The Griffins of Castle Cary

by Heather Shumaker

  “Um, I thought Uncle Ben might be hungry,” said Will.

  “Oh, goodness me!” exclaimed Aunt Effie. “He won’t be coming to the table.” Will blushed and busied himself with straightening his silverware. Who was this strange uncle? Was he so odd that he couldn’t eat with them?

  “Now, let me see, where can he have got to?” Aunt Effie plopped the pot down. She poked her head down the hall. “Ben!” she hollered, then yelled again at the back door: “Ben! Come and meet the family!” Will braced himself against the bench. Beside him, he heard Meg gasp. Their mother never yelled at their father like that. Well, there was nothing to do now but meet him.

  The back door pushed open and revealed a large brown foot. Not a shoe, not at all. The next moment, a creature lumbered in. He was a mountain of a dog, a huge, shaggy beast, with folds of skin wrapped around his sturdy neck like a lion’s mane. He moved the way a mountain might move, and each leg ended with a massive bearlike paw. He was entirely brown.

  “A giant chocolate dog!” cried Ariel, and was out of her seat in an instant.

  “Ah yes, Uncle Ben,” said Aunt Effie. Her voice softened, and her gaze lingered on the big, brown dog. “Uncle Ben, come meet your nieces and nephew.”

  Will stared as relief poured through him. “Oh,” he said, and then “oh” again. He might have kept on saying “oh” the rest of the evening if Meg hadn’t elbowed him.

  “So that’s the ‘bear,’ ” Meg said.

  “Or the ‘man of the house,’ ” said Aunt Effie, as Uncle Ben politely sniffed them one by one. “He’s so big he feels like a person, so I call him ‘Uncle.’ Where were you, Ben? Usually, you’re underfoot and greet us at the door, you great clown. What were you doing out by the walnut? Didn’t you know the children were here?”

  Ariel was kneeling by Uncle Ben, nuzzling her head in the thick fur folds by his shoulders. “I love him, Aun’ Effie,” Ariel said. “He’s the most biggest dog I’ve ever seen. Can he be mine for always?”

  “Well, dearie, he’s yours for the week, while you’re here at the Griffinage. All of yours,” she said, sweeping her hand around the table to include the others. “Uncle Ben will adopt you like puppies, I predict. Just like the Nana dog in the book Peter Pan with Wendy, John and Michael. Nana was a Newfie too, you know—a Newfoundland dog.”

  Uncle Ben lifted his enormous head at her words and thumped his tail. Aunt Effie pushed the pot of mash in Will’s direction. Despite its name, bangers and mash turned out to be delicious—sausage and potatoes, slathered in gravy.

  Will scooped out a second serving. He ate slowly, soaking in the comfort of being in a thatched cottage with a full belly, newly acquainted with an uncle who was a dog.

  “If you kids ever get into trouble,” said Aunt Effie, “just look for Uncle Ben. These Newfies are known for saving children. Great protectors. Though, come to think of it, Nana was no match for flying children. Still, I don’t expect any flying in and out of windows here. As I told your father back in January, ‘What possible trouble can the kids get into? You just leave them with me, Davy, and go off with Marie following those rocks of yours. No worries. It’s quiet as a graveyard here in Somerset.’ ”

  “Oh, doggie,” said Ariel. She was now on the floor with Uncle Ben, nuzzling deep into his mammoth neck. “You’re the nicest uncle ever!”

  “Well,” said Meg. “That’s the end of our mystery.”

  But, of course, she was wrong. It was only the beginning.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Haunted Tower

  The very next morning, Meg woke with a start. She gave a small cry and sprang up in bed. A prickly feeling had enveloped her. She swatted her hand over her head as if to push it away. “No!” she said sharply. “Go away.”

  And to her surprise, it did.

  The next moment she saw the deep chocolate face of Uncle Ben peering at her with his soulful eyes. Morning light poured through the crooked window.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Meg said, allowing Uncle Ben to lick her face, even on the lips. The prickly feeling was gone, but a small wad of loneliness lodged in its place. With every lick of Uncle Ben’s rough tongue, the lonely bundle diminished until it lifted away. His fur was soft, but soggy around his muzzle. Uncle Ben raised a massive paw to shake.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” said Meg, shaking his paw.

  Down the hall, Will was just stirring when he heard music. There it was again. A distinct musical phrase. Will lay perfectly still, trying to catch the notes. Melodies often came to him when he was alone; tunes simply entered his mind and demanded to be plunked out as soon as possible on the piano. It was thrilling when a new song arrived unannounced, so he burrowed under the covers with a warm feeling inside, preparing to trace the musical notes in his mind. This music reminded him of bells, a plaintive tune like a song belonging to a windswept night.

  Will let the music flow through him. La de de la da. As he did, the notes grew clearer and more urgent. This was new. The melody seemed to be taking charge. Will gasped a bit as the tune gained strength. La De De La DA . . . La De De LA DA . . . The pattern repeated, insistent, drilling into his head. Then a buzzing noise disrupted the melody.

  “Oh, get lost,” he grumbled. He strained to hear the music but the buzzing increased. He began to hiccup, and the tune slipped. Down the hall, Uncle Ben barked.

  “That’s done it,” Will groaned. “Too much noise. Now I’ll never know how it goes.” He realized the buzzing had also stopped, but it was too late. The song had fled. He hiccupped his way back under the covers. Will buried his head and lay still, trying to retrieve the notes, but it was like chasing the fragment of a dream that kept eluding him.

  After two such discouraging attempts, the little ghost drifted back to the branches of the walnut tree in a huff. It was rude to be batted away like a mosquito. Go away. Get lost. What was wrong with these children? Didn’t they know she wanted to play? It had been so long. She didn’t want to spend another year down in that hole alone. She’d braved the rooms despite that dreadful dog. Always sniffing around disturbing her airspace. Besides, she was sure there’d been another child. She sucked a ragged curl of hair that had strayed into her mouth and swung her legs from the tree branches. Down below, she could see the dog out in the garden. So. If the dog was outside, that meant the house was clear.

  Well, there was one more.

  She glided from the walnut tree through the window into the old east room where her own bed used to stand in the nook. There was the last child. The little one, asleep on a cot. The ghost lifted the covers to peer at her face. A girl, a bit younger than she was, but she’d do. Warmth from the sleeping child’s body wafted up and swirled around her. The ghost gave a small sigh of pleasure. Company at last. She tucked her cold hands into the child’s and watched as her eyes flicked open.

  “Oh, hello,” said Ariel.

  Downstairs at breakfast the front door banged open and closed. Meg dropped her spoon. She was feeling jumpy this morning. She listened to the clump of boots on the slate entry hall. The tramping stopped, followed by a belated knock on the wall.

  “We’re in the kitchen!” Aunt Effie hollered. “It’s Shep,” she told the children, hastily brushing wayward crumbs from her clothes. “My neighbor. Also main Griffinage handyman.”

  In walked a big-bodied man with curly reddish hair. His curls were loose and wavy, the way Meg sometimes wished her hair could be. He wore a black vest and scuffed leather boots, and he dipped his head to fit under the door’s low lintel.

  “So these are the young Griffins!” he said, straightening to his full height and surveying the breakfast crew. He looked at Will and grinned. Next he smiled at Meg, sizing her up from her faint freckles to her head of curls. She’d only combed it with her fingers this morning, and could feel a tangle beginning at the nape of her neck. Meg looked down at her cereal bowl, waiting for him to compare her hair to Aunt Effie’s, but he didn’t say a word. She instantly liked him for that. Inste
ad, Shep looked around the room, ducking his head here and there, pretending to search under the table and behind the stove.

  “Hmm. One, two. I thought there were three of you,” he said.

  “Haven’t seen Ariel this morning,” Aunt Effie replied. “Zonked out from travel yesterday. Still sleeping like an angel up in the east room alcove.”

  “You put her up there?” asked Shep sharply.

  “Yes, why ever not?” said Aunt Effie. “She’s sharing with Meg.”

  Shep muttered something about old rooms having old memories. Aunt Effie didn’t seem to hear him and began clanking the kettle at the sink. This handyman was not like the contractors who came to their house, Meg decided. Shep was already sitting down and joining them at the table with a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Is Shep your real name?” asked Will, scooping a second helping of jam on his toast.

  “Real as yours,” said Shep. “Last name, actually. Short for Shepherd. My family has been shepherding ever since God made the first sheep. But me, I’m mostly a tech repair and computer programmer.”

  “Oh,” said Will. “What’s your first name?”

  “Ah, now. That’s a secret,” said Shep.

  “Best secret in Castle Cary,” said Aunt Effie. “Everyone calls him Shep, or Shep Shepherd for formal occasions.”

  Shep winked at Will and Meg, who were facing him across the broad oak table. “Best town secret besides the ghosts,” he added.

  “Ghosts?” said Will. A large blob of jam oozed off his toast and onto his chair.

  “The most famous is the manor ghost,” Shep continued. “Not really a secret. The town holds ghost tours, makes money from it. Said to haunt the West Tower up at Mendip Manor. She’s the active one. Shines lights and so on, especially in April. You’re visiting at a good time to see her.”

  “Shines lights?” asked Will. “You think we’ll see that?”

  Shep shrugged.

  “Maybe that, maybe more,” he said with a grin.

  Will promptly dropped more jam from his toast. This time it landed on his pant leg. Meg stared at Shep. Back home, nobody talked about ghosts, especially not grown-ups. Well, maybe at Halloween, but not in regular breakfast conversations. There must be ghost stories galore in a country with so many old buildings. Maybe even here at the Griffinage. Maybe right here in this room. She shivered a little, and turned her head. Normally, she’d never look for ghosts flying around the kitchen, but back home their kitchen was an ordinary one with a linoleum floor. Meg was quite sure that ghosts and linoleum did not mix.

  Aunt Effie, however, clanged the kettle lid shut and glared at Shep like a bad-tempered schoolmarm. “Now, Shep. Don’t go filling their heads with nonsense.”

  “It’s history, Effie,” said Shep. “Good, solid local history. As a history teacher yourself, you ought to encourage children taking an interest in days gone by. A bit of a ghost story won’t harm them.”

  The kettle lid clanked again in disagreement. Aunt Effie turned her back to the group and rattled around at the stove. Shep sighed as he watched her, then pushed back his coffee mug and stood up. “Right, then,” he said. “Sorry, Effie. Just introducing them to Castle Cary. Show me what trouble you’re having.”

  Aunt Effie stopped to fill Uncle Ben’s water dish, then set off down the hall to her back office, where she kept her computer. Shep paused before following. “Keep your eye out,” he said, and winked at Meg and Will.

  Meg saw Will was grinning and trying to wink back, but his winks came out like squints, with both eyes blinking at once.

  “I like that guy,” said Will, continuing to practice his winks.

  “Who?”

  It was Ariel, standing in the kitchen doorway. She still wore her nightgown. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair tousled. She swayed and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “His name’s Shep,” said Will.

  “I’ve got a new friend too,” said Ariel.

  “You can join me on my daily constitutional,” Aunt Effie told them as she fussed over Ariel and fixed her a late breakfast. “Uncle Ben and I walk along the pastures and chase squirrels in Bibsie’s Woods. At least he does the chasing.” She paused to wipe up a fresh patch of dog slobber by Uncle Ben’s breakfast bowl. “I’ll show you the manor.”

  “The manor?” asked Will. “Where the ghost is?”

  Aunt Effie pinched her brow and looked hard at Will. “The manor is easy to see,” she said. “But no ghost. If it’s ghost stories you want, I’m sure the manor tour guide will spin you tall tales filled with local folklore. They all believe it around here, swallow the fable hook, line, and sinker. Even Shep, as you see. Pity. Such a sensible fellow otherwise.” She sniffed, and glanced down the hall, where Shep was working.

  Will said nothing. He didn’t know if he believed in ghosts or not, but a manor with a ghost seemed much better than a manor without one.

  Half an hour later, the Griffin children were standing on the slate stones in the Griffinage entry hall. The air held the moist scents of spring: mud, damp coats, and daffodils. Ariel was wearing Will’s hand-me-down rain boots, still two sizes too big for her, and the others stuffed their feet into their own boots, which had fit perfectly well last October, but were now a size too small. “Curl your toes and never mind,” said Meg to Will.

  Now they tromped through the Griffinage garden, past the orchard, and out across the first pasture. Aunt Effie stopped to snap on Uncle Ben’s leash so he wouldn’t worry the sheep. The pastures didn’t belong to Aunt Effie. They belonged to local farmers, but anyone could walk along the footpaths that crossed them, as long as walkers left the gates the way they found them.

  The pasture had looked green and idyllic from a distance, but up close Will discovered it was mostly mud with ragged clumps of grass. Like a Minnesota soccer field after a rain game. Hoofprints pocked the ground everywhere, as if a team of woolly soccer players had just tramped by. Even the sheep—so white from a distance—were yellowed, and dark patches of mud clotted their wool underbellies. Ariel gave a sudden cry.

  “Oh, he’s bleeding!” she said. In a trice, she’d dropped Aunt Effie’s hand and run toward a sheep with a red splotch on its woolly back.

  “There she goes again,” muttered Will. Trust Ariel to run after a mucky sheep. She was always delaying things.

  “It’s not blood!” Aunt Effie called after her. But Ariel was out of earshot. They watched as she coaxed the sheep toward her, then sat squarely in the mud and fingered the ewe’s dung- and dirt-stained body. When they reached Ariel, both her boots were already missing, her face was smudged, and her clothes were two shades browner.

  “Not again,” said Will.

  “He’s not hurt,” Ariel reported, her eyes shining.

  “No, dear, it’s just paint,” said Aunt Effie. “Well, dye, actually. The colors help match the mothers with the lambs. See? That’s her lamb, there. When I was a girl, they marked the sheep with colors to tell whose sheep was whose, but they’ve changed to ear tags for that. Now, where’ve your boots got to?”

  Ariel shrugged. “They slip when I run. I had to run.”

  “Of course, you did,” Aunt Effie said, chanting the rhyme: “ ‘Walking is slow and not much fun. Sensible children always run.’ ” She spied a boot that had landed in a heap of sheep dung, and watched as Meg fished the other out of a rain-soaked ditch. Ariel was now hopping in her socks, one heel landing in a new pile of glistening sheep droppings.

  “Hmm, you look a bit squelchy,” said Aunt Effie appraising her. “It’s a long walk to the manor, and though they might not mind a bit of good Somerset sheep grime, I can’t take you to the manor barefoot.” She reached for Ariel’s grubby hand. “Time for an Emergency Bath and Costume Change, miss.”

  Will groaned audibly. A bath! Just when they were heading to a haunted manor, too. Ariel always messed things up. Right now she was rubbing noses with Uncle Ben, unaware of the inconvenience she was causing. He and Meg used to have more fun
together before Ariel was born. Grown-ups always focused on the needs of the youngest child.

  “I suppose . . . ,” Aunt Effie continued, seeing their disappointed faces. “You two could go on to the manor by yourselves. Would you like that? Right. It’s not too far. I’ll just walk you to the first stile.”

  A stile turned out to be two wooden boards that jutted out from the fence at the end of the pasture. The stile was next to a locked gate. Just like funny stairs, thought Meg, as she clambered up the boards. People can climb out, even if the gate’s locked, but sheep can’t. She decided she liked stiles, and climbed back and forth twice to get the hang of it.

  “Mind you look out for Caesar,” Aunt Effie called, as she tucked Ariel’s arm in hers. “He’s the ram. The ewes and lambs are fine, but don’t turn your back on Caesar. Terror of the neighborhood. Why, just last week he knocked Mrs. Garthwaite flat on her bottomus. ‘Know thy enemy and know thyself, and you shall win a hundred battles,’ as Sun Tzu reminds us. He’s an ancient Chinese general. He probably didn’t mean sheep, but knowing Caesar means: Don’t turn your back on him. Come along, Ariel.”

  “I wanna be with Megs and Will!” cried Ariel, suddenly realizing she was being left behind. “Why can’t we all go? I wanna go too.” She dragged her feet and tried to pull away from Aunt Effie.

  Meg hurried over the stile and dropped into the next field. What if Aunt Effie changed her mind and made them take Ariel along? Better to pretend to be out of earshot. But as Meg watched, Aunt Effie firmly collected the dripping boots in her free hand and steered Ariel down the slope to the Griffinage, Uncle Ben trotting by their side.

  Will clambered up the stile after Meg. “There’s the manor!” he cried, from his perch at the top. “It looks like a castle.”

  It did indeed look like a castle. Ahead of them, across the sheep fields, rose four great stone towers. Mendip Manor loomed above the trees, each tower topped with a majestic point. If they didn’t already know that Castle Cary’s castle lay in ruins, it would be easy to assume that this magnificent building was Castle Cary.