Return of the Evening Star Read online

  His ragged peaks were covered in snow, and a swath of clouds clung to the top like a crown.

  The sheer size of the mountain made everything else seem very small.

  “I sure hope the meeting isn’t at the top,” sighed the Artist, echoing everyone’s thoughts.

  A sudden cry and burst of movement made both horses shy violently, nearly dumping their riders. The Artist and Lord Winchfillin held on tightly to their plunging mounts as hundreds of enormous mountain ravens, the size of small dogs, exploded out of the trees. As they flew eastward over the valley, their rasping cries filled the air with a dark, harsh song. An ominous song.

  Stunned, the friends watched the birds gradually disappear, and grimly made ready to follow. The trail down was not steep, and the horses had no trouble descending. They rode silently through the trees, each lost in his own thoughts about what they might meet when they finally got to this meeting on the mountain.

  They were nearly to the bottom when they were again stopped by a strange noise. An unsettling whisper rustled through the undergrowth. What was it? It wasn’t the wind, for just then there was no breeze at all. It wasn’t birds, because it seemed to be coming from the ground. As they listened, the whisper became a vast rustling . . . and then more movement. All around them, the grasses, bushes, and low tree limbs began waving, and a light vibration could be felt beneath their feet. The horses snorted and stamped nervously. Suddenly the ground was alive.

  Pouring out of the forest was a flood of small, furry bodies. Raja reared in a panic as the stream swirled over his hooves. Lord Winchfillin just managed to grab a handful of mane to avoid tumbling onto the moving carpet of . . . mice! Tens of thousands of mice were on the march, stopping for nothing. Like locusts intent on finding their next meal, the tiny creatures flowed around the horses, somehow avoiding their dancing hooves in their single-minded rush.

  But a rush to where? they all wondered, and at the same time the answer came—the meeting. Just like the crows, the mice must be on their way to the mountain; there could be no other explanation.

  Greybelle’s ears pricked forward, and she looked baffled as she said softly, “Strange.”

  “What is strange?” the Artist asked the mare.

  “Seeds in her pockets,” said the mare. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Not a bit,” said the Artist, shaking his head. “Should it?”

  “I keep hearing that phrase. Some of the mice are saying it: seeds in her pockets. I wonder what that could possibly mean.”

  Greybelle shook her head and started forward again, carefully stepping around the surging creatures, and they all made their way toward the mountain.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHLOE ASHTON WOKE SLOWLY IN HER SNUG BED under the eaves, feeling better than she had in weeks. In fact, she had not felt this well since her father died, she thought sadly, stretching luxuriously under the covers. Indeed, she felt so good that she thought she must be still dreaming and lay still in the little bed for a moment, smelling delicious breakfast smells wafting up from below. A hazy memory flickered across her mind of Mrs. Goodweather and Brisco, and climbing a ladder up to a . . . tree house? Chloe’s eyes snapped open.

  She saw jewel-tinted light dancing on the wooden walls. She could see the tree limbs waving outside the windows. When she heard Mrs. Goodweather say, “Shakespeare dear, don’t step in the syrup!” the dreamlike quality evaporated, and Chloe remembered exactly where she was, and why.

  The girl sat upright and looked around, rubbing her eyes. It was no dream: she really was in a tree house, and Mrs. Goodweather really was making pancakes on the tiny black stove. She could smell coffee too, and even . . . orange juice? How did Mrs. Goodweather do it?

  “Good morning dear!” sang out Mrs. Goodweather, a spatula in hand. “Come and have some breakfast.”

  Chloe’s best friend, a white rat named Shakespeare, squeaked happily from his place on the windowsill. He was munching a tiny pancake from a miniscule stack Mrs. Good-weather had made him, syrup dripping from his whiskers.

  “Good morning!” answered Chloe cheerfully, taking a seat at the table. Mrs. Goodweather set down a plate in front of her stacked high with blueberry pancakes. A small jar of maple syrup sat on the table, and Chloe drizzled it over the stack. Mrs. Goodweather sat down with her, a cup of tea in her hand.

  “These aren’t . . .” Chloe said, halting the fork that was halfway to her mouth, and looking suspiciously at the blueberries.

  “Oh no, dear!” Mrs. Goodweather laughed. “Those aren’t my special berries, don’t worry! Those are wild blueberries, and quite delicious! I’ve always said wild blueberries are the best blueberries.”

  “They certainly look delicious!” Chloe took a bite, and reached for her juice.

  “Where is Brisco?” asked the girl, happily taking another bite of what might be the best pancakes she had ever tasted.

  There simply was no better cook than Mrs. Goodweather, she thought, munching.

  “Brisco’s gone to look around,” said Mrs. Goodweather, sipping her tea. “He’s scouting the hospital grounds, and as soon as he gets back, we’ll talk about our plan.” The older woman raised her eyebrows significantly. “Now you just eat your breakfast, dear, and then we’ll be ready for whatever he has to report.” Chloe was happy to oblige, and stuck another delicious forkful of pancakes into her mouth, sighing in pleasure.

  Just then they heard Brisco’s tread on the tree house steps. In a moment his smiling, mustachioed face poked in the door, followed by the rest of him.

  “Good morning, ladies!” said the carpenter briskly, seating himself at the table.

  “Good morning, Brisco!” they both said at once.

  Mrs. Goodweather took another plate of warming pancakes from the oven and placed them in front of the carpenter.

  “My, my! Aren’t we the lucky ones?” Brisco said appreciatively, tucking a napkin into his collar. “Having good Mrs. G to cook us one of her world-famous breakfasts, eh?” He smiled at Chloe and rubbed his stomach hungrily.

  Chloe giggled. There was just something about the handsome carpenter that made it impossible to stay worried. He was always busy, and always had a smile on his lips.

  She agreed enthusiastically. “But we are also lucky that you are with us, Mr. Knot. Surely no one else could do the marvelous things that you do!” She gestured around at the tree house he had built the previous day, in no time at all.

  “Oh, well. Pish posh, anything for a friend,” said Brisco modestly, blushing just a bit under his mustache. “And do please call me Brisco.”

  “Brisco, then,” said Chloe shyly.

  Mrs. Goodweather sat down with her tea. “Tell us, Brisco, what did you find at the hospital?” she asked, her face serious.

  “Well,” said Brisco. “I’ve walked around the entire place, and there is only one way in, that I can see. All the windows are sealed, the roof has no access, and there are only three doors—the front door, the back door, and one side door on the west side. Two of them are locked. Only the back door is open and the only way to enter the hospital, as far as I can tell.”

  “The back door?” asked Chloe, crestfallen. “You mean the one the ambulances go in and out of? That will be impossible, won’t it?”

  “It won’t be easy.” Brisco looked at Mrs. Goodweather. The older woman said softly, “Well, if we can get in, we have our little plan.”

  “Yes! The plan!” said Chloe.

  “It’s a dangerous plan,” said Brisco. “I don’t like it. And I don’t like the thought of you two being in that place alone.”

  “It is not to be helped, Brisco,” said Mrs. Goodweather. “We need you on the outside, as you know. Chloe and I can take care of ourselves . . . if we can get into the hospital unnoticed that is.”

  “That’s a pretty big ‘if,’” said Brisco. “Especially with only one way in.”

  “We’ll just have to chance it,” said Chloe. “My mother is in there!”


  “Let’s go over the plan again,” said Mrs. Goodweather. “Now, it will be dangerous, there is no point in denying it,” she admitted. “And I cannot guarantee it will ultimately work, even if we do manage to get to where we need to be. But, we must take the chance. We must get inside. If we do, and if we can get to the top people at the hospital—I’m talking about the highest of the high, the people who run the whole institution: the administrators, the decision makers, the leaders, the presidents—then . . . I think we could possibly shut the whole thing down.”

  “Tell us how again,” said Chloe eagerly. She loved this part.

  “Well now.” Mrs. Goodweather went to the counter of the tree house, and picked up a small paper bag which she brought back to the table. From inside she withdrew a large packet which she opened to reveal a quantity of large, ripe, juicy blueberries.

  “I brought a few of my most special ingredients along with me.”

  They all gazed at the plump, perfect berries, and as a most delicious smell wafted up from the packet, Chloe and Brisco sniffed its syrupy sweetness appreciatively.

  “Whatever you do, do not eat them,” Mrs. Goodweather cautioned, closing the bag. “They are extremely powerful and are to be used very sparingly, and only by someone with experience. They can be very dangerous if used incorrectly, very dangerous indeed. So, promise me”—she looked severely at the other two—“promise that you will not touch these berries.”

  Chloe and Brisco both solemnly promised.

  Mrs. Goodweather stowed the berries back in the cupboard, reminding them of the consequences. “When you eat a little, they heal whatever ails you. If you are in pain, the berries take the pain away. They give old limbs new life, they make old eyes sparkle, and in short my friends, they make you younger, which is why my customers love them so.”

  “But . . . eat too many of the berries and you will continue getting younger. And younger. And younger! Eat too many berries and the years will melt away, and along with them . . . so will you.” Mrs. Goodweather’s eyes grew serious, and their normally sunny depths sparkled with a mysterious glitter. Then Mrs. Goodweather said in a voice that gave Chloe a shiver, “Keep eating the berries, and you will become an infant.”

  Brisco’s eyes shone, and he clapped his hands in amazement. Mrs. Goodweather leaned forward. “I can bake these berries into pies, and if we can find a way to serve them to the heads of the hospital . . .” She trailed off meaningfully.

  “They will become babies!” finished Chloe and Brisco together with a shout of laughter. Brisco pounded the table with his fist in glee.

  “Shhhh! Not so loud!” shushed Mrs. Goodweather, smiling broadly. “But yes, that is the general idea!”

  “Babies! They’ll all become babies! Oh, it’s perfect, it’s positively genius!” said Chloe, laughing with delight. “Oh, oh! It’s too funny! Hey! Maybe we could feed the pies to all the ambulance drivers, too!”

  “Well, unfortunately I don’t have enough for all of them,” said Mrs. Goodweather. “If I could, I would bake a thousand pies and feed them to every staff member here, turn them all into babies! But there aren’t enough berries for that. That is why we need to get to the top people, the ones who control the hospital and the drivers. Once we have gotten to them, the others will fall, or at least stumble, and then maybe we can find some help—surely there are still some policemen about?”

  “But how will we get to them? The decision makers? The administration of the hospital?” wondered Chloe. They didn’t know who ran the hospital, or even where they were. They could be anywhere inside that huge building. The plan became less funny by the second, the more she thought about it. Failure, after all, meant almost certain death.

  Mrs. Goodweather sighed.

  “That is what we still must figure out. You said there were three doors, Brisco. The front, the back, and one on the side? What is the side door?”

  “We can’t go in by that door. No way,” said the carpenter.

  “Why not?” asked Chloe. “Is it locked?”

  “No, it’s not locked,” said Brisco. “But we can’t go in that way.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Mrs. Goodweather. “Why not?” Brisco said nothing for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It would be easier to show you than to tell you.”

  There was no lingering at the table after that; Chloe wanted to go straightaway to the side door of the hospital. The girl and the carpenter helped Mrs. Goodweather clear up the breakfast things, and they all left the little tree house, shutting the door and climbing down the steps to the forest floor.

  “This way,” said Brisco, leading them into the trees.

  The three made their way along the back of the hospital, toward the western side of the building that looked out over the ocean. They came to a boulder surrounded by bushes, and Brisco motioned for them to stand behind it. From here they could see the side door of the hospital—an arched doorway illuminated by green lights. It was closed, but Brisco pointed to a wooden contraption, built from the door to the dock below. It looked like a long slide of some kind.

  “What is that?” asked Mrs. Goodweather.

  “I think it is a chute,” said the carpenter.

  “A chute? What is a chute? What is that for?” asked Chloe.

  Just then, as the group watched transfixed, a loud click was heard, followed by a deep grinding sound. They all jumped as the door began to open. The three hiding behind the boulder held their breaths as the door slowly rose to reveal a moving belt that carried something large out of the hospital and onto the chute. It was a long box made of plain boards. The box was open, and they could see something inside it, covered by a blanket. The box rolled out of the door, slid into the chute, and with a rattle and a bang, slid swiftly down the hillside to the dock below.

  There was a small tugboat at the dock. They could see two burly-looking men standing on the dock, who easily caught the wooden box as it came hurtling down the chute. The two men seemed well-practiced at their task, as if they had done it many times before. They deftly caught the box, picked up the contents, and stored them on the boat, then stacked the empty box to the side of the dock, just in time to catch the next box that came racing down the hill.

  “What are they doing?” breathed Chloe.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I have a suspicion,” said Brisco quietly.

  The men on the dock repeated the routine repeatedly until the boat was full. They rang a bell on the boat, which seemed to be a signal to the hospital, for at the sound of the bell the boxes stopped coming. The same click was heard, and the grinding sound began as the green door slowly closed.

  The three behind the boulder watched in silence as the tugboat cast off from the dock and moved away to the deeper ocean. It stopped where they could still see it clearly, bobbing up and down in the waves. After a few moments they could see the men come out on deck and lift a blanketed form. One of them shouted, and the sound carried clearly over the water.

  The three watching from behind the boulder could hear the words as clearly as if they were still right below.

  “Oy! Watch out!”

  “You’re dropping him!”

  There was a dull thud as the form fell onto the deck. And then, “I told you!”

  “Well help me pick him up then!” A small scuffle and then a splash.

  Brisco turned to Mrs. Goodweather and gave her a significant look. Chloe looked at both of her companions, and choked out wildly, “What? What is it? What are they doing?”

  Brisco cleared his throat and then said very softly, “It appears that they are dumping bodies into the sea.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SEEDS IN HER POCKETS. WHAT COULD THAT mean?

  The last mouse had finally passed the men and horses, the grasses and brush stopped rustling, and all was still again. The little group carefully continued in the same direction as the mice, and the Artist turned this phrase over in his mind. Who was the “she” they were talking about? It coul
dn’t be Chloe, could it? No, impossible. He shook his head sadly. For the thousandth time the old man wondered what had become of the child and hoped with all his heart that she was safe, wherever she was.

  Greybelle and Raja stepped along, livelier after their drink at the stream. The way was more difficult now that the path had disappeared, and there were no roads in this remote area. The railway had not yet transformed this part of the landscape, nor were there any telegraph wires, nor outposts of any kind. This place was still wild, but both men and horses had toughened up quite a bit in the last few days, and their scanty diet had made them lean. They pushed valiantly on, nearing their goal as each hour slipped by.

  When the little band reached the valley below, they traveled more easily. Here, protected by the surrounding hills from the strongest winds, the trees were still covered in colorful leaves, and autumn still reigned supreme. Flaming red maples and brilliant yellow larch trees mixed to create a forest of beautiful color. The two men and horses walked on the springy turf under the trees, feeling more hopeful than they had in days. The soft valley breezes, the riot of color overhead, and the sound of the nearby river soothed their spirits and distracted their thoughts from what might be waiting for them up on the mountain.

  They arrived at the river and followed it toward the mountain, which seemed bigger than ever. After some time, they reached the foothills and stopped. The two men slid wearily off the horses, and everyone took the opportunity to rest. There was still a climb ahead of them, but for the moment they were satisfied to wash their faces in the river, to drink their fill, and to eat the few apples that remained in the Artist’s big pockets. Lord Winchfillin noticed a patch of blackberries nearby, and picked enough to share.

  The sun was beginning to sink toward the west, and the Artist wondered whether they should make camp here and start their climb in the morning. Before he could speak his thoughts, a sharp chirrup came from just overhead, followed by a rain of pine needles, and a gray squirrel jumped down to the ground beside them.