by C. D. Bryan
The three of them exchanged handshakes. Then, J.R. waited as they held a brief conference right in front of him.
“Well . . . he is late, Thomas.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right; does he even have all the things from the flyer?”
“Well, let’s see,” she said.
She turned her attention back to J.R. “Do you have everything the flyer said to collect, and did you do everything it stated you should do?”
J.R. felt a little awkward with the suspicious jump to questions.
“Yes I do, and yes I did,” he said, dropping his backpack off his shoulder, “Here’s the handful of cottonwood cotton.” He pulled it from his pocket. “Here’s the Ocean Spray,” he said as he pulled them from his backpack and handed the bouquet to Pip. “Here’s three pieces of Mr. Brilliant’s Peanut Butter Banana Twists, uneaten, of course. Here’s a black dot from the Dalmatian, and I wrote my initials on the inside of the phonebook in the #3 phone booth across from the police station. But I guess you’ll have to go there to see that.”
Pip looked at Thomas and nodded her head.
“But he was late, Pip,” replied Thomas.
“Yes, I know,” she responded looking back at J.R., “what do you have to say about that?”
“Well, all I can tell you is that my bike was in an accident,” J.R. answered, knowing he couldn’t very well tell them that it was sucked up into the sky by a giant green vacuum and dropped to the ground. “So I walked from place to place and then ran the rest of the way here.”
“What about the rest of the requirements?” asked Pip, drilling him with yet another question.
J.R. pulled out the flyer.
“Ok, I’m in middle school, I’m a boy . . .” He raised his eyes over the edge of the paper, looking at Thomas, realizing that the T.D. at the end of that requirement stood for Thomas Dean. Then he continued, “I’m brave, I can read, write, and speak Pig Latin. I’m curious. I like track better than baseball or soccer. I’m on the track team, but I’m not a sports jock like Preston. I’ve lived in England and Italy, and seven different states in the United States. And let’s see, I’m an adventurer so I’m up to taking chances. My favorite bird is the peregrine falcon. And I collect all sorts of things. I’m an archeologist, well a junior archeologist; I collect rocks, shells, Indian arrowheads, marbles, and magnets for starters. Oh, and I found my way here.”
Both Pip and Thomas stood before him, each with their mouth agape.
Thomas looked at Pip and tried to whisper discreetly by covering his mouth, “Holy-geezum-harp-toads, do you think he’s a little over-qualified?”
Pip handed J.R. the flowers. “Here, hold these,” she said while she and Thomas stepped aside, each of them nodding and shaking their head, and looking back at J.R. before approaching him again.
Thomas looked at Pip, then at J.R.
“Can you pay five dollars in dues every two weeks?” said Thomas.
Thomas and Pip looked at one another again while J.R. gave it serious thought, reminding himself that he was saving for a new telescope.
“No, I can’t pay that much, but I can probably pay something.”
Apparently, no further conversation was needed, because Pip stuck her hand out to shake.
“Ok, interview’s over,” she said “welcome to the club. Let’s go.”
Pip and Thomas turned around and walked into the fog.
“Hey . . . ah, wait up,” said J.R. “What’s the name of this club or, I mean, our club?”
“We don’t have one yet,” answered Pip, “we’re still working out the details.”
“Working out the details?” asked J.R. as he followed Thomas who followed Pip.
“Hey Pip. What kind of language is Pig Latin?” asked Thomas.
“I’ll tell you later.”
They traveled down a steep, rocky path that wound around to the back of the cliff, opposite the bay side. And in a matter of minutes they came to a trail leading through an area of dense bushes and evergreen trees. The fog had not yet settled in on this side, and J.R. noticed a distinct change in smell from sea salt, to that of musty wet pine needles. After a couple of jogs left and right, and then a straight stretch of about twenty feet, he could see what must be the clubhouse. It was a large lean-to built against the wall of the plateau, on which they were now standing. All the boards were sun-bleached pieces of driftwood, mostly gray. The entire clubhouse, except for one small opening, was completely isolated from visibility because of the thick rows of bushes and trees. J.R. peered through the opening and admired the elevated view of the town, and the treetop landscape below that reached out in front of them.
“Wow, this is a great spot,” said J.R. “You can see everything from up here. I had no idea we were up this high.”
“Actually,” said Pip, “wait until the whole town lights up as it gets darker. That’s even better. Come on.”
J.R. followed them into the clubhouse. The inside was outfitted with old wooden crates and crab traps for seats, and a wooden trunk sitting in the middle as a table. Fishing nets and rope dangled from the ceiling. And the back wall had a bookcase, assembled from blocks and planks of driftwood. As far as J.R. could tell its shelves were cluttered with a collection of sea treasure, or junk, to be more specific. However, his eyes were drawn to a wooden statue of a bird.
“Hey . . . What’s this?” he said.
“It’s a statue of a peregrine falcon. What do you think it is?” answered Pip.
“I can see that, but where did you get it?”
Pip didn’t answer right away and J.R. could see she was struggling for an answer as she glanced at Thomas. J.R. picked up the statue. Yep, exactly like mine, he thought, that’s weird.
“Really,” said J.R. “Where did you get this?”
Pip looked to Thomas again. J.R. could see they were obviously hiding something. Thomas shrugged his shoulders and looked the other direction. J.R. could tell he was terrible at keeping things secret. But Pip made a speedy recovery for the both of them.
“Well, I’ll answer that question later,” she said, “right now we have to start your initiation to be sure you’re the one.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that? One for what?” asked J.R. insistently, “and Initiation, what initiation?”
“It’s just something we have to do,” said Pip. “Don’t worry, it’s painless.”
But it didn’t sound good and J.R. did worry.
CHAPTER SIX
Secrets Unfold and Tales Are Told
J.R. knew initiations were part of being in a new club. He just expected some kind of advanced notice. He waited for Pip to explain but she didn’t.
“Really, there’s nothing about initiation in this,” said J.R., holding up the flyer. “And what do you mean . . . to be sure I’m the one?”
Pip avoided his question for a second and lit a candle next to the statue of the falcon. Then she took the flyer, flipped it over and pointed at what was the tiniest print J.R. had ever seen.
“Fine print,” she said with a smug grin on her face. “Need I say more?”
She handed it back to him and slid two planks in the roof to one side.
J.R. checked the time on his pocket watch since it seemed darker than normal. “7:05” he whispered in disbelief. “This thing must be broken.” He shook it but nothing changed.
“Anyway, you’re right,” said Pip. “This is a great spot, and one of the reasons we chose it is because of that place right over there.” Pip pointed out the window of the clubhouse after pulling a rope that raised a shutter from the outside.
“I don‘t see anything,” replied J.R.
“There, at the edge of town. See it?”
“See what?” asked J.R., who was beginning to wonder if this was a prank, and part of the initiation.
“There, where more lights just came on.”
“Oh yeah, now I see it, that house way over there?”
“Yeah, but that’s not just any house,�
� she whispered. “We call it . . . the house on that corner, and that’s what I was hoping for. Come on, this is part of your initiation.” She blew out the candle, slid the roof planks back into place and tugged on the rope to drop the shutter. “Come on,” she ordered again, reaching behind a large boulder, pulling a blue bag out of hiding.
“But we just got here,” said Thomas.
“Where are we going? What’s the big hurry?” asked J.R.
But it was too late for asking questions because Pip was already charging out the door.
J.R. and Thomas looked at each other with raised eyebrows. And Thomas shrugged his shoulders, apparently having had a lot of practice, because it looked so natural.
“Girls,” exclaimed Thomas, while shaking his head and rapidly filing out the door behind J.R., “my dad says there’s no figuring them out.”
J.R. could see that Pip was already a considerable distance ahead of them, and heading down a steep path that disappeared into the near-dark underworld of the woods.
“Pip, where are we going?” yelled J.R. insistently, feeling uncomfortable with the darkness as it closed in around them.
“We’re going to spy on the house on that corner,” she said, starting to run faster along the path.
J.R. stumbled twice in an attempt to keep up on the unfamiliar trail. After about a hundred yards Pip stopped and squatted down. J.R. knelt down beside her and Thomas fell to his knees beside the two of them. J.R. looked ahead noting that fewer trees made the path more visible.
“Why is it called, the house on that corner?” whispered J.R. in the darkness.
Pip remained silent but stood in a crouched position. And like a cat stalking prey, she stealthily moved through trees, branches and fallen tree trunks. In the distance, J.R. could see a streetlight flickering near a house. Pip turned around, raised her finger to her lips, and then motioned for J.R. and Thomas to follow.
“What are we doing?” whispered J.R.
“Spying on it,” answered Pip.
“Why?”
“Because strange things happen there and because no one has ever seen him.”
“Seen who?” asked J.R.
“The Sleeper,” whispered Thomas.
“The what?” asked J.R. “You mean like some kind of mummy thing?”
“Don’t you read the newspapers?” said Pip.
“No, not usually, besides, I haven’t lived here that long, you know.”
“Oh,” she said, squatting next to a fallen tree trunk.
J.R. and Thomas squatted too as Pip stared off in the direction of the house on that corner, which was really starting to glow as daylight continued to fade. Then Pip finally offered J.R. more details.
“People say there’s a man in there they call the Sleeper. Supposedly he cast a sleeping spell on himself to extend his life, and something about a Whiffler’s Legend.”
“Doesn’t he have a real name instead of the Sleeper?” asked J.R.
“We don’t know. But rumor has it he talks in his sleep,” said Pip. “And there’s a guard who heard him mumbling something about caves in the valley.”
“Which doesn’t make sense,” said Thomas, “we’ve been all over the valley and didn’t find a single cave. Last time, some monstrous guy dressed in a greenish-brown cape, kind of like a monk, chased us off. Man, I think that was the fastest I ever ran.”
J.R. grinned—looking at the expression on Thomas’s face—one that must have been an exact copy of that frightful experience.
“And here’s another thing,” said Pip, “the guard was Mr. Stipple. He was the one who told other people about the sleeper and the sleep-talking story.”
“Wait a minute,” said J.R. “Mr. Stipple, as in my track coach? That Mr. Stipple? He was the guard?”
“Yep,” said Pip. “The city fired him. He was the first one in decades who ever repeated anything he heard in the house. And they fired him, plain and simple. See, all the guards are employed by the city. There’s some kind of trust set up to fund the posting of guards. And as long as the city abides by the rules, they receive money from the trust. Some say millions. They say that the Sleeper set it up when he moved here in the year the city was founded. And as long as they employ the guards, the funds keep rolling in. The city has built parks, a hospital, three schools, and other things, all mainly for us kids.”
“So have you talked to Mr. Stipple about any of this,” asked J.R. “and what’s this Whiffler’s Legend thing?”
“Mr. Stipple,” whispered Thomas, “won’t say a word about anything to do with the house. He says he’s sworn to secrecy and that he’d lose his job as a teacher and his pension if he did.”
“And as for the Whiffler’s Legend,” said Pip, “we don’t know much, yet. But I did find an article that mentions the sleeper in the library’s archived newspapers from 1850.”
Pip popped her head up for a look around.
“The year 1850?” asked J.R., popping his head up for a look too. “How can that be? That was, like . . . 150 plus years ago. Nobody lives that long.”
“I don’t know,” answered Pip. “That’s where I read about it. And that was the same year the bank and the town were founded, during the gold rush, so some of it has to be true.”
“So you’re telling me,” said J.R. “that this person, the Sleeper, is more than 150 years old and lives in that house, on that corner.”
“Yep,” she replied, opening a small package of cream-filled donuts she pulled from her bag, and eating one.
“That tale is too tall to swallow,” responded J.R. “Do you know what the chances are of someone even living that long? It’s probably in the billions just to make it to a 100 or a 110. It’s gotta be in the trillions to live more than 150 years, nearly impossible I’d bet.”
Thomas was quiet but nodding his head in agreement with the idea of impossibility.
“So what else did the paper say,” asked J.R., “anything specific about that Whiffler’s Legend?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” answered Pip. “But I have a photocopy that I printed out.”
“Yeah,” said Thomas leaning forward. “And remember the secret chest—”
But before Thomas had a chance to finish what he was about to say, Pip quickly stuffed the last cream-filled donut into his mouth.
“Secret chest,” asked J.R. “What secret chest? This is all too crazy. Is this part of the initiation? You’re making all this up, right?”
“Ah . . . Oh . . .” muttered Pip, scrambling for an explanation and giving Thomas a cross look in the meantime. “No, we’re not, it’s nothing. It’s some crazy story about a chest from some ancient time. You know how stories grow. We don’t know anything, why would we?”
J.R.’s skepticism grew even more but he didn’t say anything, and for good reason. The three of them instantly halted their conversation when they heard footsteps and cracking sticks in the distance.
The whites of Pip’s eyes grew. “We have to hide,” she said as she quickly pulled an old, green army blanket from her blue bag and positioned her back against the fallen tree trunk then motioned for Thomas and J.R. to join her.
The three of them huddled on the ground, and covered themselves together hoping to blend into the dark surroundings under the towering trees.
Again, another twig cracked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
J.R. Makes a Discovery
Pip grabbed Thomas and J.R. by the hand and squeezed. Thomas’ eyes widened as Pip embedded her fingernails in his skin. And white cream filling from the donut ran down the side of his chin. The cracking sounds grew closer and closer. Then they stopped.
“Here, Zeek,” yelled a deep English-accented man’s voice.
Thomas, Pip, and J.R. flinched. The man was standing right on the other side of the fallen tree trunk.
“Where are you, boy?” he yelled again. “Here, Zeek, Let’s go home.”
Pip squeezed even harder. And after several seconds, the man stopped yelling and wa
lked away, the cracking noise of his steps fading in the distance, and finally she released her nail-piercing grip on J.R. and Thomas.
“He’s gone,” whispered J.R. while patting her hand as they both turned to Thomas, and recoiled in shock at the sight of a hideously deformed dog’s head looming over Thomas’ shoulder.
Thomas’ lower lip was quivering uncontrollably, and his eyes repeatedly shifted from Pip and J.R. to the dog, and then back again as long strands of drool, leaked from the corners of the dog’s mouth, and ran down his shoulder.
The three of them sat frozen and silent with wrinkled noses, as the dog’s warm humid breath, with the raunchy smell of week-old liver, reeked in the space under the blanket.
Thomas slowly turned his head toward the dog but stopped when the dog erupted with a low, gurgling, hungry growl. Its slobbering lips pressed against Thomas’ ear and temple and lines of slimy drool clinging to his cheek.
J.R. felt his heart pounding like a drum. He watched as Thomas’ eyes filled with fear and his complexion turned a ghostly white.
The dog’s leathery, drooling tongue began lapping at Thomas’ chin and cheek, slurping up the cream filling that was running from the corner of Thomas’ mouth. After a few more leathery licks, Thomas flinched and the dog growled. Then it snatched the remaining part of the donut from Thomas’ mouth, swallowed it, and licked Thomas’s lips and face clean of the sweet cream. The dog growled one last time as if to convey a warning, and bolted away, barking at the voice of its master.
The three of them sat very still, distrusting that the dog was gone. When the coast seemed clear, they flipped the blanket off, gasping for fresh air. J.R. and Pip began laughing nervously and uncontrollably, and with a hint of relief. Thomas repeatedly spat on the ground and wiped his face and lips with the blanket. J.R. peeked over the top of the tree trunk for good measure.
“What’s so funny?” said Thomas.
“Your face,” said Pip, she and J.R. continuing to laugh. “You should have seen your face. It was as white as the cream filling in that donut.”
