From a night full of strange events, one might think that Valmora might cease to feel such emotions as surprise. But even while the threatening hat mechanism astounds, odder events continue to unfold. Fortunately she has just enough sense left in her weary mind to shelter beneath a nearby table, hidden from the hat, and from there watch the latest marvel.
A furious witch is turning upon the wood-wrenching noises behind her head, screaming in response to a pair of hands now departing through a large hole that has been torn into the roof. The gaping destruction is filled by one very large flame-flickering pumpkin eye. This huge triangular inferno burns with a warm yellowish-orange heat, while an eyeball, seemingly carved along its rim, is turning attention upon the cottage’s treacherous resident. A booming and irritated voice falls upon the airwaves, not so much with words but reverberations of exasperated thrums.
The witch shrieks and attempts to grab the hat but too late. The entire ceiling vanishes up and away into shards, causing her instead to fall backwards away from the fallout. The roof is replaced by an immense and warty-surfaced Jack O’Lantern, seemingly big as the room. The triangular eyes, nose, and zig-zag mouth form a terribly wicked expression, as dark muscular arms reach down, and one very large hand grabs the witch. Imprisoned, the wriggling creature screeches with curses and warbled spells, but these fall harmless against the charmed hull of the monstrous being who simply grins warmly while reacting silently and calmly.
First, the hat is beset with tinkering tendrils emerging from the wrists of the big arm, and these impel the hat in reverse. Materializing from the orange beam, Watrous, Carbon, and the ghost, suddenly appear huddled on the floor among a host of other fleeing creatures such as bats and owls flying up and away through the open ceiling. Valmora runs to protect her brother, and they watch in hopeful yet dismayed ignorance, not knowing what to make of this gigantic vision that smiles down upon them.
The thrum of the giant’s voice sounds pleased yet rises in a questioning pitch. It glances upward, off toward something in the distance, and the great head is almost instantly blurred by a mass of returning crows. As the children scream, the hands of the pumpkin attempt to shush away the annoying birds; however the witch, yelling curses from the wizard’s unfaltering grip, stokes the attack. The crows batter against the hull of the great round gourd, where upon they claw and peck into the flesh. They are sometimes flattened into a feathery pulp, with a great swat against its head; or their ranks are thrown against walls, the floor, or in whatever trajectory the swiping hands send them. Bats also reappear with an attempt to assist the pumpkin, and to block the crows from this attack, but the stronger birds perform their terrible work unhindered.
The pumpkin’s expression changes into a furrowed frown as the eyeballs peer at the incessantly babbling witch. He extends the blathering woman at arms length, as if in disgust, out among the swirling cloud of crows. All the while, the witch continues with her endless caterwaul of hexes.
With another great reverberating moan of final exasperation, the great pumpkin brings the screaming witch to his face, and chomps the great lips of rind down upon her midsection. Her legs frantically dangle, and something inside the pumpkin begins to burn as rings of curling smoke waft out from the pumpkin’s nose. The witch’s shrieks ratchet into howls of pain and hatred.
It isn’t too long after that the Pumpkinheart dislodges and careens from the black folds of her clothing. The shimmering jewel flies into a graceful arc upon the air. At this, the furies of the crows intensify, all attempting to catch it. But the pumpkin’s hand, quick and surprisingly nimble, captures the airspace around the flying jewel all at once, catching the Pumpkinheart in his grasp, and pulverizing anything else to mush. The powerful jewel is safe but the birds’ wrath is unceasing in their attempt to help the witch who squirms like a pinned bug.
Finally, the sheer mass of murderous birds drives the pumpkin away in a running retreat, with wildly gesturing hands. Not nearly defeated, it seems as if the wizard is merely moving the battle away from the group huddling in the cottage, and he even manages to wave before departing.
In the quiet that follows, it takes a bit of time for our heroes to recover from the amazing spectacle. It is the voice of Carbon who eventually reaches through the mental haze of the others shivering together in a corner. “I believe that we have just met the great wizard of the pumpkin patch.”
Given the ferocity of the great fight Valmora witnessed, she is both terribly relieved and exhausted. Holding the hand of the little werewolf, they approach the hat noisily spinning its cogs. To the top of the table where it ticks, Carbon jumps to give it a good cat-styled hiss.
“Well, I say.” With the swat of his paws, Carbon proudly sends the hat crashing from the edge of the table, and he attempts to return their world to a proper state of mundane affairs. “That was dreadfully exciting. And I dare say we indeed accomplished our goals,” seeing that the two children are reunited safe and sound. “I take it, dear friend ghost, that that was indeed the great wizard you mentioned?”
The ghost, in rare form, perhaps from seeing so many crows smashed to bits around his feet, is again smiling, and sighing in relief, and nodding his nebulous head. “Yes! The owl must have passed the word to the scarecrow, who in turn told the wizard….” But that statement, in a much truer return to form, is followed by an outburst of tears, “I hope he’s not mad at me!”
Carbon once again flattens his ears, and narrows his eyes, “Oh no! We’ve got to do something about your ghastly depression!” And the cat turns to more controllable matters. “Valmora! How are you? Are you okay? And how is this lost little canine of yours?” He looks over to see the two children are smiling, each asking one another if everything is okay.
“Water, did that wicked old thing hurt you?” Valmora asks the little werewolf.
“Nah…,” the little boy-cub says. “And I still got all my candy!” He smiles holding up his loot for her to see.
With her own treats half lost down a dark street, she cringes, embarrassed by her earlier goals of conquest into the candied kingdom of Halloween… not to mention getting involved with the whole Pumpkinheart affair. “I’m so sorry, Water. I’ll never drag either of us out into a mess like this ever again!” She hugs him, though Watrous rolls his eyes knowing that she’ll definitely forget those words next time another big mess just happens to happen.
Valmora then gives her attention to the cat and begins her introductions. Carbon and Watrous shake paws. And then she introduces her little brother to their terribly sad friend the ghost, that is between snuffles and sinus trumpeting.
Wondering if the ghost, finally, shouldn’t be happier, she ponders the events. “Do you suppose that everything is okay now? What will happen to the wizard, and the witch, and Pumpkinheart?” For herself and her friends she feels happy, but unsure the battle over that lovely powerful jewel is by any means finished.
The ghost calms down just a bit, self-loathing somewhat lessened, as he realizes the truth in his own upcoming statement, “Oh, I’m sorry to say, but the battle we witnessed here tonight has been going on long before your great-great-grandparents were born. Tonight, you were just a small part of it, and you did a good deed in the struggle. I suppose I was a small part too, and I hope I helped set things right. The great wizard of the pumpkin patch will eventually shake off, or should I say spit out the witch, and he will find the next new home for the Pumpkinheart tonight… but I’m sure that wretched crone will follow. She always does…”
Carbon chimes in, “Be glad of things Valmora! The witch lost the battle tonight! I only hope next year’s pumpkin patch is just as well guarded.” Carbon chuckles to see the ghost puff up with a bit of pride at the night’s outcome. Inwardly though, the cat shivers from a thought of ongoing battles.
“Well, I see no reason to stick around here. Let’s go everyone!” Carbon rallies and jumps from the table toward the door. And the members of the little group quickly follow. They are all so eager to exit this cottage, and to get back home; they travel outside, across the old porch, through the debris of the night, and stand at the edge of the road. There they sit for just a moment, hesitant now to head off in their separate directions.
Valmora crouches down low to speak eye to eye with the cat. “Thank you, so much, Carbon. I don’t know what I would have done if you had not found me crying at the Kilkennys.” As then, she sniffles just a bit despite all the complaints they had directed earlier at the morbid ghost for such dribble. “I suppose when I see you again we won’t be able to talk.”
“Ah, indeed,” Carbon sympathizes. “That is certainly true. This Halloween charm is going to fly away soon. But sometimes,” he winks secretly, nodding sideways toward the ghost, “it is best just to communicate silently. Please, you and Watrous, come by the farm sometime, and my meows and purrs will mean more than anything I could say with human words.” She giggles and lovingly pats the cat’s head.
After that, in turn she stands and faces the ghost. “We couldn’t have fixed anything without your help tonight. I really am sorry again to have caused such a stir. Please, if you can, tell the scarecrow too, I’m sorry to have created such a great commotion this night, and I’m so thankful for everyone’s help. Perhaps, I can help you in the future?”
The ghost does his best to control his tears, though he is obviously close to bawling, and manages to whisper, “I’m so happy I didn’t spend this night sulking in a well. It’s been wonderful to spend time in human company again, and in good conversation… well, that is, human conversation you see…” and he winks secretly, as unaware of the jab, Carbon’s own attention is currently turned to Watrous telling him to be good, and for he and his sister to watch after one another.
Valmora giggles at the ongoing squabble of her new friends, but her attention is drawn down the road where a car approaches. She turns to see Watrous squealing and waving. It is their parents’ car, and Valmora groans wondering if she can come up with anything remotely believable to explain to her parents this night’s trick-or-treat mayhem.
The ghost is disappearing behind tall grasses, and Carbon is crouching in shadows as the car’s headlights illuminate the night. Safely hidden, the cat and the ghost peer out at the strange world of humans, as the two children gather their trick-or-treat goodies and wait by the side of the road.
The door to the car opens and immediately there is a torrent of adult voices expressing concerns, questions, and outright shock to see the two of them trick-or-treating out of the neighborhood. What a scare they have caused! What worry! What a peck of trouble they are going to be in for the next few weeks!
Valmora sighs with a smile, happy to be heading home even to the doom of impending restrictions. The two children climb into the car, and as she prepares for endless scolding, Watrous already spins impossible yarns of ghosts, witches, talking cats, and giant pumpkins. As the car door closes, she assures her parents that the boy has just had too much sugar, and between breaths of his fantastical tale, apologizes again and again, and again.
She looks outside the car window and smiles secretly to her new friends. Carrying the children off toward their next adventure, the big car revs its engine and pulls away toward home. From behind it, the little black cat and the soggy ghost wave, and are later seen setting off into the night to also start their next adventure… all of them into the wondrous spell of Halloween night.
The little queen, the talking black cat, and the sad drippy ghost peer out of the bushes, out upon the dreary cottage. The house looks much worse than Valmora remembers and they are all amazed to see the cottage is actually shedding. Every once in a while, a shingle will slide toward the eaves, or a shutter swing off its hinges, or a piece of brick, a plank, or pane of glass flake off and come crashing violently down. Surrounding the weird cottage, the yard swarms with shrill crows all of which occasionally speed off, startled, as pieces of the house clatter to the ground. In agitation most of the flock squabbles and brawls.
Valmora’s group remains hidden, not daring to get any closer. They watch the black form of the witch, with her pointy hat and long crooked nose, moving around past various windows. Her unfriendly silhouette is like an eyeball in the leering windows of the cottage, and it appears as if the building itself is rolling its eyes in search of intruders. Our heroes, hidden in the bushes, strain to catch any indication of Watrous or the Pumpkinheart, without a sign.
Carbon takes charge. “Okay, my good company, with this terrible lot of crows there is no way, even for a sneaky cat like me, or a waterspout ghost, to reach any side of this building without the witch getting the alarm. We’ve most certainly got to use our plans for stealth and surprise,” and he looks over to the ghost who lets out a pitiful little sniffle.
On this unfortunate cue the sad spirit departs toward the road, toward a gutter. There he slips into the grill as a ribbon of vapor until some moments later he has traveled through the pipe system and found a drain leading into the house. The thin body as nothing but a vapor trail wafts upward from the basin. And there a head slowly coalesces, floating above an old sink.
He peers about the empty kitchen. The room, like the rest of the cottage is illuminated, and here the light reveals walls of innumerable shelves covered in various bottles coded with indecipherable labels for unknowable contents. They are apparently the ingredients used in the recipes of variously abandoned concoctions stacked here and there throughout the room. Each cooking pot has spilled over in an assortment of fresh oozing glop, fuzzy green spores, and ancient crusts. “I’m glad I can’t smell,” he whispers quietly and miserably to himself.
From the other room he hears the witch stomping madly back and forth through the house, and it makes bottles rattle nervously. She doesn’t seem to have any interest in the kitchen, so the ghost decides to start snooping. He uncurls out of the drain and drifts as a non-embodied head, in and out piles of variously sized pots. Then reaching a connecting door, he peeks out ever so slightly.
The distant end of the larger room burns with a massive fireplace of dirty smoke occasionally belching around the mantel. Strewn about it are bulky antique cabinets and tables that reverberate as her feet impact unsteady floorboards. The witch is currently in the middle of the room, her silhouette dark against fire. She is walking place-to-place, frantically packing up assorted things into a black leather case. High upon an elaborate metal stand, beside the case, shimmers the Pumpkinheart casting reflected beams upon every surface. And in a large chair beside the table, the ghost spies the reflections hitting the frightened face of a small boy sitting with legs tucked, chin to knees, and face flinching every time the witch flings something into the open bag.
On one particular circuit, the witch pauses by one of the cabinets. After sniffing the air with her big nose, she makes a hasty exit. The ghost sees his chance and immediately drifts over to the little boy. As he floats across the room his ethereal arms begin to materialize reaching outward, as he hopes to tell of the mission and of his sister. But unprepared for this fantastic apparition, the little werewolf howls in fright! The ghost moans and shushes him, and tries to explain… but it is too late. From behind him the witch’s black form is already towering.
In her hands she holds an upside down jar and a wand. As she taps the wand to the rim, the ghost feels his body drawn toward the container. Though he frantically tries to pull away back toward the kitchen, and escape through the drain, instead his body turns into a ribbon of plasma and flows like thin syrup in reverse. And before he can release a single tear of dismay, she has tightly spun the container’s top. He is completely bottled up, a trapped spirit.
The boy whimpers in his furry werewolf costume, having no idea what to make of any of this, while the dark lips of the witch let slip a dry cackle of laughter. “I am sorry little whelp, but that was someone come to save you. But I won’t have it! Do you hear?” And as she cackles some more, the laughter is joined by the rough cawing of a crow landing upon her shoulder. The horrid pair leer at the disembodied face whimpering in the jar. The crow tormentingly taps the container with his beak, and the ghost winces which sends his despicable captors into a raucous outburst.
The witch sets the jar on the table and sneers over her shoulder. “We’ve got a couple more guests, my little pup! I think it’s time we allow them inside.”
She glances at the now attentive crow and lifting the bird to her face, whispers. The crow flies out of a nearby window, and in flight around the house carefully scans the edge of the woods. During a wide circle, it spies the little queen and the black cat worriedly whispering to one another behind a bush; they have heard the screams and are desperately discussing plans. Having spotted them, the crow calls its fellow minions away into the night, their departure leaving the house fairly quiet except for occasional shedding of deconstruction. The little girl and the cat peek out through the bushes astounded to hear the great sound of so many wings taking off at once, leaving the molting house now completely unguarded.
“Stay here!” Carbon commands, and then runs toward the house, and there leaps upon the porch railing. Clambering up a rickety lattice, he finds his way to an open window. But to complicate matters, Valmora, being obviously headstrong, is far too concerned after hearing her brother’s scream. With ideas of her own, she is also making her way toward the house. Bats flurry around her in an effort to keep the child safe; and she reaches the house just in time to see Carbon slip out of sight inside the nearby window.
At this stage any existing plan the group may have made is completely lost. Having no idea what to do, Valmora runs around to the front of the house, to the old porch where the children’s night of trick-or-treat derailed just a short time ago. She boldly pushes open the front door, to meet the danger that lurks inside.
Entering directly into the large fire-lit room, Valmora is greeted by a long dark silhouette, the horrendous creature that transformed beneath the streetlight. Suddenly confronted by the witch, the fearful girl stalls now, unsure what to do next. Sensing the danger, a small contingent of bats flood into the room to defend her, but they instead drop, one by one stunned as they pass the threshold. The remaining bats flutter hesitantly outside the door, away from the spell.
“You have a severe deficiency when it comes to manners, your royalty? And the place is an absolute mess,” the witch snarls. “Well, it’s no matter. Do come closer. I was packing for a trip before you so impolitely dropped by my humble abode. And I see you’ve brought friends. Sadly though your new acquaintances are as dreadfully rude as you.” And she sweeps her hand toward the table holding both the ghost-filled jar, and a new addition, a birdcage holding Carbon. There is no jewel; there is no sign of her brother.
“I’m so sorry Valmora,” worries Carbon. “She certainly is a most wretched creature.”
“You see,” interrupts the witch, “a good hostess plans ahead no matter the occasion. But, unfortunately, I really have to leave town you see. With so many uninvited guests you never know who is going to show up next! But since you are all so eager to see me, I’ve decided just to pack you all up for the trip. It’s going to be horrible fun, my dear! Shall I show you the royal dungeon?”
“You tricked me,” scowls Valmora, as if suddenly sharing new information.
“Tsk-tsk, your honored highness. This is All Hallow’s Eve! And I am a dark nasty witch! Would you honestly expect any different? You humans can be so naïve. You come to a stranger’s door and request trick-or-treat. Well, I didn’t give any treats you see. You were tricked! You took the jewel from the pumpkin patch, which I could not, and from there willingly handed it to me. So by the rules of this Halloween charm, it now belongs to me.
“But we have a bit of a problem, your majesty, and so I accept your intrusion. You see, once the Pumpkinheart is removed from the ground it begins to fade. I know how to tap its powers but the jewel needs a battery, or it could become inert. I need to transplant the little jewel as quickly as possible! But I don’t dare plant it in the ground where the pumpkins may find it again. So as a dark and nasty witch, I can think of nothing better than testing it on what my kin abhor the most - children!”
Valmora stares dumbly at her, having no idea what the long-winded hag could mean. And this only sends a sneer across the lips of the witch who laughs again. “My dear monarch of ignorant mortals. You really have no idea of the powers that move through the earth this night, and every night. A seed needs to be nourished, especially one that catalyses the transference of power to a billion pumpkins in a single night.”
Valmora looks to Carbon and the ghost, who both shrug their shoulders in shared misery at their helplessness. Carbon can only guess. “I have no clue what this revolting monster is babbling on about…”
The witch laughs unnervingly at her mad inventiveness. She glares down at the little girl and comes frighteningly close. “Hasn't anyone told you, to never ever swallow a watermelon seed? Well, let’s say we try a magical pumpkin seed, and see what happens!” And at that she shrieks even louder in maniacal amusement.
Confused and tired, Valmora interrupts the woman’s insane babbles, and demands of the atrocious, conniving witch, “Where is my brother!”
“Don’t fret. He’s safe for now.” The witch fumes, “But I have no more time to argue. I believe it’s time to pack our suitcase, and we will all just have to see what happens next.” And with those words, so much indeed happens. The witch removes her hat and places it upon the table, the hat revealed as some sort of mechanical contraption. The conical top of the hat opens up like shutter doors, and reveals a pair of horrific mechanized eyes and a terrible gear-work maw, rotating and aligning upon objects in the room. While Carbon is pleading from the cage for Valmora to run, the hat faces toward the black feline who, covered in orange beams of light, disappears. This is followed by a similar occurrence upon the shivering ghost that upon vanishing leaves behind a trembling bottle of empty air.
The hat then slowly rotates toward Valmora. But during this final rotation something bizarrely wonderful happens. That something is altogether different, and it is taking place outside of the witch’s control; in the ceiling from behind the old crone, large black hands are ripping a hole through the roof of the small cottage.
(to be continued...)
“That’s weird…” Valmora muses as they reach the playground’s exit. She has noticed a peculiar change. “I used to walk back and forth to this school when it was still open, so I know we’re heading the right way, but this road was much nicer even just earlier tonight. Now it’s just creepy! The last time I was here, the street lamps were lit and there was a proper sidewalk. But just look at all the tall weeds overgrowing all of it. Seems as if the few trees around here have turned into a forest. I can’t even see the moon.”
Beside the playground gate, Valmora and the ghost pause at the side of this road. She is unsure but tells herself that roads don’t change overnight. Carbon is many steps ahead but he looks back questioningly. Beyond him stretches the forested area, wind whistling gently and limbs creaking.
Valmora remains in place and shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “This just doesn’t look like the same road. I have a very hard time believing we would have ever walked through here! I didn’t want a jewel that badly, did I?”
“Ah, this is not so scary!” The ghost whines in a fashion that Valmora has learned makes every fact, good or bad, sound like the worst thing in the world. “But I can tell you I sense a charm in the air. I think you are seeing things now as they really are. Or else they only appear to have worsened.” As usual the statement is followed by a pitiful sob. And after a few more sniffles after which he blows his nose, he continues to assure, “I am a ghost you know. I’m not so easily spooked.”
But at the flutter of wings just a few feet above their heads, they all jump having only just minutes ago escaped the terror of the crows. This time, in an old broken tree there is a hoot owl alighting on a branch. He settles as if purposely facing them, and tilts his head a few times together with a couple of quick blinks. The stunned silence is broken as he calls down to them, “Whooo whoo, whoo whoooo.”
Carbon sits down, calling out to the group not to worry, and looks up at the owl. “Is that so?” he replies. “Well, my fine feathered friend, I can’t say we would know what to make of that statement. For all we know you might be just another accomplice of the witch.”
Valmora walks nervously over to the cat as the owl turns to look. In response she crouches low beside Carbon. “You know what the owl is saying?”
“Well, of course, my dear girl. I can decipher quite a few bird languages, though I’ve never been able to speak them. Basically, in human terms, he is warning of danger, that there is a witch up ahead.”
His big eyes blinking, the owl watches the trio down below. He perches there impatiently yet seemingly waiting for an appropriate response.
“Can you talk to him?” Valmora asks the cat.
“Well, uhm, I don’t think so, but I’ll try,” and Carbon attempts a few lame hoots back at the owl. In return the owl blinks and extends his ruffled wings. His beak pops open-and-shut a few times. But ultimately he settles upon the branch; the head is cocked with big eyes winking, yet the creature remains silent as if puzzled beyond reply.
“Hmmm, I see, well I guess the answer is no, I cannot speak owl. But just maybe he knows a bit of cat?”
“Oh no!” the ghost bellyaches. “From what I heard earlier, he’ll never understand your bad cat impression.”
Carbon flattens his ears, and looks over at the pitiful spirit. “Look, sir, have I mentioned to you what a pleasure it will be once this Halloween charms flies away? No more conversations with your miserable soul…”
“Oh, now, don’t get snippy with me,” the ghost whines, “I just clobbered a few foul bird brains for you earlier… so show a bit of respect.”
Valmora steps in and urgently whispers at the the two of them. “My friends, we’re in a hurry!”
Carbon stops short of a full retort to the ghost, and responds with calm civility. “Quite true, my dear Valmora,” and instead turns to the owl, though he slyly flips his tail self-importantly in a silent gesture meant for the spirit. He proceeds to meow a few of his best, though still obviously human, impressions of how a cat might sound, trying his best to remember his native cat tongue.
“Whooo whoo,” the owl cries. It blinks, waves it feathers, and follows with a few more hoots and various beak clacks.
“I see then!” Carbon says to his friends. “Well, then here is the news. The owl says the witch house is just up ahead. And the place is guarded by many crows.”
“Whoo whoooo, whoooo, whoo whoo.”
“He also says the witch has captured a small werewolf?”
“Watrous!” Valmora whispers loudly to the cat and she looks hopefully upward at the informative owl. Adjusting her nervous crouch to a more regal air, once more as royalty, Valmora now accepts his audience. “Ask him if he can help us?” Valmora asks Carbon as the ghost snuffles under his breath that he alone would be happy to flatten a huge number of those awful crows.
Carbon meows up at the owl. This time though there is again the long silence, and Carbon confides to Valmora, “I’m pretty sure he understood. He seems to be ignoring my question.” Carbon looks up, semi-repeating his earlier string of cat sounds, but much longer this time as if telling a story to which at the end, the owl extends his handsome wings, clacks his beak, and hoots before calming.
Carbon sighs. “Well, basically the simple answer is no. And considering what we are about to do, I would guess owls are smart creatures after all.”
Valmora sighs but she is not one to argue with a wise old owl. “Then we must be on our way. The owl has at least given us good information.”
“Wait,” the ghost interjects. “We do need one thing: a messenger. I asked the scarecrow to stall the pumpkin wizard until we could return the jewel. But the scarecrow should be told of recent events. This bird could tell him of our further travels, and the location of the witch house. Will you ask the owl to go there and tell him these things?”
Carbon meows back at the owl, to which the owl returns in a number of brief hoots. And Carbon mews briefly back in an appreciative tone.
“Good,” Carbon announces to their little group. “The owl will fly to the scarecrow. He is going to take his evening’s hunt in that direction and will pass on the information, killing two, uhm, rats, as it were…” but before the cat can complete the pronouncement, the owl lifts off the branch. They watch the raptor’s shadow travel over them, and past the derelict schoolhouse.
“Well,” moans the ghost, “it’s always a good idea to let someone know where you are going, or else when disaster hits, no one will find you.” He breaks into a crying jag that neither Carbon nor Valmora can stop. They wait for a few minutes but, when there is no apparent change in the specter’s attitude, agree to continue onward hoping their nebulous grief-stricken friend will catch up.
“Are all ghosts like that?” She wonders aloud, doing as much as she can to hold a conversation as they pass through the unbearably dark road leading them ever closer to the terrifying encounter with the witch.
Carbon walks slightly ahead, always on the watch for trouble. “Well, I haven’t met many ghosts but I think they’re as different as cats. And he was once human; we cats are still mystified with all you various people types.
“Anyway, I think he fell into that old well, and broke his neck or some such thing. It’s all very sad really. Humans can be so clumsy… uh, well, no offense to you. Anyway, I’m always patient with the guy around the farm, but until tonight, speaking with him, I had no idea how insufferable he could act. I can’t help but wonder if someone pushed him down that well deliberately!” Carbon’s ears flatten as he glances back at the ghost, still crying in the middle of the road amidst the dark woods.
Carbon faces front, and spots what seems to be a dim shaft of moonlight. He turns to Valmora asking her to wait and vanishes into the darkness. She sits there alone listening to the scraping of branches in the wind and, on occasion, the insufferable whimpers of the ghost, which isn’t helping calm her awful chills. She wants to ask for his company but is too frightened to call out.
After what seems to pass as an eternity, she hears Carbon approaching, identifying himself so as not to scare her. “I think I have found the witch,” he informs. “There is a cottage up ahead, a tattered gray thing with a big front porch, just as you described. The lights are on inside. Crows surround the house though, and they are making terrible noises quarreling with one another, which at least helped me come and go unnoticed. But I couldn’t get close enough to see into any of the windows.”
He sits next to her and ponders the situation, “There is no way you and I alone can do this. I think we should try and get through to the ghost, ask for his help…”
“Oh, don’t bother, I am already here,” says the ghost, uselessly trying to dry his eternal tears with the back of his hands. “I have some company.” His words are followed by chattering in the air, and Valmora identifies the bats. She remembers the flying animals’ brave attack on the witch earlier this evening. She spins about in the friendly cloud and speaks both apologetic and welcoming words.
Carbon spins his confused head about, eyes wide, taking in the haphazard flight patterns of the new arrivals. He looks pleased. “Well, my friends, I think we have gathered together everyone we could, and more than I ever expected. I suggest we take a moment now to make a plan!” And the group huddles, preparing their whispered scheme, as the bats flit above them in an obscure blur.
(to be continued...)
