Ask the Bones (2 page)

Hasan thanked the Khan and hurried away. By the time he reached the haunted forest, night had fallen. He carried a flaming torch that lit up the path, but the circle of light made the surrounding woods seem much darker and far more dangerous.

Never before had Hasan ventured into the depths of the forest, and never at night. His torch made eerie shadows, and branches rubbed in the wind, rasping and groaning overhead. Hasan remembered hearing about evil spirits who trapped their victims within the trunks of trees. But he told himself he heard only the wind, nothing more. Still, he trembled.

Suddenly he heard a faint rustling in the dry leaves beside the path, and he remembered his mother's stories about hairy arms shooting up through the leaves to pull unwary travelers into the depths of the earth. Just stories? Then why was his heart pounding so?

He stopped, his eyes darting left and right. There was something very dark and very large looming ahead. He held his torch high, breathing fast, but he saw that it was merely the tumbledown wall of an old castle. He decided he would rather meet the beast in daylight, so he prepared to spend the night there, sheltered by the castle's remaining walls.

He gathered some wood and soon had a fire blazing. Its warmth made him drowsy, but just as he was closing his eyes he heard the rustling again. Was something rising up through the leaves on the forest floor? Then he heard a soft voice.

“I'm cold,” it said. “May I sit by your fire?”

Hasan jumped up and held his sword ready. Could something monstrous be lurking there, making its voice sweet as honey?

Hairy arms slid around the end of the castle wall. Or were they hairy legs?

Hasan raised his sword high above his head, his hands trembling, ready to strike.

Whatever it was, it spoke again, even more gently than before. “Fear not,” it said, “and do not believe what you are about to see. Although I look like a giant spider, I am really a girl.”

A shiny black body, with the longest, hairiest legs Hasan had ever seen, scuttled into the circle of firelight. Was this one of the monsters his mother had warned him about?

Hasan gripped his sword even more tightly. But the spider stayed on the opposite side of the fire.

“One day my veil slipped,” it said, “when an evil magician was passing by. He saw my face and wanted to marry me. So I ran. And that's when he called upon Suliman, son of David, the one who honors all requests, and turned me into a spider.”

Hasan wanted to believe the spider, but he needed proof. “Recite the evening prayer,” he said, “if you truly are a person.” And the spider spoke the words in its soft and gentle voice.

Hasan lowered his sword. “Maybe we can find something to release you from the spell,” he said.

“And maybe I can help you,” said the spider, “for I know why you are here.” It moved close to Hasan, folded its long hairy legs and watched over him while he slept.

The next morning, Hasan was awakened by a hideous roar that made the very earth shudder. He and the spider leaped to their feet just as a monstrous lion jumped over the castle wall. It was ten times bigger than any lion on earth, with its ears laid back, tail lashing, and claws ready to cut them to bits.

And it could talk.

“Who dares trespass in my forest?” it roared. And before the amazed Hasan could draw his sword, the lion slammed him to the ground with one huge paw and pinned the spider's legs with another. “I eat all who enter here! I ate the woodsmen. I ate the berry pickers. I ate the soldiers. I ate the hunters and now ...”

It opened its mouth wide and exposed its razor-sharp fangs.

“Wait, wait,” cried Hasan. “Don't you want to hear the spider's story first?”

The mighty lion closed its mouth. “Perhaps,” it said and lifted its paws.

The spider spoke so sadly about the life it had led since meeting the evil magician that the lion took pity on it. “Come to my cave,” said the lion to the spider, “where I have some magic ointment. A sorcerer gave it to me in exchange for safe passage through my forest. Let's see what it will do.”

So the monstrous lion led Hasan and the spider down into the depths of its cave. It pawed aside a pile of rocks and brought forth a small clay pot. Then the lion dipped a stick into the ointment and rubbed it on the spider's head. A cloud of smoke enveloped the spider. And when it swirled away, a veiled maiden stood before them, clothed in shimmering silk. She was as lovely a girl as Hasan had ever seen. He was beside himself with joy.

So was the girl. “Thank you, dear lion,” she cried. “I will be grateful to you forever.”

But the lion was not listening. It lashed its tail and snarled ferociously. “I have always said people taste better than spiders—and two make a delicious meal.”

It sprang toward them.

The girl threw the magic ointment at the lion.

Hasan swung his sword.

But who was the quickest?

Did Hasan cut off the lion's head and carry it to the palace? Were he and the girl rewarded with a magic carpet that flew them around the world?

Or did the girl fling the magic ointment in time to turn the lion into a kitten?

Or, horror of horrors, did the lion gobble up Hasan and the girl with a bloodcurdling
crunch?

It all depends on whether the spots on this page are tears of joy or drops of blood ... You decide!

 

 

 

I
ts face was grotesque, with wrinkled cheeks, staring eyes, and lips twisted into a hideous grin.

But its body was worse. It was shriveled, with hairy arms. And a fishlike tail hung where its legs should be.

“It's a pickled mermaid,” said the druggist, his eyes glowing. “I bought it from a sailor.”

The druggist's assistant shuddered. The boy had seen more than enough of his employer's ghastly specimens lined up in the back room, all floating in bottles of brine. A shrunken sea serpent with two heads. Something dredged up from the depths of the ocean that was all spines and teeth. A gelatinous blob studded with bulging eyes.

And just this morning a new bottle had appeared on the highest shelf, a bottle identical to the one that enclosed the pickled mermaid. But the liquid was too murky for the boy to see what was inside.

Whatever it was, it fascinated the druggist. He often slipped into the back room to visit his newest specimen. And when he emerged, his sharp face was lit up by an evil grin. He looked like a thief who had just stolen a fortune in gold.

The druggist enjoyed having a pickled mermaid on his front counter. He watched his customers' faces and snorted with laughter when he saw their looks of horror and disgust.

One old woman tugged at the druggist's arm, pulling his head low so she could whisper in his ear. “You'll be sorry,” she said. “Merfolk don't take kindly to anyone who harms them.”

But the druggist just shrugged. He combed his fingers through his pointed goatee, separating the gray hairs in the center from the black ones on each side. “I fear nothing,” he said. Then he smirked like someone relishing a secret.

But at that very moment, something happened that surprised even the druggist.

Suddenly the sun was eclipsed by a jet-black sky. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and rain poured forth as if all the water on earth had risen to the heavens in order to fall upon this coastal city.

Never before had the residents of Charleston experienced such a furious storm. At night they pulled their pillows over their heads, shutting out the flashes of blinding light. But they could not escape the ear-splitting thunder. It rattled their beds and sent tremors of fear all the way down to their toes.

They desperately hoped the weather would change. But it did not. Night after night and day after day, the violent storm assaulted the city.

Evil-smelling water oozed into cellars. Yowling cats climbed onto roofs and into treetops. And inch by inch the water rose in the streets until it lapped at the steps of the druggist's store.

As the days dragged on, residents began to mutter. Surely there was a reason for such a storm.

The old woman who had warned the druggist began to roam the streets, crying out hysterically—“The merfolk are angry,” she shrieked. “We'll all drown unless the mermaid is returned to the sea.”

Down by the docks, the superstitious sailors agreed. They believed that merfolk controlled the weather, accompanying ships they liked through gentle seas and sending those they disliked into the teeth of violent storms.

“This flood is the druggist's fault,” they said. “He's the one who has a pickled mermaid!”

The word spread from alley to alley, lane to lane. Soon residents were pouring out of their houses and marching toward the druggist's store. Wind raged, tearing at their clothes and whipping the neverending rain into their eyes. They slogged along the streets, knee-deep in mud, and at each crossing they were joined by others, fists raised and faces contorted by anger and fear.

By the time the mob arrived at the store, the druggist had sent his assistant to bolt the front door. The marchers were furious. They pounded on the door with their fists. “Give us your mermaid,” they shouted. “Give us your mermaid if you value your life!”

The druggist raced upstairs and leaned out a second-story window. “I have no mermaid,” he said. “It was only a trick.”

“We saw her,” someone shouted, and everyone began chanting, “We saw her.”

“You're wrong,” yelled the druggist, and he sent his assistant to get the bottle from the front counter.

The boy wrestled it up the stairs, and the druggist held it in front of the window. But before he could uncork it, a rock was flung by someone at the back of the crowd. It hit the bottle and shattered it. Now the druggist was angry. He kicked aside the broken glass with his brine-soaked shoes and picked up the slimy creature.

“You fools!” he said. “Watch.” And he snipped at hidden stitches around its waist. When the two halves fell free, he waved them in front of the crowd. “The bottom is the tail of a fish, the top is part of a monkey. I tricked you all.”

This enraged the mob. Not only had they been fooled but the rain was still pouring down, and now they had no mermaid to throw back into the sea.

They picked up dead rats floating past their knees and hurled them at the druggist. “No one else in Charleston would capture a mermaid,” a man shouted. “You must have one somewhere.” And he threw a handful of mud that found its target.

The druggist backed away from the window, wiping the muck off his face, his eyes flashing.

More mud and stones thudded against the store. Windows broke, and a wooden panel in the front door splintered.