The Time Fetch

by Amy Herrick

  The witch pointed. “Right up there, beyond that ridge.”

  In the stillness, Feenix was positive she heard the water.

  “Catch,” she said, and she tossed the bottle to the waiting hands.

  Feenix knew she shouldn’t hang around—the other two could show up any minute, but she couldn’t help herself. She just had to see what happened next. Piggy Face lifted the bottle to her mouth.

  What happened, happened fast. The witch took one swallow and immediately she began to grow younger. First the lines in her face changed. Now there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight and her face grew tight and pink like an almost too-ripe peach. Her mouth was a bright fat strawberry. Feenix thought she must have been around seventeen. She had big shoulders and ginormous breasts and she looked strong. She was looking down at herself with excitement.

  She decided to take another another sip. Big mistake. In the very next moment she began to shrink. It was like a Twilight Zone–Discovery Channel nature film run backward. She went right from being a round-faced teenager to being a piggy-faced kid. Before Feenix’s eyes, she grew shorter and shorter until her long black gown swam around her. Her face shrank into a childish moon and her mouth turned into a little button. Her eyes filled up with terror. Her hair, which had been long and scraggly, tightened into short greasy curls. Now she was only as high as Feenix’s waist and then she was only up to her knees. She tottered forward in her way-too-big black witchy shoes and fell to the ground. She landed on her hands and knees. She tried to crawl forward, and immediately got tangled in her robes. The doughball baby flopped down on her belly and let out a long howl of fury.

  Feenix turned and plunged up the hill in the direction that the witch had pointed. The sound of the water grew louder and louder. In just a few yards she stepped out of the woods and there was the wooden bridge.

  “Yes!” She leaped onto the path. In a few moments, she would be back in the “real” world, running through the park’s ball fields, passing regular non-witch people walking their dogs. The little stream chattered to her, encouraging her to keep moving.

  As she was about to step onto the wooden planks, a glinting down near her foot caught her eye. She bent down to see what it was.

  She drew in her breath. It was a bracelet.

  And what a bracelet. She could tell, even without touching it, that it was real gold. It was a wide, heavy looking hammered band with some sort of dark engraving running around its surface.

  Why did she hesitate? What could be the harm? She’d pick it up and put it on and she’d be over the bridge in two shakes of a rat’s tail. And standing here undecided like this was certainly the stupidest thing she could be doing.

  She looked around to make sure that there was no one watching and leaned down and picked up the bracelet. She slid the hoop up her wrist. The thing was so heavy. Awesome. She examined the engraving curiously with her fingertips, but couldn’t make out what it looked like in the dim light.

  Then, at that moment, she heard a sound—a faint whispering and scuffling carried along in a stray snatch of wind.

  No. There was no way she was going to let them catch up with her. Just a few steps and she would be over. She lifted her foot and brought it down. Her boot made a satisfying hollow thunk on the first plank of the bridge.

  Next step. But now a dreamlike feeling came over her limbs. She tried to bring her next foot forward, but before she could do anything, she felt something take hold of her wrist and yank her backward.

  No! Had the other two caught up with her already?

  She prepared to bite and kick and scream.

  But when she whirled around, there was no one there.

  What the . . . She looked down. It must be her sleeve caught on a branch or something.

  She gave an experimental tug, and something tugged back. She pulled harder and whatever it was pulled back sharply. Anxiously feeling with her fingertips, she found what seemed to be a slender chain attached to the bracelet. It was being pulled straight and taut into the darkness behind her.

  She knew with an absolute dead certainty that someone was holding on to it at the other end, playing with her, preparing to reel her in.

  The Old Flea Bags again! They had set a trap and she had fallen straight into it.

  Furiously, she yanked at the chain, trying to snap it, but whatever it was made of, it wasn’t snappable. And now when she tried to slide the gold band off, she found it was so tight it was digging into her arm. It had seemed so big when she pulled it on.

  She gripped hard at the thing, trying to force it back down. But the harder she pulled, the tighter the bracelet seemed to become. It bit painfully into her flesh. This was no good; her circulation would soon be cut off.

  She stared at the bridge in front of her. If only she could get herself over and across the middle of it, she felt sure all enchantments would be called off. She grabbed hold of the railing, and straining and heaving, she managed a step forward. The railing was a thick wooden log, damp and slippery in the cold. With both hands, she held on as tightly as she could and tried to drag herself forward. She was able to win a few inches, but then whatever was holding on to the chain gave a long hard yank and she lost the ground that she had made.

  They were playing Tug-of-War with her.

  Her heart sank. Even if it was just one of them, she knew she could never hope to win. And then she saw that it wasn’t just one of them, because now a hooded figure slid out of the darkness on the other side of the bridge, the side she had been trying to reach. They had surrounded her. The figure walked toward her with silent purpose.

  Well, she would not go down without a fight. She had her teeth. She had her boots. She got ready.

  The dark shape drew nearer without a word and Feenix, stuck where she was, made herself steady her breathing. When the shape was within kicking distance, Feenix kicked. Her boot met bone and the shadow wordlessly retreated for a moment. Then it came toward Feenix again, this time with one hand outstretched.

  Feenix lifted her foot for another good kick, then stopped. What was it about the way that this hand was held out?

  The world seemed to turn upside down and then right itself again.

  “You!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

  Behind the small hooded figure came another one, very tall and gangly. Then, unmistakably, bringing up the rear was Dweebo.

  “I do not believe this,” Feenix said in a strangled voice. Then she screamed, “I’m stuck! Pull me over! Hurry or I’m dead!”

  Brigit asked no questions, but grabbed hold of Feenix’s outstretched arm and pulled. Danton grabbed hold of Brigit. Dweebo hesitated, but then grabbed hold of Danton. The three leaned backward and heaved and strained and pulled. Feenix slid forward a few inches. The bracelet dug into her arm, making a ring of fiery pain. She knew the witches would never let go. They would rip her arm out of its socket and eat it raw.

  Well, then, fine. Let them have it.

  “Pull, you guys! Pull!” Feenix yelled.

  “All right, everybody,” Danton commanded. “We’re going to pull together on the count of three. Eddie, brace your feet where the plank sticks up there. That’s it. Everybody ready? Altogether then—one—two—three!”

  They gave a tremendous heave.

  “That’s it!” Danton yelled out. “One more time. Keep it up, Brigit. You’re magnificent!”

  They gave another enormous pull. Feenix screamed from the pain. She slid forward another few inches. She thrust her leg out. She stretched it and stretched it and somehow got the toe of her boot over the middle plank of the bridge.

  The moment she did so, there was an angry pwopping sound and the bracelet let go of her arm. It was like the sucker of some evil creature releasing itself. It slid off her arm.

  As the chain went slack, Brigit, Danton, and Dweebo all tumbled backward in a heap on top of each other. Feenix wasted no time, and in a single, furious leap landed safely on the other side of the bridge.

  T
he bracelet fell to the ground and rolled away like a hoop into the darkness.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Disappearing Pumpkin

  “Little Bird, Little Bird, are you awake then?”

  Brigit opened her eyes and saw her grandad standing by her bed with a mug of tea. She smiled at him. How happy she was to be in her nice, warm bed. She stretched and made half an effort to remember what it was that had happened last night. There was a scary, unpleasant part, but there was something very nice, too. Something someone had said. She went after it, but it darted off like a dragonfly into the leaves.

  The scary, unpleasant part didn’t move. It stayed half-hidden, but she could see its head sticking out. She made herself go after it. It seemed like it was important to remember. She went back in her mind to yesterday at school. Slowly it came to her how Edward, Danton, and she had decided to look for Feenix, how they had walked up the hill and through the park. She shivered at the memory. When they had found Feenix caught on the bridge, Brigit had known right away that the other girl was in great danger. She couldn’t have said how she knew this, but she was sure that there was something hungry and not human trying to pull Feenix back into the shadows. It took all three of them heaving together to drag her forward. Then, as soon as she crossed the middle of the bridge, the thing on her arm—a bracelet it looked like—went flying away. From the way she screamed you could tell that it hurt her terribly.

  Afterward, Feenix went around kissing everybody. Brigit felt herself turning red when it happened, but she didn’t think anybody could see that in the dark. When Feenix got to Edward, he pulled back the way he always did when she got near him. Brigit understood, although under the circumstances she thought it was a little impolite. When Danton asked Feenix to tell them what had happened, she said it was all too horrible to think about right now. She’d tell them the story tomorrow. The rest of the trip home was still fuzzy in Brigit’s mind, but it seemed to her they’d all been very quiet and in a hurry.

  Her grandad handed her the tea and let her take a sip. The sweet, milky warmth spread through her and she took another sip and looked at him over the rim, trying to decide if it was going to be one of his good days or one of his bad days. He was in his red tartan flannel robe and his little wisps of white hair stood up uncombed from his head. He put his fingers to his lips. “Up with you, lassie,” he whispered. “Time is running out. Let today be the day. You must look for the doorway.”

  What could he mean, she wondered? His watery blue eyes watched her. Then he seemed to be distracted by something over his head. He frowned and hit fiercely at the air, as if he were brushing away invisible flies.

  Would they all be together again, the four of them? If they did come together, it would be because of Danton. That’s what his talent was, although he didn’t really know it. He thought he was an athlete and, of course, he was an athlete. But what he really was, was a Bringer Together. It was his gift. She’d been watching him since she’d started at the new school. It was hard not to watch him. It was amazing that he had noticed her at all.

  Her grandad was speaking softly. “I cannot find your gran,” he told her in a whisper. “I’ve looked and looked, but she’s been misplaced. I want you to go downtown now and see what it is that’s keeping her. ’Tis the short end of the year. The days go shrinking smaller and smaller. You know the sort who will go wandering abroad and I’m afraid. Help me find my shoes.” He batted his hand at the invisible flies again.

  She saw that her grandad was barefoot and she could feel the cold coming up out of the floor, although the sun was shining. She jumped out of bed to go look for his slippers.

  In the hallway she nearly bumped into her mother, who was just emerging from her bedroom. She stopped where she was, looking only half awake.

  “I was having the strangest dream,” she said slowly. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  Brigit gave her a quick hug and then dashed into her grandad’s room and picked up his slippers. In the hallway, she passed her mother who was still standing there, maybe thinking about her dream.

  When she got back to her grandad and bent over to help him put on the slippers, she glanced at the alarm clock. It was true! Eight fifteen! How had that happened? As she started to rise, her grandad grabbed hold of her braid.

  “Your grandmother gave this to you, you know. Red as the devil’s tailcoat. Not many knew her well. She was meek as milk seven days of the week, but on the eighth day she was a great, brave fury of a woman, magnificent to behold.”

  Brigit felt a shock go through her. That was it! The thing she couldn’t remember. This was what Danton had said to her on the bridge—that she was magnificent. Not that it meant anything, really. He was always saying things like that to people. He seemed to believe it was his mission to encourage everybody.

  Her grandad was blathering on. “You’d better get yourself out there, lassie. We are all counting on you.”

  Counting on her? Counting on her for what? It wasn’t going to be one of his clear days. But there was no time now. She kissed him and hurried into her clothes. Her mother was no longer on the landing and she assumed her father must already be at work. She decided she would have to skip breakfast. She ran nearly all the way to school.

  She was still late.

  Feenix woke slowly, too, rising up from her sleep, feeling oddly free and safe at the same time. She was aware of the drowsy pleasure of being able to stretch her legs and toes out to their fullest length. Mr. Pearlmutter, her orange and white striped cat, had snuck under the covers. He shape-shifted contentedly against her back. He was like a big bag of flour covered in fur. For some time she stayed behind her closed lids, not wanting to think about anything. When she did finally open her eyes, she was met with an unpleasant surprise. Her mother was standing over her bed, gazing down at her with a frown of confusion.

  “What?” Feenix asked her, wishing she would go away.

  “I thought—I thought you were—”

  “You thought I was what?”

  “I thought you were—sleeping over at—”

  “Mom, let me sleep. Why are you here clogging up my airspace? Here I am.”

  With her eyes closed, she could feel her mother’s suspicion. Almost all of her mother’s body mass and time was given over to worry about and criticism of Feenix. Right now she would be running down the list: Homework? Inappropriate friends? Test grades? Last meal taken? Constipation? Etc., etc.

  “Mom, let . . . me . . . breathe,” Feenix hissed. “Go away.”

  “You need to get up right now, Edith! Do you know what time it is?’

  “Time for me to get five more minutes of sleep and don’t call me Edith! I’ve told you a million times. Nobody in their right mind would name their kid Edith. My name is Feenix.”

  “Edith is a perfectly beautiful name. How can you dishonor your own grandmother like that? You will always be Edith to me. And it’s eight twenty.”

  “What?” Feenix opened her eyes to see if her mother was lying.

  “You think I’m kidding? Look.” Her mother lifted the alarm clock and pushed it right in her face. Sure enough, it said eight twenty. “You forgot to set it again.”

  Feenix sat up with a loud groan. She felt Mr. Pearlmutter’s disapproval. He stayed under the covers. “Out! Please get out! I’d like to dress in private.”

  Her mother stood there for a few more seconds running her paranoid gaze around the room and then up and down the part of Feenix that was sticking out of the covers. Then she shook her head and retreated with the words, “Five minutes! I’m going to make you some oatmeal!”

  “Do not make me oatmeal. I will not eat it. I’m not hungry.”

  But her mother had gone deaf, spurred by the certainty that her daughter would be dead of starvation by noon if she didn’t force oatmeal into her.

  Feenix lay back down and felt around for Mr. Pearlmutter and took him in her arms. She tried to remember what had happened yes
terday. She had the feeling it was important, but it lay just beyond her reach, and she kept drifting back into a soothing sleep.

  “Are you moving up there, Edith?” her mother yelled. “I don’t hear anything!”

  With a great effort, Feenix made herself sit up. Why did she have the sensation that the morning was waiting impatiently, holding its doors open for her like a train in a subway station?

  Danton’s little brother woke him by throwing a wet towel on his face and announcing that their mother had said he could have Danton’s share of the pancakes.

  “No way!” Danton yelled.

  “Yes way! You’re real late!”

  Danton leaped out of bed and wrestled the little dude to the floor and made him say, “Eat my socks,” three times backward. When Danton let him up, Jay asked if they could shoot some baskets together later.

  “It’ll probably be too late for that by the time I get home. I’ve got some people I’ve got to see.”

  “Who?” his brother asked, disappointed.

  “Some friends.”

  “A girl? It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  “What? No way. A girl? Are you kidding?”

  Jay shook his head and smiled knowingly. Danton grabbed him by the armpits, lifted him up, turned him upside down, and threw him on the bed so that he bounced. “We’ll play something when I get home. Stratego, maybe. But get your homework done and stay in the house. Help Mom. Be careful and stay out of trouble.”

  Something in Danton’s tone seemed to catch at his attention. “Why would I get in trouble?”

  “Because it’s the shortest day of the year today. A dangerous time.”

  “Why? Why’s it a dangerous time?”

  “Because Santa Claus is coming to town, that’s why, little dude. Stop asking so many questions.”

  Danton dressed in record time and raced his brother to breakfast. He was in too much of a hurry to notice the cloud of bright things, smaller than gnats, flickering in and out of existence in the sunny kitchen.

  Edward’s aunt woke him in five-alarm panic mode. She had overslept. Apparently the clock hadn’t gone off and she had a pie crust class at eight forty-five. She pulled the pillow off his head and flew around the room tweeting and screeching. Words fell like little scraps of paper: School! Train! Butter! Flour! Time! Armed robbery!