The Unseen Guest

by Maryrose Wood

  Mama Woof seemed to feel the children were in need of baths, for she proceeded to thoroughly wash their hands, faces, and even their ears with her tongue. Penelope found this revolting, frankly, but it kept the children happily occupied and thus provided an opportunity for her to exercise her powers of deduction. “If only we could determine who had been caring for you in the woods,” she mused aloud. “For that person may know something of your origins, as well.”

  “Mama Woof cares for us,” Alexander said as he turned ’round to let her do the opposite ear.

  “Yap,” said the wolf.

  “Mama Woof is obviously an excellent nanny, but I doubt she would have a ready source of fresh candles and fluffy pillows. Nor would she be able to prepare these delectable sandwiches. Her paws are too”—Penelope almost said “too clumsy,” but thought better of it—“too large and powerful to slice bread so neatly. No offense, Madame Woof.”

  The congenial thumping of the wolf’s tail against the stone floor echoed in hidden caverns far below.

  “Whoever this someone was, he or she had the means to provide blankets, art supplies, and now and then a meal that did not have to be caught and devoured raw,” she thought. She recalled how the Incorrigibles still preferred their meat cooked quite rare and doused with ketchup; perhaps the sandwiches had only been an occasional treat during their formative years. “And yet this same someone did not bother to rescue the children, but left them here to live in the woods, among wild animals. Until the day they were found by Lord Fredrick, and Old Timothy, of course.”

  She helped herself to another cucumber sandwich, as Mama Woof had made short work of the cheddar. “Who could this mysterious person be?” she wondered. “If this person were a friend to the Incorrigibles, surely he or she would have rescued them and brought them indoors. But if a foe, why bother helping the children survive at all?”

  It was a conundrum, to be sure, but a good night’s sleep and a tasty breakfast had restored Penelope’s supply of pluck, and she felt more than ready for the challenge. Why, in the past twenty-four hours alone, she had traversed a forest on foot in uncomfortable boots, spent the night in a cave, and befriended a terrifying wolf. Getting to the bottom of this business about the trunk and the sandwiches and the children’s upbringing could scarcely be more difficult than that.

  “As Agatha Swanburne once remarked, ‘Patience can untangle the knottiest shoelace, but so can a pair of scissors,’” she announced. Briskly, she refolded all the napkins and put them back in the wicker basket. “With so many intriguing clues to consider, I am quite sure that with an afternoon’s careful deducing, the mystery of your parentage will be well on its way to being solved. But we shall have to return to that task later, for we have a busy day ahead of us. Admiral Faucet must be wondering where we have gone off to—that is, if he ever made it back to our campsite during that dreadful storm. And then, of course, there is Bertha….”

  From many directions at once, a great howling arose in the forest.

  Mama Woof’s ears pricked up. The children leaped to their feet.

  “Grrrr,” said Mama Woof, trotting to the cave’s entrance. The children and Penelope followed.

  “Is a warning song,” Alexander explained. “It means Uncle Freddy is getting ready.”

  Beowulf nodded. “With his horses. And his friends. And his dogs.”

  “Uncle Freddy’s dogs bite,” Cassiopeia said gravely. “Not sweet woofy-woofs like Mama Woof.” She kissed the wolf on her great, wet snout, but Mama Woof ignored the embrace. She was all alertness; her ears swiveled, searching for sounds, and her nose twitched as it picked up fresh scents on every current of air.

  “It is the hunting party.” Penelope spoke with a heavy heart. “If we do not find Bertha before Lord Fredrick does, she will end up stuffed in his study.”

  Cassiopeia plucked the plume from her hair and held it out to the wolf. “Mama Woof will help, won’t you?” Mama Woof sniffed at the feather. She looked puzzled for a moment—no doubt she had never sniffed an ostrich before—and licked her chops with enthusiasm.

  The girl tapped the wolf reprovingly on the nose. “No, Mama Woof. Not a bird for eating. A bird for catching.”

  The wolf sniffed the plume again and gave a short, low bark of assent.

  “It is too dangerous,” Penelope objected. “If Lord Fredrick sees a wolf, he will shoot.”

  “Uncle Freddy can’t see much,” Alexander said, and the children giggled, as if from long experience evading the blurry-eyed master of Ashton Place. Before Penelope could argue her objection further, three more wolves appeared at the mouth of the cave. All were gray furred and yellow eyed, and nearly as large as Mama Woof. At the sight of the children, the three newcomers wagged their tails, but there was no time for a happy reunion.

  The wolves exchanged yelps and growls among them, and each had a turn smelling the plume. Cassiopeia grabbed Penelope’s hand. “Hurry, Lumawoo. Woofs will take us to Bertha right now.”

  Penelope looked at the quartet of panting, salivating beasts; the icy feeling at the back of her neck returned. “And how are the woofs going to take us to Bertha, pray tell?”

  Cassiopeia grinned. “Giddy-yap, woof-woof!”

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  The hunt for the runaway ostrich is on.

  IN MISS PENELOPE LUMLEY’S DAY, the Epsom Derby was considered the greatest horse race in the world. This opinion continues to be held by many, for the race is still run once a year without fail, and attracts the world’s most fleet-footed Thoroughbred horses and their fearless jockeys, not to mention the many thousands of enthusiastic spectators who come to cheer on their favorites. If someone were to give you a nickel for every cry of “Giddy-yap, giddy-yap!” heard on Derby Day at Epsom, you would have a great many nickels indeed.

  (The piggy-bank owning among you should take note: At present, there is no plan to distribute nickels at the Epsom Derby. It is what is called a “hypothetical situation.” Just as a rhetorical question is one that is asked with no expectation of being answered, a hypothetical situation is one that is described with no expectation of it actually happening. Unless there is a change in policy at Epsom, you will have to continue earning your nickels through good, old-fashioned, honest labor: rummaging through the sofa cushions, emptying trouser pockets on wash day, and so forth.)

  And speaking of what things are called: It is called the Epsom Derby because it is held in a place called Epsom Downs; it is called the Epsom Derby because it was named in honor of the Earl of Derby. In some places “derby” is pronounced dah-bee, in others, derr-bee, but as a poet once said, a rose is a rose is a rose, and the same goes for derbies. Nowadays you may hear of races called the Kentucky Derr-bee, the Irish Dah-bee, and even the Roller Derby, but all of these are named after the original contest at Epsom.

  Fortunately, the rules of horse racing are much simpler than the rules of English pronunciation. The horse that gets to the finish line first is the winner, and that is all there is to it. And although there were no actual horses involved, the Incorrigibles’ mad race to find Bertha before Lord Fredrick had the bird stuffed full of sawdust and mounted in his study could be considered a derby of sorts. Call it the Bertha Derby, if you like, for poor Bertha was the one who stood to lose the most, should Lord Fredrick end up in the winner’s circle.

  Penelope might have come up with the name Bertha Derby herself had she had time to think about it, but at the moment her full attention was elsewhere. She clung desperately to Mama Woof’s back as they galloped through the forest of Ashton Place, sniffing and searching for the runaway bird. The four wolves and their passengers raced through dense thickets; they bounded over rushing streams and leaped over fallen trees. There were no reins to hold on to, and the coarse, gray fur kept slipping from her grasp, so she wrapped her arms tightly around Mama Woof’s neck, closed her eyes, and imagined trusty Rainbow beneath her. She thought of how nervous Edith-Anne Pevington had been when she and Rainbow were learning to ju
mp over fences, as was so movingly described in Jump, Rainbow, Jump, and yet how happily everything had turned out in that book (and in every other Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! book, too, come to think of it).

  To calm herself even further, Penelope kept up a steady stream of chatter under her breath. “And, it’s neck and neck, neck and neck—Grayfur, ahead by a length—Yelloweyes is coming up on the rear! It’s Grayfur! Yelloweyes! Grayfur! Yelloweyes! They’re coming around the final turn. Yelloweyes is pulling ahead! Grayfur turns on some extra steam—and it’s Grayfur by a snout!”

  “Silly Lumawoo,” Cassiopeia yelled. Her trusty wolf steed was galloping just to the right of Mama Woof.

  Penelope blushed, for she had not intended to be heard. “Someday we shall have to go to the Epsom Derby,” she shouted over the rushing wind. “I am sure it would be very educational—whoa!”

  The wolves had stopped short. The sudden halt was enough to knock Penelope off the back of Mama Woof. The Incorrigible children slid more gracefully off their mounts and began to sniff at the air, while the three smaller wolves ran in tight circles, whimpering and skimming their muzzles along the ground. Mama Woof held perfectly still, head raised, nose twitching. After a moment she tensed and let out a low bark.

  “Look,” said Beowulf. “Bertha!”

  On the other side of the trees was a grassy clearing. The ostrich stood in the center, nibbling upon a low shrub. Her long neck stretched down to eat; then she lifted her head high and scanned her surroundings with large, wide-set eyes. The moment she saw these new arrivals, she flapped her wings in warning and took a jump backward. The wolves panted and showed their teeth. The one that Cassiopeia had been riding dropped into a crouch and shifted its weight onto its hindquarters, as if to pounce.

  Cassiopeia grabbed the beast sternly by one ear and bonked it hard on the nose with her tiny fist. “Remember, woofs! Bertha is friend bird. Not dinner bird.”

  Four sets of yellow eyes blinked, as if trying to understand. Could such a message get through to their meat-mad wolf brains? The beasts sniffed and whined, but one by one, they lay down flat on their bellies. If one flinched or looked in any way eager to leap at the giant bird, Mama Woof warned it back into position with a cuff from her massive paw.

  Penelope was deeply impressed; straightaway she wanted to reward the wolves for their superb self-control. She patted her pockets, but alas, there were no biscuits left. “It would have been clever to bring wolf treats with us,” she thought, “or at least some bits of cheddar sandwich, which Mama Woof seemed to enjoy. Curious; I found no mention of the use of treats to manage the native wildlife in Robinson Crusoe. Of course, in his case, cannibal treats would have been what was required….” Precisely what cannibal treats would be made of was a disturbing question, and one that Penelope had no opportunity to consider at present, for Bertha looked ready to bolt. Her comical, flat-beaked head swiveled nervously this way and that. As if preparing herself to depart, she raised one clawed, two-toed foot.

  Penelope thought quickly. “Alexander, during your work on the bird guidebook, did you happen to learn any ostrich calls?”

  The boy nodded and took a step forward. Tucking his chin low on his chest, he hooted a low-pitched foo, foo, foooooo.

  At the sound, Bertha spread her flightless wings into a threatening arch and emitted a long, furious hiss.

  “Oops.” Alexander turned to Penelope and whispered, “That was mistake. Foo, foo, fooooo is war call. I think I just challenged her to a fight.”

  Bertha hissed again. She began prancing boldly and pecked at the air like a boxer taking punches at an imaginary foe. The wolves, still on the ground, let out low growls and inched forward on their bellies. This time Mama Woof did not stop them. Saliva dripped from every sharp-toothed mouth.

  “Think, children! Surely there was something in your research about peaceful communication between ostriches. Oh, if only we had some of the admiral’s Savory Pickled Ostrich Treats as an offering of friendship!” Alas, the supply of SPOTs had been left at their campsite during the storm.

  “Let me try.” Beowulf moved slowly, so as not to provoke Bertha any further. He cupped his hands to his mouth and took a deep breath.

  Penelope heard nothing. “Is he doing it?” she whispered to Cassiopeia.

  “Shh! Listen,” Cassiopeia said.

  Penelope tried, but the friendly ostrich call was even less audible than Beowulf’s rabbit call, if possible. Bertha, however, had a different reaction. First she looked puzzled. Then she lowered her wings and smoothed her feathers into a more relaxed position. She cocked her head to one side, as if curious about what sort of ostriches these odd-looking, mismatched creatures might be. Then, lifting one spindly leg at a time, she took a tentative step toward them.

  Penelope readied the Temporary Ostrich Tether she had fashioned out of the twine that had been left in the trunk, back at the cave. “Do it once more, Beowulf. I need her to come close enough that I can toss this TOT over her head,” she whispered. Beowulf obliged. At the sound of his seemingly noiseless call, Bertha hopped forward. Her tail gave a friendly little shimmy.

  “And oopsie, whoopsie, here comes the TOT,” Penelope sang, swinging the loop of twine ’round and ’round above herself like a lasso. It sailed through the air and slipped past Bertha’s beak and down her long, flexible neck so gently that the bird did nothing but blink.

  Penelope could not have been more pleased with herself had she roped a wild mustang pony, the way those marvelous American cowboys did (and as Edith-Anne Pevington would learn to do in an as-yet-unwritten volume titled Rainbow Out West, in which she and her trusty pony pal take a trip to the western part of America so that her father, Mr. Pevington, might pursue business opportunities during something called the “Gold Rush.” This volume of the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books would be penned and published many years later, when Penelope was quite grown up. But, unlike a real girl, Edith-Anne Pevington never seemed to get any older; it is one of the advantages of being fictional, or one of the disadvantages, if you prefer to see it that way).

  “A job well done, everyone,” Penelope said, “thanks to the superb noses of our trusty wolf steeds, and some fine bird calls by Beowulf—and Alexander,” she added, not wanting to leave him out; after all, he had demonstrated a perfectly effective ostrich call, even if it had not been the exact one needed at the time. “Now, all we need to do is lead Bertha back to Ashton Place and put her in the POE. If the woofs—pardon me, wolves—can help us locate Admiral Faucet along the way, so much the better.”

  Penelope was justifiably proud of her success as an outdoorswoman, but the notion that she and the children would be back at Ashton Place in time for a proper dinner, hot baths, and a bedtime book that was not about cannibals made her positively giddy with delight. As was her habit when overexcited, she began to make plans. “The moment we get back to the house, I shall visit Lord Fredrick’s library to look up some facts about cave geology. I propose a brief lesson after dinner; we have much to discuss regarding the difference between stalagmites and stalactites, caverns and grottos, troglobites and…” She vaguely recalled that troglobites had something to do with caves, although for the life of her she could not recall what they were. “Well, other sorts of bites.”

  (In fact, troglobites are creatures that live only within caves and nowhere else; they include insects, fish, spiders, and salamanders. Most of us would find their lives dismal and peculiar, but no doubt they would think us quite mad for living out in the blinding sun and the fresh, ever-changing air, with its wobbly breezes.)

  The children were intrigued by Penelope’s remarks and began a lively debate about all the different sorts of bites they could think of: chomping bites, nibbling bites, gnawing bites, and vicious, flesh-tearing bites, among others. Even the wolves found this conversation interesting, as you might well imagine, but the discussion was cut short by a hooting, unnatural sound, coming from a far distance. Those that had ears that could perk up and swivel did so; the
rest turned their heads to listen.

  “Uh-oh,” Cassiopeia said with a frown.

  “Oh no.” Beowulf, too, looked unhappy, and began to chew on the strap of his pith helmet.

  Again the sound echoed through the trees. It seemed to come from the direction of Ashton Place.

  “Time to go,” Alexander agreed. “Tallyho.”

  Tallyho! Now Penelope understood: The call came from Lord Fredrick’s hunting horn, and its hooting, leaping cry was the sound that signaled the start of the hunt.

  Penelope clutched the end of Bertha’s TOT in one hand and seized Mama Woof’s thick fur with the other. “Lord Fredrick is on his way,” she said, hauling herself onto the wolf’s back. “Which means we must be on our way to the POE, and quickly.”

  “Poe! Poe! Nevahwoo!” the children shouted, leaping onto their trusty wolf steeds. Mama Woof gave a stern series of yelps, and the other wolves took up the cry.

  “Ahwoooo!”

  “Ahwoooo!”

  “Ahwoooo!”

  “Nevahwoo!” Penelope howled in spite of herself. She waited a moment, to see if she felt silly making such a racket, but she found it rather bracing, frankly. Just to be sure, she did it again. “Nevahwooooo! Now, everyone! To the POE!”

  THE MAXIMUM SPEED OF AN ostrich on land is sixty miles per hour. A wolf can run only half that quickly, and a Thoroughbred racehorse (of the type that would run in the Epsom Derby, say) is only somewhat faster than a wolf, with a top speed of forty to forty-five miles per hour. Humans are considerably slower, by comparison. Even if Mrs. Clarke trained and practiced until she was among the fastest sprinters in the world (a purely hypothetical situation, of course, as the dear lady was much too busy with her housekeeping duties to undertake such a grueling training regimen), she would still only be able to run twenty-five miles per hour at the most, and that would be limited to a short distance.