcome, my friends.” The old man’s voice was gentle, but strong, and carried far out over the meadow. The animals became completely still, thousands of ears tuned to every word.
“You have all come such a long way,” said the old man. “There has never been such a meeting as this—but there has never been a threat like this, either. It is no small matter that brings us together now.”
An uneasy murmur of agreement rippled through the meadow.
Silas the Stargazer’s weathered face was grave. He breathed deeply and continued, his voice still gentle, but tinged with sorrow. “Things are not well in the world, my friends. This you know. This you have known for a very long time.”
Growls and grunts of agreement greeted this statement. “And now my brothers, my sisters, and my little mothers”—Silas smiled down at the field mice gathered in the grass below him—“I am sorry to say that a new evil has come to the land. I have seen it in the stars. And you have seen it on the roads.”
Angry roars, bleats, chirrups, and cheeps came from those present who had indeed seen the evil themselves. Almost every animal in the meadow had had some friend or family member killed at the hand of man.
Silas held out his hands as if to soothe the raised hackles of his angry audience. “We have all suffered greatly these last years,” he said sadly. “My own people are gone from the land. Only a few remain hidden away in the north, never to return to these sacred lands. Your people remain, but how many generations have been hunted, trapped, poisoned, and killed? And now, we are threatened by a new kind of danger.
“I saw the evil foretold in the stars years ago. There was nothing I could do about it then—it had not yet even begun. And when it did begin, I did not understand what its power truly was. It was hidden from me, because I am also a man.”
An uneasy silence from the meadow.
Silas went on, “When the new men first came and began to cut the trees—we did not understand. We thought there was enough for all, and we allowed it. But those men took all the trees, leaving nothing but a bare, poisoned waste behind them. They took and they took, they took until there were no more trees, and the land was dead.”
The trees were gone, the animals cried with anger. The land was dead. They roared and stamped their thousands of feet, making the meadow jump.
“And when
they had taken all the trees, they began to take the animals,” Silas said darkly. “Not satisfied with enough to sustain themselves, they took more animals, and more, and more—they killed my people and they’ve killed your people too!”
They took the animals. The creatures in the meadow were maddened with hatred at the memories. They killed our people!
The meadow erupted in rage. The mountain lions roared, the wolves howled; there were barks from the coyotes, grunts from the badgers, yips from the skunks, even a chorus of squeaks from the mice who had heard every word and were doing their best to be counted.
The sound was so loud it alarmed the bears and they rose high on their hind feet, chuffing in alarm and squinting their eyes to see better what was going on. The rabbits, panicked by the bears, stamped their feet on the ground and some bolted crazily for the trees. The elk raked the air with their antlers, and the white-tailed deer flashed their white flags of danger.
Silas raised his hands again to quiet the crowd. It took a long minute until the meadow was calm enough for him to continue. The animals kept their places, but emotions were high, and all felt the truce was being tested. Reason would soon fade before the more powerful instinct to fight or to run would take hold. Silas knew it was time for solutions.
The old man spread his hands out wide. He said so that all could hear, “But we are not alone!”
The animals quieted, turning their attention back to the old man. What could he mean?
“Look where we are standing!” he cried, opening his arms wide. “We are gathered on the very flank of the most powerful force in the land!”
He gestured slowly around, spreading his arms out to encompass all he could see. “We have a mountain on our side, my friends.”
The old man’s eyes, almost lost in the wrinkles that surrounded them, gleamed in the dim light.
He laughed softly, though every ear heard him. “Oh, ho, ho, we are the lucky ones!”
He held his arms out and proclaimed, louder, “We do not have to move mountains in order to achieve our goal, oh no!”