Return of the Evening Star

by Diane Rios

  Through the haze her ears caught the words “. . . grabbed him, gassed him, and threw him in the back! That was the last time he ever said ‘please’!”

  The company erupted in raucous laughter, and Chloe’s heart pounded. Taking a step back from the table, she felt as though she were underwater. Everything was moving in slow motion around her. The scene was surreal, and the people were like laughing clowns—the big man’s mouth was a horrible red hole as he opened it to laugh, spraying little pieces of food as he laughed. Chloe felt nauseous. For a horrified moment she thought she might faint, and gulped some air, trying to steady herself. She must not faint! She stood staring down at the two neat rows of pies.

  “Eh? What’s this?” demanded the big man, taking notice of the girl still standing next to him. Chloe snapped out of her fog and felt the shock of panic flow through her veins as she thought desperately of what to say. She hadn’t counted on speaking to anyone! She forced herself to open her mouth, realizing that suddenly, horrifyingly, everything hung on her answer.

  “Uh . . .” She stopped, hoping the other servers would not hear.

  “Yes? What is it, speak up, girl!” the man demanded.

  Chloe pushed the words out of her unwilling lips. “Uh, well sir, these are special pies, baked . . . for our most honored guests.”

  “Special, eh?” said the big man shrewdly. “Well, well, and what makes them so special, might I ask?”

  The table quieted, waiting for Chloe’s answer. She did not know what to say. This was not in the plan. For an awful second it seemed the jig was up. She would ruin everything by giving the wrong answer. Oh, why did she have to use the word “special”? What could she possibly say now?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe noticed Mrs. Good-weather standing next to the head footman by the door to the kitchens. He was speaking to her angrily. As Chloe watched, stalling for time, Mrs. Goodweather said something to the footman, and they both turned and looked straight at Chloe. She saw the footman’s face get very angry and he started toward her. Chloe knew she had only seconds before she would be removed. There was no time left.

  She blurted out, “They are good fortune pies, sir, believed to bring the eater much luck and prosperity.”

  There was a long second’s silence as the man looked stonily back at her. Chloe had a horrifying feeling that he saw right through her lie. The jig was up. The footman was almost upon them, and she braced herself for his angry grasp. She felt sick. Their plan had failed.

  But the big man burst out laughing again. His red mouth opened even wider, he guffawed, he wheezed, and then he roared with laughter, slapping his thigh and spewing out more bits of food on the table. The guests around him nervously broke into their own hilarious peals of laughter mirroring his, at the same time watching him closely to know when to stop. There was a palpable tension in the smoky air as everyone waited to see what the big man would say.

  “Good fortune, eh? Luck and prosperity? Well, ho ho ho, we could always use more of that, eh? Am I right? Hoo, hoo, hoo!”

  The man leaned back in his chair for more room to laugh, and the table laughed along with him.

  This was none other than Mr. Gog, and he pounded his meaty hand down on the table, tossing embers and ash on the cloth. His cousin Mr. Magog did the same, and then at the same time, they both reached out and snatched up a pie. Mr.

  Gog reached out his other hand and snatched up another pie. He always wanted more than his cousin.

  Chloe’s heart seemed to stop as she watched in utter fascination as the man crammed an entire pie in his mouth and started to chew.

  Mr. Gog’s cheeks were puffed grotesquely with pastry. His cousin’s were the same, and both men crunched down happily on Mrs. Goodweather’s deliciously flaky crust. Mr. Gog finished his pie first, blueberry juice trickling down his chin as he swallowed, and he reached triumphantly for his goblet of wine.

  “Delicious!” Mr. Gog cried, smacking his lips. “I feel luckier already!” He stuffed the second pie into his mouth.

  The other guests were reaching for their own pies now, and taking bites. Chloe stared at them breathlessly, waiting to see what would happen. The angry footman was at her elbow, and was speaking to her, but she didn’t hear him. He took hold of her arm and started to pull her away from the table. Chloe did not resist but stared back at the guests who were now almost finished with their pies. It didn’t matter what the footman did now, the pies had been successfully served.

  Mr. Gog stopped chewing. He had gone quite still, his eyes staring fixedly ahead, and his red mouth shut. Something very strange was happening, and the other guests at the table stopped chewing too, as all eyes riveted on him.

  Mr. Gog looked odd. His clothes didn’t seem to fit as well as they had. His tuxedo started to swallow him as his shoulders shortened, his head shrank, and his arms receded up his sleeves. Mr. Gog’s collar rose up strangely to meet his cheeks, and the hand that reached to touch them was a boy’s hand. His black mustache had completely disappeared, replaced by a soft downy fuzz that Mr. Gog stroked in wonder. He looked wildly around him, not knowing his bald head had sprouted thick, dark hair. As he sat dumbfounded and confused, Mr. Gog’s cheeks suddenly bloomed with a bad case of acne. He still held his cigar, but dropped it when it burnt his small fingers, and then, confused and frightened, Mr. Gog began to cry.

  Some guests sitting near him screamed. Others knocked over their chairs leaping to their feet to get away from this terrifying spectacle. Shouts of alarm rippled through the room as everyone realized Mr. Gog was not the only one transforming. Mr. Magog went through adolescence in a flash and was now a child of about three, sitting in a pile of his grown-up clothes. All of the guests that had eaten the pies were turning into children.

  The footman released Chloe and they both watched in astonishment. When Mr. Gog started to cry, Chloe started to giggle uncontrollably. It was too absurd! She couldn’t believe what she was seeing! Some of the guests had trouble seeing over the edge of the table! They were like children playing dress-up in their parents’ clothes!

  The ladies’ wigs, hair pieces, and sparkling combs had slid grotesquely over on their child-sized heads, their fancy dresses puffed up about their ears. Mr. Gog’s wife was almost completely lost inside her huge ball gown. Confused, she started to scream, but it came out the piping cry of a child, which frightened the child lady next to her, and she also started to cry.

  The husbands wailed along with their wives, though it was clear to Chloe that they didn’t know why they were crying, or even why they were sitting at this table in this crowded room. They looked hot and uncomfortable, and suddenly one said, “I want cake and lemonade!” Some of the other transformed guests began to bang their silverware on the table. Some decided they wanted to explore and got down from their chairs. A few tripped on their clothing and lay tangled on the floor, crying.

  Mr. Gog was now about the age of two, and was standing on his chair, laughing with glee. He had kicked off his pants and stood bare-bottomed, his shirt like a long nightdress, and his silk cravat still hanging from his little neck. Mr. Gog clapped his chubby hands in delight at the chaos in front of him. He spotted a piece of chocolate cake on the tablecloth and started to crawl toward it.

  The orchestra stopped playing abruptly, and the room erupted in panic. The other guests were flabbergasted and horrified by what was happening in front of their eyes, and they all stopped eating, looking at each other fearfully. What in the world was going on?

  Chloe knew it was time to send the signal. The maids and footmen were frantic. They ran to the long table to try and clean up the spilled food and drinks, and to gather the squalling children, but it was becoming impossible. The other guests began to panic as the babies crawled toward them, and leaped up from their seats.

  Chloe took the opportunity to turn and run to the door of the dining room, where she found Mrs. Goodweather waiting for her breathlessly.

  “We’ve got to send the signal!”


  They grabbed hands and ran down the stairs to the kitchen, and out the open back doors. Mrs. Goodweather held up a white tea towel and waved it in the direction of the tree house. They knew Lord Winchfillin had seen them for a large black crow immediately rose in the air, and flew away, cawing loudly.

  Chloe’s heart was hammering in her chest with excitement as Shakespeare, who had concealed himself behind some bags of flour, jumped out to join them.

  “Shakespeare, my darling,” Chloe said, stroking the white rat’s head. “Go now, go find Celeste. You know where she will be waiting, if she can. She will be looking for you. Bring her safely back to us. Go now, my sweet friend! And good luck!”

  Shakespeare squeaked reassuringly at the girl and leapt down from the barrel to race out the door, and into the night.

  Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather stood panting against the wall. They could hear screams and breaking glass coming from the dining room.

  “I’ve got to go save those babies,” said Mrs. Goodweather, shaking her head.

  “What? Why?” asked Chloe in surprise. This was not part of the plan. “They will be fine, the other people will pick them up, surely!” she argued.

  “Well . . . maybe not,” said Mrs. Goodweather, looking grim. “It’s very dangerous in there, and people are panicking. They might get injured! Trust me, I didn’t anticipate this, but I feel kind of . . . responsible for them.”

  Before they could move, or say anything else, a screech and a roar in the driveway distracted them. An ambulance blowing huge clouds of smoke skidded to a halt outside the doors, its silver body scorched, broken, and mangled, but somehow still driving. The dented doors flew open and two men leaped out. One was small, with greasy hair sticking out from under a dirty cap, the other tall and thin and covered in filth.

  Chloe, hidden in the shadow of the doorway, almost screamed at the sight of her hated uncle, Blake Underwood. He looked more terrifying than ever, his once-white uniform blackened and torn, and splashed with different shades of red —some dark and old, some bright and fresh.

  The two men slammed their doors and lurched up the stairs of the hospital. Uncle Blake called out drunkenly, “Oy! We’re back! And just in time for the party! YOU!” he called to a footman rushing past. “Get us some wine!”

  The footman ignored them and hurried on, toward the dining room.

  Bings and Uncle Blake, totally unaware of the growing crisis inside, hung on to each other to keep from falling, bitterly complaining about the footman’s disrespect. Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather shrank back farther into the corridor, and the men stumbled by without seeing them.

  The noises coming from the dining room were louder now, and people were running in and out of the room, shouting and calling for someone to call the police, call the fire department, call anyone! But there was no one to call, even if anyone had heeded the words. The police and fire department had long since been overrun by the ambulance drivers. There was no one to come help. They were on their own.

  “What the . . . ?” It was finally dawning on Blake and Bings that something was wrong. They halted uncertainly in the doorway, Blake clinging to the frame for support and Bings clinging to him. They were only feet away from where Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather were hiding.

  “What in the heck is going on here?”

  The men reeked of alcohol and sweat, and Chloe held her breath to keep from choking. She looked at Mrs. Goodweather in horror. They hadn’t expected this!

  A great sound of breaking glass made everyone jump. Bings and Blake lost their hold on the doorway and, cursing loudly, fell on the floor. While they struggled to rise, the noises inside increased. It sounded as though the dining room was being torn apart.

  “I should get back in there!” whispered Mrs. Goodweather.

  “But we must wait for Brisco and the Artist!” said Chloe, scanning the sky and hillside for any sign of the animals and men.

  There was nothing. The hill and the skies remained dark and motionless. Behind them the gala was dissolving into a riot. Screams, more breaking glass, and a lone siren had started from somewhere.

  Suddenly Mrs. Goodweather gave a gasp. “Oh no!”

  Chloe whirled around and screamed at the gruesome sight of her Uncle Blake’s filthy, blood-spattered face staring into her own.

  “Why, if it isn’t my dear little niece.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CAW! CAW! A HUNDRED PAIRS OF EYES TURNED to the sky at the sound.

  An excited murmur broke out in the trees, spreading quickly to the clearing below.

  “Is it time?” “Do we go now?” “Is it the signal?”

  All eyes turned from the crows to the two men standing at the edge of the trees, and a tense silence hung over the meadow. Brisco anxiously looked to the north, but the sky there was empty. The eastern sky was the same. There was no sign of Silas. They could not wait for him; they had known that from the start. There was no time to lose, the signal had come, and they had to move now.

  Brisco turned to the waiting crowd of animals. He opened his mouth, but could only get out the word “NOW!” before the rest of his words were drowned out by the animals as they leaped to their feet and cheered. At last!

  “The signal has come!” “Onward! Onward! To the hospital!”

  This rallying cry unleashed the pent-up tension in the meadow like a bomb. With a collective roar, the animals surged forward, jumping over each other in their frenzy. Brisco and the Artist were quickly swept up in the throng and could barely keep their feet as the hundreds of animals poured down the hillside toward the hospital.

  Afra and her people led the charge, with more deer and elk joining them in wild bounds, flashing their white tails like flags to show the way. Mai and the wolf pack came next, silently and effortlessly loping alongside the deer, their ancient history of predator and prey forgotten, suspended in the truce that comes with a common goal.

  Rabbits and mountain lions, foxes and mice, all side by side in this strange, new alliance flooded down the hill together. Remington led the rabbits like the old war hero he was, his scarred ears standing up straight and true, his old eyes clear and fearless. He was a ruthless leader and slashed at the haunches of any rabbits that hesitated. Some of the younger ones were driven nearly mad with fear, and would veer crazily into the crowd, causing others to stumble and fall. It was pandemonium, but the line never faltered.

  After the rabbits came other burrowing animals, running as fast as their shorter legs could take them. A hundred raccoons skittered through the trees, a battalion of squirrels followed, chattering at the top of their lungs, and even the Badger moved purposefully through the brush, leading a large contingent of his own people. The foxes, the otters, chipmunks, mice, and voles swarmed forward together, forming a brown-and-red carpet of fur and fangs. The birds filled the trees and sky, their cries carrying the battle cry.

  “Onward!” “To the hospital!”

  The bears brought up the rear. Auberon and his people were the mighty guard that would surely finish the grisly job. They would not fail. No matter what happened, even if they should ultimately lose the war, the bears knew this would be the hour of their revenge. Nobody would stop them. They would fight to the death to get it, and they were determined to take as many humans along as they could. Their eyes gleamed red with the desire to fight, to tear, to rend. King Auberon pounded his heavy paws on the ground as he ran, creating a war beat that reverberated through the legs of every creature, and made them run even faster.

  This was a herd like no other on earth, and every heart within it beat hot and wild, determined to take back what was theirs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  UNCLE BLAKE LUNGED TOWARD CHLOE, but Mrs. Goodweather blocked his way. Cursing, Blake grabbed the woman instead and started to choke her.

  His red eyes looked mad as he croaked, “Why, as I live and . . . hahaha . . . breathe, it’s . . . little . . . Clothilde!”

  Chloe screamed, “Let her go, Uncle!”
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  Bings danced drunkenly from foot to foot, watching this scene. “Want me to grab the kid, boss?” he asked Blake.

  Uncle Blake tightened his grip on Mrs. Goodweather, and hissed at the girl, “I had a bad feeling that I might see you again. I knew that good-for-nothing Artist would let you go. He was a sap! A wimp! I should never have let him get away from that poker game alive!” Blake bitterly spat out these last words.

  “But I have learned my lesson!” he continued with a nasty smile. “I won’t let you or your old lady friend here”—he choked Mrs. Goodweather a little more—“get away this time.

  BINGS!” Blake shouted over his shoulder to the little man who hurried forward. “Get the mask!”

  “No!” yelled Chloe.

  Mrs. Goodweather gave a sudden squirm and managed to free an elbow, which she promptly shot back, punching Uncle Blake squarely in the nose and producing a spurt of red blood.

  He fell back, yelling in pain and holding his nose. He pulled his hands away and looked with shock at the blood on them.

  Mrs. Goodweather shot her foot straight out, kicking Blake right between the legs with her pointed black shoe. Uncle Blake went dead silent, his grimy face white under its black smears, and he fell to the ground with a thud. Bings backed away slowly from Mrs. Goodweather, and then ran from the room.

  Mrs. Goodweather winked at Chloe and said cheerfully, “I played kickball when I was a girl, and I was as good as any boy.”

  The sound of breaking glass reminded them where they were. They saw a weird, orange glow coming from the dining room, and they smelled smoke. Fire!

  “What should we do?” cried Chloe.

  “I’m going back to the dining room!” said Mrs. Goodweather. “You stay here, child, and wait for the Artist and Brisco! I’ll be back as soon as I can!”