by Iacopo Bruno
While Amy froze near a set of blackberry bushes, I turned to see the men standing stock-still. Their heads went this way and that, and I thanked Jesus for the rain, because it more than likely confused my voice’s direction. Jesus must hate murder as much as me.
Then, as if a spell had broken, both men hurried our way. I was certain that the taller man had his knife gripped in one hand. I was also certain that I’d seen his face before.
On a poster in Daddy’s law office.
Keeping a firm grip on the back of Amy’s overalls, I hurled my best friend to the ground and shoved her into the dirt beneath the bushes. I plunged myself right beside her.
Rain poured down, but not so loud that I couldn’t hear an awful sound. Straining and shoving my ears back toward the graveyard as far as I dared, I heard it again. A growl. A not-so-human growl coming from somewhere between us and the Pritchards. I only hoped the moon stayed covered and that whatever was making that awful sound stayed far away.
When the Pritchards were halfway across the graveyard and heading our way, a great beast rose and lunged at the legs of the shorter one, taking a hefty bite of something, by the sound of the unmanly scream. I couldn’t get a decent look at Forney Pritchard’s face, but it was sure to be twisted in a good amount of agony.
“Gimme that shovel, I’ll kill that dog,” Billy Pritchard shouted, grabbing the tool from his brother.
The massive animal jumped toward Billy’s chest. Deep-throated barking was followed by two screaming men, lightning flashes, and a low, mournful howl.
I lifted my head in time to see Billy rush into a bush not two feet away. He whipped his head around, scanning the area. Any minute he’d see us. I couldn’t let Amy die here in the cemetery. Besides being my best friend in the world, who would take care of her daddy?
I swallowed my fear, along with a small amount of vomit that had worked its way up my throat. Waiting until Billy Pritchard moved his legs, and timing my whisper with the shuffling of bush leaves, I said what I suspected might be my last words.
“When he comes after me, run home.” I put my hand over Amy’s mouth to keep her from replying and placed a farewell kiss on the back of my hand.
Then I bolted straight back through the cemetery, screaming at the top of my lungs in my very best pirate voice, “You’ll never take me alive!”
But I was so busy running from Billy Pritchard that I wasn’t watching the headstones properly. Right before I cleared the back fence, my hip connected with solid rock and down I went, my freshly-picked knee hitting the ground first. Sore as a kicked horny toad, I lifted my head to see the gaping holes in Billy Pritchard’s top row of teeth. He jerked me to my feet, then knocked me back to the dirt.
Bending over, he spit at my chest. His breath stunk like spoiled mushrooms, but it was the shiny knife at my throat that got my attention. His black eyes were so close to mine that I saw the reflection of my own terrified face.
He smiled, his face dripping with rain. “I never planned on taking you alive. I reckon I’ll start with your ears. Then I’ll—”
“Murder!” shrieked the sweetest voice in the world. “Oh, murder again!” It came from the other side of the cemetery and I prayed that Amy would stay far away from Forney Pritchard, dog-bitten as he might be. “Here comes, um, well, here comes the Law!”
Billy cursed and released me. “Fine,” he muttered. “You know my face?” he asked me. He tore the evil-spirit-repelling cloth right outta my shirt and jabbed me with his knife point.
I managed to shake my head.
“Better not. What’s your name?”
I didn’t answer.
He looked me up and down, sniffing like a dog. “I’ll find out. Can’t be too many little girls in this town who’d be fool enough to be at a graveyard at midnight.”
“I’m a runaway,” I managed to whisper. “From downriver.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if I hear word that you told on me, I don’t care where you’re from. I’ll find you and your family and I’ll see to it that none of you have mouths to talk with.” With a final kick to my side, he ran off, leaving me to close my eyes and sink back into the holy ground.
Amy’s quivering figure fell on me. She grabbed my shoulders and shook hard. “Oh, Becky,” she cried softly, struggling to keep her voice quiet. “Are you murdered?”
I wasn’t murdered, but my head was taking quite a banging on the dirt. “I’m not,” I told her, and the shakes turned into a fierce embrace. “Not a hair harmed,” I said, forcing my voice to sound strong and sure. “He was about to leave anyway.”
She pinched up and down my arm, making sure I was good and alive. “He didn’t try to kill you?”
I sat up and rubbed Amy’s thumping from my head. “Maybe just a little, but mostly he wanted to scare us. So we wouldn’t follow them.”
Her lower lip stuck out, the frown casting a shadow over her chin. “Why would we ever follow two grave robbers? We’re eleven years old.”
That was a pretty good point. I took my time heaving myself into a sitting position, checking for my marble bag while I thought up an explanation. “Well,” I reasoned, “we were out here, same as them. They probably reckoned we were robbing a grave of our own and would come after their next target.” I watched her expression shift as she chewed on that thought.
She nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”
“Sure it does. Let’s give them a couple more minutes to get away, then head home.” We huddled underneath a bush and watched the headstones for stray spirits. Then we heard it again.
Another drawn-out howl.
“What’s that?” Amy asked, scooting close. “Don’t look,” she begged.
The rain had stopped its pitter-patter, and the moon seemed to think it was safe to come out from behind the clouds for good. Stars came out of hiding as well, glowing in the night sky like an angel’s firefly collection, as Mama used to say. Pushing myself to a crouch, I did what Jon would’ve done.
I looked.
Around the corner of the nearest tombstone poked the head of the Widow Douglas’s enormous dog. One of his front legs had an ugly slash across it and his teeth were clenched around a piece of cloth. He was breathing heavy, eyes darting back and forth.
I stood and walked closer. The cloth was soaked through with slobber, but I could just make out the plaid pattern from Billy Pritchard’s shirt. What stood out more, though, was the fact that someone had gone and put the teeth of a giant bear inside that hound’s mouth. I wouldn’t be telling Amy, but they looked to be a good deal longer than an inch and were just as sharp as Billy’s knife.
“Becky don’t! You said yourself, he’s a demon dog!”
“A demon dog that maybe saved our hides,” I pointed out, slowing my advance.
“Probably just so he can get us good and proper next Saturday,” Amy guessed.
I paused. “Well, he’s still hurting right now.” But after seeing those teeth, any charitable thoughts of tending the dog’s wound had flown to the back of my mind to cower behind more pressing business, so I was awful glad when Charlemagne lifted himself from the ground and limped back toward town, taking the wad of shirt with him.
Instead of following, I scooted fives graves over and three down, back to Mr. Willis. Old Reliable said it was twenty minutes past midnight. Taking an old flour sack from Jon’s bib pocket, I dug up a layer of wet grass and scraped four handfuls of dirt into the sack, taking care to replace the chunk of grass I’d ripped out. Then I pointed a route through the woods and started walking, sure to keep an eye out for more unfriendly lights among the trees.
Amy put her hand on my shoulder as we made our way through the trees, nearly causing me to scream bloody murder.
“Did you get the dirt on time?” she asked.
“Yep. It’s still the witching hour so we’re all set for the bet next Saturday.”
“Maybe we’ve had too much of a fright to do the bet at all. Becky,” she said in a trembly voice, “were those m
en the Pritchard brothers?”
I’d seen Billy Pritchard’s face clear as day and could pretty well guarantee who his sidekick had been, but there was no use scaring the bejeezus out of my best friend. My own bejeezus had been scared enough for the both of us. And even though I was shaken up, I figured those Pritchards were probably far too busy being lawless to bother with me again. Telling Amy about Billy’s threat would just lead to trouble.
“Hard to say,” I told Amy. “Even if it was, they’ve gone and robbed someone who can’t care about it. I say we keep our mouths shut as tight as that burglarized dead man’s.”
Even in the dark, I could tell Amy was biting her lip, considering. “You don’t think we should tell?”
We were nearly down Carver Hill. There wasn’t a soul in sight as the trees began to thin, so I stopped and faced Amy. “No, I don’t think we should tell.” I knew enough about marauders to know three things: They like to cause trouble, they like to get away with it, and they like to get revenge on any fool who tattles on them. The fool’s family, too. Already having a deceased brother and a barely-there mama, I couldn’t afford any family members in danger. Seeing the fear in Amy’s eyes, I added, “Besides, you heard them: They’re headed downriver to Trittsville.”
Grabbing the unlit lantern from my hand, Amy clutched it to her chest and sniffled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my whole life. All I kept thinking was that I’m too young to die, especially wearing overalls in a graveyard at midnight.”
Jon was too young to die.
I felt a bothersome pressure building up behind my eyes. A single tear slid down my cheek so I slapped my face, telling any others to hold off.
“Don’t hit yourself like that!” Amy looked appalled before recovering enough to pat my arm. “Now that’s all right, you can cry.”
“I don’t feel like it now.”
Her face squinched up, like she was thinking about doing some crying herself. “I cry about Mama sometimes. Lots of times, really. I’m scared Daddy won’t ever get better without her.” Her lips started twisting like they were avoiding a skitter or something.
I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay to cry,” I whispered.
She shook her head something fierce. “Oh, slap me quick, Becky!”
So I reached out and gave her a nice firm slap. “There now. But you can still cry if you want.”
She looked a little shocked that I’d gone ahead and smacked her, but seemed grateful, too. “Thanks, but I don’t feel like it anymore either. Becky?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for saving my life back there. I . . . I won’t let you down next Saturday.” Squeezing her shoulder, I placed my forehead against hers. “I know you won’t. We’ll have just about the biggest adventure of our lives and beat those boys to boot. And you saved my life right back, so don’t get too mushy. Let’s go home,” I suggested. Leading the way, I hurried Amy past the dark houses of St. Petersburg, nerves adding a quickness to my steps that I couldn’t hardly control.
We stood at her door in silence for a few minutes, then I ran home with hazy images of Pritchards and ghosts and Jon floating around every corner.
Chapter Seven
A most disturbing threat and a lesson in storytelling
An awful nightmare about the Pritchards and graves and caves had kept me company throughout the night, and when I woke up all twisted in my sheets on Monday morning, a skitter was taking a bath in my rubbed-open scab. Thanks to my scuffling about, any healing my knee had done on Sunday was ruined. Jon would’ve loved the sight of it. Grumbling at the thought of another day spent with Mr. Dobbins, I slipped on clothes and yanked the tangles from my hair. My grumbling increased when I realized that the kitchen smelled like nothing, which meant there’d be a pot of plain oatmeal waiting for me.
Yanking at my dark blue fishskin during breakfast, I said a silent curse to whichever fool had thought up starch. The dress itched like the devil. Before I made it out the door, Miss Ada told me no less than three times to quit scratching at my arms and belly. I made sure to take fishing line, a sewing needle, dry beans, and a Bible for me and Amy. I figured we’d make us a little extra witch protection during the lunch hour.
Sid was nowhere to be seen, so I made a solitary walk to school, looking at the trees and feeling achy at the change of seasons. Jon always said autumn was his favorite because school started and trouble wasn’t nearly as much fun to get into if you weren’t ditching something. It was cool enough for mischief in the day, but still warm enough for mischief in the night, he’d claim with a wink and a whistle. He’d promised to teach me his special two-fingered high-low-high whistle, but we never got around to a lesson.
“I miss you an awful lot this morning, brother,” I whispered to my marbles. I reached up and tugged on a tree branch, then let it go. I watched it bounce up and down in the sky, dancing between Heaven and earth. Leaves losing their green always got me a little hollow inside. It seemed unfair that they couldn’t do a thing to keep from switching colors and then falling off altogether.
Fair to the trees or not, autumn had spread around St. Petersburg like wildfire, and the big oak looming over the back of Widow Douglas’s house was leaking red and orange onto its leaves. The Widow’s hound slumped over the front porch steps, licking his sore foreleg and fixing me with a stare. An enormous bone lay beside him, two feet long if it was an inch. It was too big to be anything but a cow bone from the butcher shop, but it was easy to imagine Charlemagne had swiped it from the graveyard.
I wondered if Mama would pay me any attention if I turned up as a pile of bones at the hands of the Pritchards.
Seeing the Pritchards on Saturday night had been a frightful thing indeed, but they were probably long gone by now. I could hear Jon’s advice in my head: There’s a time to look out for marauders and then there’s a time to steal from witches—get your head straight, Becky.
Right where the path broke off toward the schoolhouse, a lone boy huddled over, tying one of his shoes. Oh Lord. I tried to hurry past Tom Sawyer, but he rose as I passed him, nearly poking me in the eye with his cowlick.
“Watch it,” I said, waiting for him to get red and move.
Instead, he walked along next to me, grinning like a dumb old chicken headed to slaughter. “Hello, Becky. It’s gonna be a fine day at school.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Did Mr. Dobbins tell you to clean the privy after you clean the chalkboard?” He’d do it too, just to get a pat on the head. What a goody-goody.
Before I could laugh at him, a thought dropped on me like a fallen acorn. I remembered what Amy had told me about why Sid and Tom lived with Aunt Polly. Maybe Tom thought if he was good enough, his daddy would get word and come back. If that was the case, poor Tom was wasting his time. I’d tried being real good and extra polite with Mama, but her heart and mind hadn’t come back from wherever they’d gone to hide. There are certain things in life that go away and don’t ever come back. Wishing or washing chalkboards can’t make a lick of difference.
Before Tom could answer my privy question, we saw a crowd of boys and girls outside the schoolhouse. The air was abuzz with something, excited chatter and low murmurs floating among the elbows boys were digging into each others’ sides.
I wormed my way past Sid Sawyer and the Green twins and found Amy. “What’s all the ruckus about?” I asked her. But she didn’t need to answer. Nailed right above the schoolhouse door was a shredded cloth and piece of paper.
I recognized the cloth and froze.
“What can it mean?” asked Rose Hobart. She clutched Sid’s arm with her right hand while her left one fanned her chest.
“Somebody left it there for one of us—my money’s on Tom,” Sid said, ignoring the sickly shade of gray his brother was turning. He grinned and read the note aloud.
“TELL AND YULL BE RIPED TO SHREDS LIKE THIS HERE RAG.”
My heartbeat banged extra hard in my chest, knocking against my lungs so I
could hardly take a breath. That rag was the one Billy Pritchard had torn off me at the graveyard. He may not have known who I was, but he sure knew where to find me.
Settling my eyes on Amy, I searched her face for the same recognition, but she just looked puzzled. That was a weight off, knowing I would carry the burden alone (well, along with Tom Sawyer, who was convinced he was gonna get “riped” to shreds by somebody).
“ ‘Riped’ to shreds? That had to be Joe Harper,” Ruth Bumpner declared, turning to Joe. “I could help you during the lunch hour if you want. You can’t spell worth a darn.”
“You can’t look pretty worth a darn,” Joe shot back, ignoring Ruth’s hurt expression. “Wasn’t me.”
Tom looked downright terrified.
“Who’d you tell on this time?” Sid asked him.
“I don’t rightly know,” he rasped.
“Come on, Tom,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside the schoolhouse. “That note’s just a bad joke, that’s all.” Dropping his sweaty palm, I looked around the classroom. “Where’s Dob-head, anyway?”
Tom pointed to the back door, where Mr. Sam Clemens was hanging his hat on the teacher’s hook.
“What’s he doing here?” I said louder than intended.
“He’s playing teacher for the day,” Sam said back. He smiled at the room, which was filling up and quieting down in the presence of a stranger. “Tom here got word at yesterday’s church service that Mr. Dobbins was sick and school would be canceled for the day. He suggested I come to school so you didn’t have to miss class, and his aunt thought that was a fine idea. Since I was getting nearly bored to sin waiting on that boat part to come in, I said why not.” Turning to the chalkboard, he started to write his name. “Besides, it’s bad manners to turn down the woman cooking your meals,” he muttered with his back turned.
Three good-size spitballs smacked into Tom Sawyer’s head from boys who would have rather missed class. Tom started to raise his hand to tattle on them, but a flick and evil eye from Sid stopped him.
