“You brung them filthy critters into my house,” muttered Mrs. Smirch, picking through Jessamine’s hair, “and now my young’uns is like to get ’em too! I knew I’d rue the day I took you in.”
“I tell you, I never had them before!” protested Louisa. She never knew what made her lose her temper—was it hearing little Jessamine squeak in pain when Mrs. Smirch pulled her hair? Was it simply one insult too many? The words were pouring out of her mouth before she had any idea of saying them. “Matter of fact, I bet I got them here! Sleeping on that itchy old straw tick! Probably has bedbugs, too!”
A terrible silence fell over the room. Mrs. Smirch stood frozen with her hands in Jessamine’s hair, staring at Louisa with astonishment and rage in her eyes. Louisa’s breath caught in her throat.
“What’s that you said?” asked Mrs. Smirch softly, dangerously.
Louisa couldn’t answer.
“You want to walk very carefully here, girl. You’re here out of charity, and you’d do well to remember it. If I weren’t a softhearted woman, I’d have packed you off a week ago, harvest or no harvest. They can send you to the orphanage in Topeka while your father awaits trial, for all I care.”
She resumed her hunt through Jessamine’s hair.
“Well, I don’t see none,” she said, “but that don’t mean they ain’t there. Hair like yours, it’s hard to tell.”
She turned a contemplative stare toward Louisa.
“Yours’ll have to go,” she said matter-of-factly.
Louisa blanched. No, oh no.
“Her hair?” squealed Jessamine. “Oh, Aunt Mattie, you can’t!”
“Got no choice,” said Mrs. Smirch. “Can’t let ’em overrun the house.”
“No, please,” whispered Louisa, her hand going to her head. There was no way she was going to let Mrs. Smirch cut off her hair, her long brown hair that Pa said looked just like her mother’s.
“I’ll get one of those special combs—” she pleaded.
“Where you gonna get a fine-tooth comb, child? Have to go to town for that, and if ’tweren’t such a hardship to get you to town right now, you’d be there already and your critters wouldn’t be none of my never-mind.”
She released her grip on Jessamine’s tresses and gestured toward the door.
“Come on, then,” she said to Louisa. “May as well get it over with. Have to do it outside, of course. I’ll just get my scissors.”
“Please,” Louisa repeated, but no one answered. Mrs. Smirch was rummaging through her sewing basket. Mr. Smirch slowly folded up his whittling knife and strode out to the barn.
Tears were rolling down Jessamine’s face. She looked as stricken as if it were her own hair about to be cut off.
Louisa met her eyes for a long moment, and then suddenly she was out the door, running as hard as she could.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Goose Indeed
SHE KNEW THEY’D LOOK FOR HER IN HER OWN HOUSE. Already she could hear Mrs. Smirch hollering for her husband. Louisa knew she’d have to find somewhere to hide.
She thought of the dugout, but she was afraid Mr. Smirch would look there when he didn’t find her at home. There were other neighbors to the east, but she wasn’t sure of the way. There was no road. The thought of wandering uncertainly across the open prairie in the dark made her shudder.
But where was there to go? She couldn’t go back.
I’ll go to Pa, she thought. I’ll go to town.
Follow the creek upstream far enough, she knew, and you’d come to a wide shallow river. Head east along its banks, and sooner or later you’d reach the town of Fletcher. Most likely later—it was a good thirteen miles away.
Thirteen miles. Could she do it? Could she walk that far?
Got no choice.
But she certainly couldn’t start out now, after dark, not with wolves and coyotes and who knew what else on the hunt. And she’d need food, water, maybe a blanket.
She figured she could get all those things at home tomorrow, if she watched for her chance. Mr. Smirch couldn’t spend the whole day looking for her; he had his wheat to think of. She’d slip in and slip out, and then she’d trek to Fletcher. She’d rather stay in jail with Pa than spend one more day under Mrs. Smirch’s cold eye.
Besides, it occurred to her that she had information for the sheriff. The thief, whoever he was, was still on the prowl! The sheriff needed to know about her ma’s stolen comb and another missing clock. Louisa felt heartened, now that she had a plan. I ought to have thought of it before. Waiting around for Mr. Smirch to get his crop in wasn’t helping her pa at all. Suppose the judge had come back to town before Louisa got there? What if the trial had started already?
All the while her mind was running along these lines, her feet were carrying her away from the Smirch place. She’d been so intent on getting away before Mr. Smirch caught up to her that she hadn’t paid much heed to where she was going; she’d just run. Now she realized that she was halfway to the hazel grove.
She stumbled to a stop, panting, listening for sounds behind her. Someone was calling out—a faint, faraway shout that she figured was her name. Mr. Smirch must be looking for her, but he wasn’t anywhere close.
The grove might be a pretty good place to hide, she guessed, but she wasn’t sure she dared to go there in the dark. The thought of encountering the—what was he?—gave her the shivers.
Then again, perhaps Jessamine was right; he seemed friendly enough. He’d retrieved Charlie’s stone, and he’d gathered all those nuts for them.
Louisa hesitated, unsure of what to do.
Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Smirch’s holler a little louder? All around her the tall grass rustled and whispered. Small skitterings and squeakings and cracklings rose up from the ground. Louisa shivered. She felt exposed, alone, foolish. Maybe she should just go on home after all and hide in the root cellar.
A howl rose up from the prairie, long and mournful and menacing, a terrible, hungry call, and from the sound of it, quite close by. Louisa’s skin broke out in gooseflesh. She felt turned to stone by fear. That wolf could not be far off. And there she was, helpless as a fawn, right smack in the middle of open prairie.
That settled it: bearded fellow or not, she had to head for the grove. There were good-size cottonwoods there. Wolves couldn’t climb trees.
She made herself take a step, and another. She dared not run—she hardly dared to breathe, lest the wolf, wherever it was, hear her and decide she sounded like a fine little dinner. She wished it would howl again, so at least she’d know where it was. The black air around her seemed alive with snuffling and soft, heavy tread. She could not hear Mr. Smirch anymore.
Step by step, she came closer to the grove. The dark, gnarled arms of the cottonwoods against the blue-black sky almost set her to crying, she was so relieved to see them. She couldn’t help but hurry now; the trees beckoned with their stout branches. Every moment she expected to hear the dry grass snapping behind her under the weight of the wolf’s terrible paws; every moment she expected to feel its hot breath on her neck. Sobbing, she ran to a tree, threw her arms around the trunk, and dug her heels in, scrambling and scraping her way up to the lowest branch. When she tried to swing her legs up and over the branch, her legs got caught in her skirt and petticoat, and frantically she flailed about, expecting the wolf’s teeth to sink into her skin at any minute. Then suddenly she was up, clinging with all four limbs, her skirts torn and tangled around her. She peered down through the darkness, wondering if she was high enough, wondering how high a wolf could leap.
But she didn’t see any wolf at all. To be sure, she could not see much of anything. But there were no evil eyes gleaming at her, no flashing teeth, no growl or snarl or scrabbling of paws at the tree trunk.
From somewhere not far away, but not right under the tree, the chilling howl curdled the air once more. Wherever the wolf was, it was not in the hazel grove.
Smarting with scrapes and bruises from her hasty ascent
, her heart pounding, Louisa burst into tears, much to her own disgust. She lay there on the branch a minute, catching her breath, wishing this were all a bad dream and she was really home in her own bed, with Pa reading by lamplight in the next room.
But that line of thought threatened to bring back the tears.
“Stop it, Louisa,” she told herself. “Don’t be a goose.”
“A goose indeed,” said a voice from the darkness below. “I’ve not seen such a foolish spectacle as this since Farmer MacClellan came home late from the pub and set to paintin’ his cottage with milk instead o’ whitewash!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What Sort of Fool
LOUISA SHRIEKED AND FELL OUT OF THE TREE.
She landed hard on her back and had the wind knocked out of her. Pinpoints of light glittered and swirled against her eyelids, and for a long moment she could neither hear nor speak. Then, slowly, the swirling light specks receded, and she found she could breathe again and open her eyes.
The little bearded man in the pointed cap was leaning over her, holding a tiny candle in a candlestick holder made from what looked like a hazelnut shell. His grizzled white beard was so long that the tip of it tickled Louisa’s cheek. The little man’s brows were drawn together in a disapproving frown.
“And that,” he said in a funny, low voice that was rough and lilting at the same time, “was foolisher still.”
“What—” Louisa gasped, at a loss for words. Her head was still spinning from the fall, and she ached all over. She stared up at the little man, trying to make sense of what was happening, but all that came to her mind were fragments of nonsense. What a cunning little candle; Jessamine would go wild over it.
“What indeed?” said the little man. “’Tis precisely the place to start. What are ye doin’ in me grove? What made ye run like the banshee was on yer heels? And what ever possessed ye to drop like a stone out o’ that poor tree and come crashin’ down nearly on top o’ me head?”
“S-sorry!” stammered Louisa, too flustered to consider the possibility that the person falling out of the tree stood more risk of injury than the person standing below. “I . . . I didn’t know you were there.”
“Obviously,” said the little man drily. “I should hope ye wouldn’t undertake to squash me on purpose.”
“Oh, no!” Louisa assured him, sitting up. Pain swept through her head and she sank back, groaning.
“If that doesn’t beat all,” grumbled the little man. “Now ye’ve gone and hurt yerself, and I suppose next ye’ll be wantin’ me to play nursemaid.” He held out a hand. “Come on, then. Upsy-daisy. Sooner ye’re on yer feet, the sooner ye can go on yer way and leave me and me trees in peace.”
Hesitantly, Louisa took hold of the small, gnarled hand. The little man’s grip was surprisingly strong. His skin was dry and warm; grasping his hand was like grasping a sturdy tree branch.
He hauled her to her feet. Swaying, she clutched at the tree trunk to steady herself. Gradually the dizziness receded and she found she could stand alone. The little man stood regarding her with a sour expression on his funny, wrinkled face.
“Ye look like last year’s scarecrow,” he said. “Ye’re not fit to take yerself back home, that’s for certain.”
“It isn’t my home,” said Louisa. “I can’t go back there ever. They were going to cut my hair off.”
The little man whistled. “Aye, that is bad. Cousin o’ mine had his beard cut off once by some meddlesome lasses—exactly yer sort—and he was so shamed, he dared not show his face outside the hill for a hundred years.”
Louisa blurted out the question before she stopped to think: “What—what are you, please?”
Shaggy brows drew together indignantly. “I might ask the same o’ ye, pert miss,” barked the little man. “What sort o’ fool is it that goes traipsin’ about the countryside in the dark under a wolf’s moon?” He shrugged. “Same sort o’ fool that falls out o’ trees for no reason, I suppose.”
“You startled me,” explained Louisa. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“And here we go round this bush again,” muttered the little man. “Mercy on me, I can see it’s a long night I’m in for. Come, goose, I’ll give ye summat to clear yer head, and then ye must skedaddle and stop pesterin’ me. Twice in one day! At least ye left yer howlers at home this time.”
“It isn’t my home,” repeated Louisa absently. It was all so puzzling, she could not think of anything else to say.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ignore the Spiders
SHE FOLLOWED THE LITTLE MAN BETWEEN THE whispering trees. Their footsteps crackled on bits of leaf and hazelnut shell. Louisa found herself wondering if the little man wore shoes, but it was too dark to tell. His cap was a pointed darkness bobbing up and down before her. He led the way toward the hole beside the gray stone.
“Never a minute’s peace,” he grumbled, pausing before the hole. “I break me back gatherin’ nuts to get rid o’ the great lumberin’ creatures—my nuts, I might add, which I can ill afford to spare—and what thanks do I get? Back one o’ them comes the selfsame night, clawin’ at me poor trees and disturbin’ me rest!”
“You were only trying to get rid of us?” asked Louisa, astonished out of bashfulness. “We—Jessamine and I—thought you meant to be kind!”
The little man had turned to look at her, one shaggy eyebrow cocked impatiently. Now he snorted.
“Kind! Who thinks o’ kindness when Big Folk are tramplin’ yer winter’s store? I knew ye’d only be back later to fill yer pail, and I thought it best to hasten ye on yer way as soon as possible. I might ha’ known ye’d return to gawp at me later. A fine day it is, when an honest brownie canna be left in peace.”
Harrumphing, he spun on his heel and stomped on. Louisa hurried to keep up with him.
“Please . . . what’s a brownie?” she asked.
But the little man would not answer. Ignoring her, he stalked to his tunnel and gestured grimly for her to follow him inside.
“In there?” Louisa shrank away. “I . . . I couldn’t!”
“Ye’ll fit well enough if ye crawl,” snapped the little man. “Just mind ye don’t go bangin’ yer great head on the roof and collapsin’ me poor tunnel, which I dug with the sweat o’ me own brow—and nary a hand did she lift to help me, I might say,” he added in a mutter so low Louisa barely caught it. Briefly she wondered how the “brownie,” as he’d called himself, could expect her to have helped dig a tunnel when she hadn’t even known until today that such a thing as a brownie existed, much less needed help with excavation projects.
Her head still felt rattled from the fall—not to mention the terrifying flight from the wolf and the terrifying flight from Mrs. Smirch’s scissors. She stood at the yawning black entrance, hesitant, befuddled. The brownie tapped his foot and beckoned impatiently.
“Are ye intendin’ to stand there all night, ye great goose? ’Tis all the same to me if ye’d rather march yerself out o’ me grove and leave me in blessed solitude once more. Just mind ye stay out o’ me trees!”
Another wolf howl quivered in the distance. Louisa shuddered and dropped to her knees. She dared not think of what state her dress would be in come morning, what with climbing trees and falling out of trees and crawling down dark, mysterious tunnels in the middle of the night. Mrs. Smirch will be furious, she thought, and then she remembered she was never going back to that house. Poor Jessamine. The brownie gave her a slap on the back to get moving, as if she were a balky mule.
Blind as a mole, she fumbled her way along the underground path. Fearful thoughts of worms, snakes, and worse nibbled at the corners of her mind. Her head brushed the roof of the tunnel, causing bits of loose earth to rain down upon her back. The brownie, stalking along behind her, kept uttering his dark predictions of disaster; he seemed to take it as a given that any moment the whole tunnel was going to collapse on their heads. He seemed far more annoyed by the prospect of his hard work being undone than he wa
s concerned about the apparently inconsequential perils of being buried alive.
“Keep on, keep on,” he urged Louisa. “Can’t ye go any faster?”
“I can’t see anything!” she protested.
“There’s naught to see,” he said. “’Tis but me front passageway. Just keep straight on, and ignore the spiders. They talk overmuch, but they seldom bite.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Underhill House
IT WAS JUST OCCURRING TO HER TO WONDER WHY the brownie had put her in front, since he was the one with the candle, and presumably he knew where they were going, when he snapped out a command to “Stop right there, and dinna ye move.”
He scooted around her, the candle flickering ahead of him, and scuttled away around a curve, leaving Louisa alone in the dark. She was too shocked to be frightened at first, but before she had time to think, he was back, a bit breathless.
“Hurry up, then,” he said, as if she’d been dawdling. She was beginning to think this strange little person was as disagreeable in his own way as Mrs. Smirch. Wearily she crawled after him, following him around the bend in the tunnel—and nearly colliding with him when he suddenly stopped short.
“Here we are,” he said briskly. “Ye ought to be able to stand up now, if ye stoop a little. Why yer kind chooses to grow to such awkward heights is beyond me,” he muttered as an afterthought as she rose unsteadily to her feet, ducking her head to keep from knocking it against the roof of the tunnel.
“We don’t choose . . . ,” began Louisa, but her retort died on her lips as she crossed the threshold from dark, bare earth to a setting altogether different. They seemed to be directly under one of the cottonwood trees, for great roots framed the floor and ceiling of what could only be described as a cozy little room. It was a small, snug, oblong space that reminded her of her father’s dugout. It had the same whitewashed walls (though in the dugout, most of the whitewash had cracked and flaked away), and overhead there was a large piece of cloth spanning the ceiling. It appeared to be tacked to tree roots at either end of the room.
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