The Hotel Under the Sand (15 page)

It was Winston, all right. He was more transparent than he had been the first time she had met him, in the Dunes, and he didn’t seem to know that she was there. He hung in the wind, twisting and turning as though he were in terrible pain, lamenting softly. His kind face was so sad that Emma wanted to cry.

But she didn’t cry. She stamped her foot in the sand and turned to Masterman. “We’ve got to help him!”

Masterman was still on the verandah, staring at Winston in horror, and Emma realized he was frightened. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?” she demanded.

“He’s not supposed to leave the hotel,” said Masterman. “But—I guess when we moved it, the hotel left
him. ”

“But why didn’t he go with it? Why is he stuck here?” said Emma, but even as she asked, she began to have an idea what the answer might be. “Oh! When the hotel went under the sand, he was pitched out of it—and he was trying to find it when the storm caught him and he died—and so—”

“He was buried too,” said Masterman, who had gone very pale. “And his body must be here someplace. He can’t leave as long as his body is here.”

Both the children were silent for a moment as the horrible truth sank in on them. All the while Winston’s spirit had been happily working inside the Grand Wenlocke, his mortal remains had been lying somewhere underneath it, lost in the sand.

Emma turned and ran toward the front steps. “What are you going to do?” said Masterman, running along the verandah.

“We
are going to get a couple of shovels and dig up Winston’s body,” said Emma.

“But he’ll be a shriveled-up mummy, or even a skeleton!” said Masterman. “And it may take us days to find him!”

“I don’t care!” said Emma. “We can’t leave him here.”

Emma told Mrs. Beet and Captain Doubloon, who had arrived from the beach at last, what they were going to do. Captain Doubloon obligingly pulled a couple of small shovels from inside his coat and handed them to the children.

“If I was you, I’d dig under the place where his ghost is crying,” he said.

“Neddy, dearest, you can’t let the children go by themselves!” said Mrs. Beet. “Go on, the three of you, and save Winston! I’ll go see to the guests.”

Emma grabbed Masterman by the hand and pulled him with her as she ran back behind the hotel. Shorty galloped after them, and Captain Doubloon followed at a distance, puffing and panting as he stumped along.

When they got back to where Winston’s specter drifted, Emma called out, “Don’t worry, Winston! We’ll get you back in the hotel somehow! ”

“I don’t think he can hear you,” said Masterman sourly.

“What are you being so crabby for?” said Emma, plunging her shovel into the sand.

“Corpses scare me, that’s all,” said Masterman. “Silly of me, but there it is.”

“Well, life is full of scary things,” said Emma, as she dug.

“That’s true, but we Wenlockes see more of them than most people,” said Masterman. “People think it must be wonderful to see fairies and unicorns and all that, but they don’t know about the awful things that exist right beside them. It’s why children learn to pretend magic isn’t real. If you saw the things I used to see in my dreams at night, you’d never sleep again.”

Emma thought about the dark cold rooms that had been Mr. Wenlocke’s, and decided
she
would never be brave enough to spend the night in there.

“Does your great-grandfather haunt his old rooms?” she asked Masterman.

“No,” Masterman replied. “He just put so much magical protection in there it cast shadows all over the place. It’s supposed to seem scary, to outsiders. But I don’t mind it, because I know what it is.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind this, either,” Emma said. “This isn’t just any old corpse. This is Winston we’re trying to find, and he’s our friend, and you’ll never keep the hotel running without him. So let’s dig!”

Shorty was already helping out, scrabbling away with his little forepaws as fast as he could. Masterman set to work too. Captain Doubloon arrived at last, gasping slightly, and watched their progress.

They dug and dug and dug, and found nothing but sand for the longest time, as the ghost moaned in midair above them. Dry sand kept sliding back downhill into the hole they were making. But then—

“Here’s a shoe!” said Masterman.

“Where?” Emma bent down to see. Sticking out of the sand was an old black leather shoe. It was dull and had cracked and curled up with age, but looked as though it might once have been one of Winston’s perfectly polished shoes.

“Is there a foot still in it?” asked Masterman, hiding his eyes.

“Er—I reckon I’d best take over now,” said Captain Doubloon. “You come on out of there, lass. This ain’t likely to be a pretty sight.”

“No,” said Emma, exploring with the edge of the shovel. “I can do this.” She thought about Winston fetching her a clamshell of water when she had first arrived at the Dunes, and how he had helped her to survive the night of the sandstorm. She knew that whatever scary thing might be buried beneath her feet, she had a duty to find it for Winston. She dug carefully, freeing the shoe.

Masterman leaned down and grabbed up Shorty before the little dog could pounce on the shoe. Right next to the shoe was a second shoe, and underneath them…

“It’s Winston’s hat,” she said, and had to bite her lip very hard to keep from crying. Cautiously she lifted it out, and saw that she had not made a mistake: it was Winston’s white Bell Captain’s hat, though it too was cracked and shriveled with age. But its gold badge still gleamed brightly, and so did the twenty brass buttons that were piled up inside it, along with a double handful of strange white dust.

Masterman stared at the dust with eyes like saucers.

“That’s all that’s left of him,” he said. Emma realized that the relentless blowing sands had so scoured and polished poor Winston’s bones that they had ground them down to powder, white as angel wings.

“It’s
not
all that’s left of him,” said Emma, blinking back tears. “It’s just all that’s left of his old body. Come on!”

She picked up the shoes too and marched back to the Grand Wenlocke. The crying wraith was pulled after her, like a balloon on a string. Shorty jumped from Masterman’s arms and ran along too. After a moment Masterman followed behind, dragging the two shovels. Captain Doubloon followed as fast as he could, but he still hadn’t caught his breath yet, so he wheezed like an old accordion.

They went straight up the verandah steps and into the Lobby. The guests had come into the Lobby from the Bar and were standing around anxiously. Even the beautiful people, who usually took no notice of anyone but themselves, looked worried.

On the threshold Emma paused, wondering what to do next. She remembered that sometimes people keep the ashes of people they loved in fancy vases. There was a pair of tall, particularly elegant vases, all blue and white and gold, on either side of the front desk. As the guests in the Lobby watched, she went to the nearest one and dropped Winston’s shoes in, and followed them with the hat full of dust.

WHOOSH! A pair of bright-gleaming stars appeared in midair, just about at eye level. Then a golden star appeared above it, and twenty lesser gold stars below, Winston’s Bell Captain’s badge and buttons, and then Winston stood again, quite real and solid.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “Heaven again! Thank you, Miss Emma! Thank you, Master Masterman!”

All the guests applauded, and Mr. Eleutherios played a celebratory tune on his guitar while his ladies danced. Mrs. Beet dropped a whole tray of canapés in her headlong rush to throw her arms around Winston and kiss him on the cheek. Shorty leaped gratefully onto the tray and munched up all the little watercress sandwiches and petits fours. Winston kissed Mrs. Beet back, and then he saluted.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Winston shouted. “We regret the slight delay, but are dee-lighted to inform you that the Grand Wenlocke will now commence its ocean cruise!”

So they started up the
By-the-Wind-Sailor
again, and the Grand Wenlocke inched ahead over the Dunes, down at last to the flat wet beach. Crabs scuttled in all directions from its colossal progress across the sand. Seagulls screamed in alarm as the whole vast building slid on, a few feet at a time. A wave broke against the frontmost barrels, and then another. The
By-the-Wind-Sailor
surged ahead, gaining speed. Suddenly the Grand Wenlocke lurched forward and bobbed a moment in the deeper water, before moving majestically out to sea.

T
HE
G
RAND
W
ENLOCKE
fared quite well on the open sea, cruising along so smoothly there were scarcely any ripples in the soup that Mrs. Beet served at luncheon. But there was no soup for Masterman; for, the moment they were afloat, Masterman had turned an unpleasant shade of green and begun to sweat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Emma asked him.

“What do you think is wrong with me?” Masterman groaned.

“Are you seasick?”

“No!” But it was plain that was exactly what was wrong. He turned away from her, but there in front of him were the big lobby windows, with the blue sea surging away outside, up and down, and cheerful whitecaps breaking on the veranda railings and splashing foam on the steps.

“Oh—” Masterman looked around, desperation in his eyes. Emma looked around too. While Victorian hotels were beautiful and grand, it is a sad fact that their bathrooms were usually located inconveniently far away, if indeed they were indoors at all. The Grand Wenlocke, being the very finest of its kind, had all its bathrooms indoors; but not within running distance of the Lobby, unfortunately.

“Oh—” Masterman began to stagger back and forth in a hopeless kind of way.

“Go out on the verandah and hang over the rail!” said Emma, trying to grab his arm. He just shook his head, pressing his lips tight together. At last he turned and ran down the stairs to the Kitchen, narrowly missing Winston who was coming up with a tray of light snacks for the gentlemen guests in the Bar. The snacks were anchovies and little sardines on toast, and pickled eggs, and sliced onions and caviar in pastry puffs. Masterman made a horrified sound as he dove past Winston, clapping his hands to his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” Winston called out, as Emma raced after Masterman.

“Seasick!” Emma shouted, and then added, “Him, not me!”

Masterman made it all the way to the bottom of the stairs before doubling up. Mrs. Beet, who was just sliding a pan of biscuits into the oven, turned in astonishment as he opened his mouth—

And out fell a green dragonfly. And another. And then a whole string of others, in blue and orange. They all looked as though they had just hatched, with their wings damp and crumpled. As Emma and Mrs. Beet stared, they one by one unfolded their wings and fluttered them. One or two lifted off and began to circle the room. Shorty, who had been dozing in his basket bed, woke up and noticed them. He leaped out and began to run in circles, barking and now and then making little jumps in the air at the dragonflies.

“What have you been eating?” said Emma. Masterman, clutching the stair rail, just gasped for breath and shook his head.

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Beet. “Seasick, is he?”

“He’s throwing up bugs!” said Emma. This made Masterman groan again, and then there were three red dragonflies and a luna moth opening their wings on the floor.

“What I heard was, Mr. Wenlocke’s brother used to do the same,” said Mrs. Beet, wiping her hands on her apron. “Couldn’t cross water to save his life. Had to travel by train or balloon anywhere he went, or he’d be coughing up orchids. It’s just one of those Wenlocke things. You sit down and put your head on your knees, dear. Now, what was it that was supposed to help? Ginger ale with some sort of flower petals steeped in it, I recollect. Was it roses? Or tulips?”

“I don’t want anything,” said Masterman tearfully, and a monarch butterfly dropped out on his shoes. “No—no, I want to die.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Emma, waving away the dragonflies, which were all flying about now. She was about to add that it was only seasickness, but decided not to, because Masterman was really miserable. Besides, Wenlocke seasickness didn’t seem to be like seasickness for anyone else.

In the end Winston carried him upstairs and set him on a chaise lounge in the Lobby, where he was draped with a shawl and lay limp, with his eyes tight closed. His face was still a delicate pea-green, and every so often he’d hiccup, upon which another dragonfly or perhaps a flight of moths would pop out. Soon there were several brightly colored tropical butterflies flitting up near the ceiling, where they were greatly admired by the hotel guests.

For three days, as they steamed along, he could take nothing but a few orange blossoms simmered in ginger sauce. Emma was a little annoyed that he was unable to do any of his duties, because she already had the extra work of passing Captain Doubloon’s meals over in the basket they had rigged on a clothesline and pulley. But, since it wasn’t Masterman’s fault he was sick, and since complaining wouldn’t help in any case, she just did what she had to do.