by Diane Rios
Two great beams of white light appeared at the edge of the meadow, blinding them all. At the same time the crows rose into the air with a great rush of wings and screaming calls.
Greybelle stamped her hooves warningly, and even Old Raja whinnied a challenge to the monster. He remembered the attack at Lord Winchfillin’s house very well—the drivers had lit his poor tail on fire! Even now the tail was pitifully short, the hair burned. The old gelding angrily pawed the ground. This time he would get a few good kicks in.
The Artist shielded his eyes against the light, and Lord Winchfillin picked up a stick from the ground, though his knees knocked together in fear as he did so.
The blinding lights were suddenly doused, leaving the meadow once again in the dark. Nobody got out of it, and for a moment everyone stood blinking in confusion. What—who—could this be?
In front of them was a silver ambulance. Overhead the crows seemed . . . delighted? The birds seemed inexplicably transported by joy. They swooped through the air, over the ambulance, and back up to the trees. Even the crows in the trees danced along the branches, uttering soft caws of delight, their black eyes shining.
It wasn’t the only strange note to be struck at such a time. Even while the group of men and horses waited anxiously to see what climbed out of the ambulance, they noticed that something else was off. What was . . . was the car made of . . . wood? What was going on here?
The ambulance door swung open. A man with a mustache climbed out, looked around at the dumbfounded group, doffed his cap, and said cheerfully, “Brisco Knot, at your service!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SILAS GAVE A GREAT LAUGH OF PLEASURE. Walking forward, the old man clapped the carpenter on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Welcome, Brisco!” said Silas heartily. “Silas! What a great surprise!” Brisco’s smile was warm as he greeted his old friend. “I should have known you might be here. The crows insisted that I come, and now I understand why.”
Brisco looked around at the others, his eyes twinkling as he took in the forms of the Artist and Lord Winchfillin, who looked back at him in wonder.
“How glad I am the crows found you, dear Brisco,” Silas said fondly. “And as usual, your timing couldn’t be better.”
Brisco grinned. “Timing is everything, eh Silas? It’s good to see you too. You’re looking fit, I must say!”
“Well, for an old man, anyway.” Silas laughed good-naturedly.
“For a hundred-year-old man, I’d say very fit!” Brisco laughed along with him.
The others waited impatiently for an introduction, which Silas quickly provided. “May I present Mr. Brisco Knot, master carpenter, and friend to the crows.”
Silas gestured to the others. “And Brisco, may I introduce to you, the Artist, the Lord Winchfillin, the mare Greybelle, and the horse known as Raja.”
Brisco’s eyes twinkled. “I feel I already know you. For I know someone who does know you.”
“Chloe?” The Artist clapped his hands together as the carpenter nodded happily.
They all exclaimed in joy, the little group bursting at this glad and unexpected news. Greybelle’s whinny turned into an exclamation. “Oh happy day, the child is safe!”
“Chloe has been found!” sang out Lord Winchfillin, hugging Raja.
“Oh, my dear child.” The Artist closed his eyes in relief. Finally.
“I’m sure she would say the same about you, if she knew you were here,” said Brisco, laughing delightedly. “She’s been very worried about you since her nasty fall.”
“You’ll take us to her, won’t you?” asked the Artist.
“That’s why I’m here,” Brisco reassured him. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re able.”
“We’re able right now!” burst out Lord Winchfillin, eagerly eyeing the comfortable seats of the ambulance, which would be a huge improvement over the sharp backbone of Old Raja.
“Your choice of transportation is . . . interesting,” said Silas, approaching the vehicle.
“Is it made of . . . wood?” asked the Artist in amazement, running his hand down the sides of the painted car.
“Why yes, it is!” said Brisco proudly. “And it works just like a real one! Drives like the wind, and those stupid hospital workers can’t tell the difference.” He patted the hood fondly.
“It is a most ingenious creation,” said the Artist, walking around the ambulance admiringly, noticing the fine craftsmanship. Even Lord Winchfillin crept closer to look curiously at the car.
Brisco turned serious. “There are some bad goings-on in the country, as you know,” he said. “Chloe told me about the attack at your house.” He nodded at Lord Winchfillin. “It’s a wonder you managed to escape.”
“A wonder and a horror,” said Lord Winchfillin morosely, plucking at his ragged cuff. “My house, ruined. My guests killed! Taken! I would have surely been caught too if it hadn’t been for my dear Artist coming back for me.”
The Artist patted Lord Winchfillin’s shoulder. “You would have survived, old friend,” he said soothingly. “You were doing just fine when I found you.”
The little earl laughed. “Oh yes, just fine hiding in the curtains! Doing just fine scorched and scraped and all alone. No, dear friend, I’m quite sure you saved my life!”
Brisco said kindly, “I see you are quite in the habit of saving lives, sir. Chloe also told me about that poker game.”
“That was a lucky chance,” admitted the Artist. “In general, not much good comes from poker games, but that one made up for all the rest.” He looked anxiously at the carpenter.
“You’re sure she is safe?” he asked. “Has Chloe been home to Ashton House? Has she seen her mother?”
“No, the poor kid can’t go home because of her stinking uncle,” Brisco replied hotly. “He’s a nasty piece of work.”
“I remember,” said the Artist.
“Chloe thinks her mother may still be in the hospital,” said Brisco. “Although I have some doubts, because . . . well, because of something we found.”
The carpenter looked at the others significantly. “We found out what they are doing inside the hospital. We found out why they are attacking people and taking them away.”
The group waited, hardly daring to breath.
“They are killing them,” said Brisco.
A gasp from the others, and the horses snorted angrily.
Silas looked disturbed, as he took a seat on a fallen log.
“Tell us everything,” he said sadly.
Brisco told them everything he knew about the hospital, the ambulances, and what he had seen coming out of the west door. He told of the chute leading down to the dock, and the boat that took the bodies out to sea. He told how they had seen with their own eyes the ugly “system” the hospital had, and that they were keeping people ignorant of what was happening inside.
“But Mrs. Goodweather has a plan,” finished the carpenter hopefully.
“What kind of plan?” asked the Artist.
“A brilliant plan, actually,” said Brisco. He explained to the others about Mrs. Goodweather’s powerful berries, and how she planned to bake them into pies to be served at the gala. He told them of the effects the pies would have, and how they planned to take control of the hospital.
Brisco turned to the Stargazer. “Your thoughts, Silas?”
Silas paused. Then he said, “I think that is a very good plan indeed. I know of the berries your Mrs. Goodweather is using—they are one of the oldest strains, and very hard to find. She grows them, you say? Interesting . . .”
The old man looked as though he were thinking of visiting Mrs. Goodweather someday to discuss her berry crop, and then he shook his head, and focused on the task at hand.
“Yes, Brisco,” he said. “In fact, we have just held a meeting to form our own plan. It was decided at the animal council that they would go west, to Fairfax.”
“Animals, Silas?” asked the carpenter. “What animals?”
“All of them,�
� the Stargazer said.
Lord Winchfillin burst out as though he had never been frightened, “Oh yes, and not just any animals, we’ve sent bears!”
He looked so gleeful it made Brisco smile. He liked the little earl.
“The animals are gathering near your tree house even now, Brisco,” said Silas. “We heard you’d been spotted, with the girl. She is known to the animals, as is your Mrs. Goodweather, and even you, dear Artist.” Silas looked at the Artist fondly.
Brisco said, a triumphant light in his eyes, “Together, I think we’re almost certain of success, no? We only needed more manpower—er, animal power, that is. Excuse me, figure of speech . . . The point is, we could only hope before, but it was going to be an enormous risk. Now, having met you all—and you, Silas—I feel we could possibly win it!” The carpenter looked around at the little group, his eyes shining. “Just think: we could win this thing!”
“It only takes a day to get to Fairfax by ambulance. If we leave now, we could be there by tomorrow,” said the carpenter, getting to his feet and slapping his knees. “We should leave immediately.” He laughed. “I knew Silas the Stargazer would have a few tricks up his sleeves.”
Silas smiled. “One or two.”
Lord Winchfillin and the Artist looked at each other and laughed a little. The old man certainly did possess some rather unexpected tricks—there would be time on the journey back to Fairfax to catch up completely, and explain what Silas had said about the mountain and the Bridge of the Gods.
The Artist still had questions about Chloe’s plan. “Tell me, Brisco, how do Mrs. Goodweather and Chloe plan on getting into the hospital with the pies?” he asked.
“Yours Truly stole her some disguises!” Brisco replied. “Snatched two uniforms right off the back of the truck! She and Chloe are going to pose as servers, and with any luck, gain access to the right tables.”
“Hmm . . . risky,” said the Artist, thinking I do not like the idea of little Chloe in such a dangerous situation.
“Yes, but there is no plan that doesn’t pose some risk,” said Brisco reasonably. “And now with you all on board, I think we really stand a fighting chance!”
Lord Winchfillin cleared his throat and said casually, “About those berries, er . . . do you think, when this is all over, that Mrs. Goodweather might give me just a little tiny taste? Just a nibble—just so I can smooth out a few wrinkles? Hmm?”
Brisco opened his mouth to laugh, but realized the earl was serious.
“Well, unfortunately sir, I did hear her say there was only just enough.”
“Perhaps in the future, then,” said Lord Winchfillin, disappointed.
“Perhaps!” said Brisco agreeably.
The Artist wasn’t listening; he was thinking of how happy he would be to see Chloe again. He wanted only to hear everything she had to tell since they had been so violently parted, and to tell her everything in return. He felt another rush of gratitude that she was safe and unharmed. Suddenly he couldn’t wait another moment to go to her, and stood up, brushing off his pants with his hat.
“Let’s get going!” he said. “You say the gala is tomorrow night, and it takes a day to get to Fairfax, so we can’t waste another minute if we are to be in time.”
“I can easily fit four in the ambulance.” Brisco got to his feet.
“You will only need to fit three,” Silas answered. “I have a little errand to run before I join you.”
The Artist chuckled, thinking Silas’s “little errand” was about as big an errand as there ever could be.
Silas was suddenly all business. Time was ticking by, and there was much to be done.
“The animals are gathering just north of the hospital, Brisco,” the old man reminded them. “They will be ready when you give the word. Use the crows as your messengers. I . . . will join you as soon as I am able.” Silas turned to Greybelle. “The mare is coming with me.”
Brisco opened the ambulance doors for the men. Just before the Artist climbed in, he noticed Raja standing a little apart, looking uneasy. The old gelding didn’t seem know where to go. He couldn’t ride in the ambulance, and Greybelle was leaving with Silas. Was he to travel to Fairfax all on his own? The horse whinnied sadly.
The Artist went to him. “On second thought, folks, I might just ride to the party. Raja won’t be able to keep up with the ambulance, not with his old knees.” The man patted the horse affectionately.
“I’ll stay with you!” said Lord Winchfillin loyally, though he hated to get out of the comfortable car.
Silas said gently, “No. You all must hurry. Raja can come with us.”
Greybelle whinnied to the gelding, and he answered her softly.
“I would be honored to have such a valiant traveling companion.” Silas moved to Raja and patted his thin neck.
The gelding looked to the Artist for approval. The Artist said fondly, “Go, if you want to, old man. My guess is that you’ll have quite an adventure! With Silas the Stargazer, you might see some sights that you may never see again, or that any horse has ever seen.”
Raja snorted happily and trotted over to join Silas and Greybelle.
Lord Winchfillin and the Artist said goodbye to Silas and the horses and got into the ambulance. The earl sank back gratefully into the padded seats with a sigh.
Brisco started the car with a roar of the engine. The crows took off from the trees, caw-caw-ing at the racket, circled the meadow once, and flew away to the west, leading the way to Fairfax, where Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather were waiting.
Lord Winch said goodbye and got in earl san the sigh
B w gine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING WAS GRAY AND COLD, and eerily quiet. No ambulances had come to the hospital that morning, Mrs. Goodweather realized with some foreboding as she made the breakfast tea. Although she was glad no new victims had arrived, it could be a sign that there simply were no more victims to be had.
Mrs. Goodweather shook her head as she poured herself a cup of tea and went to wake Chloe. The gala was tomorrow night. It was time to make the pies.
This was the most important thing to get right, for it was the pies that held the key to their plan. While Chloe dressed, Mrs. Goodweather gathered the last of the stores, and brought out the small packet of powerful blueberries. She poured them into a pot on the stove, added a few splashes of water, a small spoonful of sugar, and stirred.
“I will boil these down into a syrup, my dear, and while it is cooking, we can roll out the crusts. You can help with that!”
Chloe joined Mrs. Goodweather in the tiny kitchen where Mrs. Goodweather showed her how to mix butter and flour with a little salt until it became pebble-sized crumbles. Then she added a little water and shaped the dough into a ball. Chloe sprinkled more flour on the counter and Mrs. Good-weather plopped the ball of dough down to be rolled out.
Chloe rolled and rolled, sprinkling more flour whenever it began to stick. Finally, Mrs. Goodweather was satisfied, and they set to work cutting the crust into circles. Mrs. Good-weather said practically, “I wish I had my favorite pie tins from home for these, but since I don’t, we’ll make them turnovers instead, like small hand pies.”
She brought the simmering blueberry mixture from the stove to the table, and a rich, jammy aroma filled the little kitchen. Bits of blueberries swam enticingly in the purple syrup, but neither of them was tempted to taste it.
Mrs. Goodweather showed Chloe how to carefully spoon the berries and syrup onto half of the dough circles and fold the other half over, pinching the edges together to make the turnovers. As they crimped and pinched the edges of the pies closed, Mrs. Goodweather thought out loud.
“Now, these are going to be served at a very grand party. They need to look as though they belong there. They need to look fancy, like they came from a catering company. Hmmm . . . ah! I’ve got it! Shakespeare, my dear, come over here. Now, wash your little paws, that’s it.”
Chloe laughed, watching her dear
little friend wash his tiny white paws in the water and dry them on the towel Mrs. Goodweather offered him.
“Now, place your paws here . . . just so . . . and here, that’s it! Now that looks very pretty, don’t you think?”
Where Shakespeare pressed his paws were tiny marks that looked very nice indeed. He repeated the pattern all around the edges of the turnovers. When he finished, Mrs. Good-weather added a final flourish of three quick slits on the top cut with a knife, then she brushed a bit of butter on top, along with a final dusting of sugar and cinnamon, and slid the tray of six pies into the little oven.
The little kitchen hummed with activity. A mouthwatering smell of baking pastry wafted out through the open windows while Mrs. Goodweather stood at the little black stove with an oven mitt on one hand, humming a song, gently poking the pies to see if they were done.
“Five more minutes!” she announced, and closed the oven door. She turned to the table where Chloe was busy rolling out more dough.
“How many more should we make?” asked Chloe, her sleeves rolled up and her face splotched with flour.
“Well”—Mrs. Goodweather looked at the pot of syrup —“We have twelve so far, and we can only make a few more because my berry supply is almost gone. I think we’ll have fifteen in all.”
Mrs. Goodweather read Chloe’s thoughts: the smell of the pies was so delicious that Chloe was beginning to wish they had made a few extra with regular berries.
“No worries!” the woman sang out, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a plate of ginger cookies. “I made these earlier. I thought we might feel hungry after making those pies!”
The three friends munched the cookies happily and drank tea while they waited for the pies to bake, and for Brisco to return.
The little tree house was warm and bright, and Mrs. Goodweather wiped her hands on her apron. “Shall we sit outside for a few minutes?” she said.
