The Mapmaker and the Ghost (16 page)

Goldenrod swallowed hard. It couldn't be, though. She had liked the old lady so much. She'd been so nice to Goldenrod and told her all about the blue rose and sent her on a quest. A quest that, she reminded herself, technically would free Meriwether's spirit. On the other hand, the quest had proven to be quite dangerous, and maybe that wasn't such a good thing after all.

As she was pondering this latest mystery, suddenly she heard the sound of the front door being opened once more.

The old lady became very quiet beneath them, and Goldenrod and Birch strained to hear the new intruders.

At first they couldn't make out much, but then came the unmistakable voice of No-Bone.

“Why are you whispering?” he boomed as he made his way up the stairs.

“She might be home,” trailed Toe Jam's much quieter voice.

“So … what, you and I can't take on a hundred-year-old lady?”

With horror, Goldenrod suddenly noticed that the ladder that was lying flat in front of them was quickly slipping away. Down, down, down it went as the ceiling tile opened once more.

Step-by-step, the old lady climbed up it with a speed and agility that was surprising for someone of her age. She only looked up when she had reached the top.

She had to cover her mouth so as not to cry out, looking startled by the unexpected presence of an oddly colored Goldenrod and a small boy who was cowering into her arm.

Goldenrod gave a wan smile. “Um, hi,” she whispered awkwardly.

The old lady took her hand down from her mouth.

Goldenrod didn't know what to say or even how to react. An hour ago, she had been sure the old lady was her friend, and then a minute ago, she had been contemplating the possibilities of her being a witch. Although the more she looked into the familiar, though still rather ugly, eyes of the old woman, the more she remembered her own more positive feelings. With Birch pressed against her, Goldenrod could only think of one thing to say in the midst of her confusion. “This is my brother, Birch.”

Before the old lady could respond, the creaking from downstairs reminded them all where they were.

“We need to look for something heavy,” the old lady
said, and then proceeded to carefully examine the heaps of shiny objects that were all around them.

Goldenrod felt guilty about being found in the old lady's attic this way and started to look around too. There were lots of heavy metal things, including many trophies, and then a few random things also—like a very old baseball and some sort of dusty black cape.

“Never mind,” the old lady finally whispered. “I think I found the perfect thing.” She was holding an enormous gold trophy in her left hand as if it were featherlight. Birch looked up at her in wonder.

“Uncle Stewie's Kentucky Derby trophy. Never much liked the old man. He used to give me hard candy as a birthday present.” She rolled her eyes and then, noticing Birch's awe-filled expression, she added, “Don't worry, kid. I was a champion shot-putter. In fact, those are my Olympic gold medals just behind you.”

As Birch turned around to look, they suddenly heard a great deal of noise coming from downstairs. It sounded as if someone was tearing the old lady's bed apart.

“Your mattress. They think you're hiding a wad of cash under it,” Goldenrod whispered urgently, only then remembering what she was doing there to begin with.

“What do they think this is … the twentieth century?” the old lady asked as she shook her head. “Well, come on, then.”

Quietly she crept over to the door in the floor, grabbing the old dirt-and-ink-smeared baseball in her other hand as she passed by. “Hold that ladder while I open the door,” she whispered to Goldenrod.

Goldenrod did as she was told. As the old lady quietly inched the door open, Goldenrod fed the ladder to her so that when it finally hit the ground, it did so with barely a small bump. And as Toe Jam and No-Bone were deep in the middle of a loud discussion about why on earth someone would take the time to fold their sheets under the mattress, they didn't hear the old lady tiptoe down the ladder (in a surprising display of dexterity considering that she had both of her hands full), until she stood in front of them and yelled, “Freeze, you good-for-nothing scoundrels.”

At first, No-Bone and Toe Jam looked, of course, completely startled. But as soon as No-Bone saw the old lady ridiculously holding a trophy and an old baseball, he started to laugh. “Freeze … or … or what?” He was laughing so hard it was difficult to get the words out.

Suddenly there was a flash of white, and No-Bone stopped laughing almost immediately. He doubled over (or in his case, quadrupled over), screaming, and dropped the quilt he had been holding up. The old lady had thrown the baseball, hard, and it had hit him in his elbow.

“That's the strength of the 1927 Yankees for you,” the old lady said drily. “And you!” She turned suddenly to Toe
Jam. “Don't think I won't sacrifice your Great-Great-Uncle Stewie's trophy to teach you a lesson, you ungrateful piece of toe jam.”

Toe Jam's jaw opened so wide that Goldenrod, perched high above with her head poking out to catch all the action, could actually see all the way to his molars.

“Grandma…,” he finally managed to breathe out.

“Don't you Grandma me, Randall. I know every single thing you've been up to. And I've been stupid to sit idly by and think you'd be smart enough to get yourself out of it.”

Up on their perch, Goldenrod and Birch stared at each other, both of their mouths now also hanging open at the bizarre turns of events.

“And how dare you sell off all the family heirlooms to finance your little hooligan enterprise? Do you have any idea what these things are worth? And I don't mean in cash but in sentimental value?” the old lady continued to yell.

“No one at home has missed them…,” Toe Jam answered sheepishly.

“Well, of course not. I don't expect that self-absorbed son of mine and that society wife of his to notice anything. They're too busy tanning and trying to one-up the other country club morons to even realize that they have a son they haven't paid attention to in years.”

Randy was stunned into silence. No-Bone, who was still rubbing his sore elbow, seemed to have little to contribute to
the conversation either, although he looked just as mesmerized by the turn of events as Goldenrod and Birch were. So much so, that his spine finally seemed to be frozen into one position.

“Well, no more, Randall. From now on I'm doing what I should have done from the beginning. Since I actually care about you, you are grounded. You are banned from entering that forest again until you're eighteen years old.”

“But I'm only eleven now—” Randy started.

“Exactly,” the old lady said emphatically, before turning to No-Bone. “As for you, I'm sure you don't have any parents of your own, do you?”

Still dumbfounded, No-Bone shook his head.

“Well, that seems to be typical for Spitbubble,” the old lady said. “But believe me, I have ways to make your life just as sorry as Randall's is going to be.”

No-Bone didn't respond, but he certainly looked like he wouldn't want to experiment with her claim.

“Now you're going to tell me where the rest of your miserable lot is,” she continued.

No-Bone remained silent.

The old lady positioned the trophy to send it flying at his other arm.

“Okay, okay,” he finally said, looking as sore as his elbow. “They decided to teach that Mold-and-rot a lesson. They're at her house.”

“Doing what?” the old lady asked.

“Well, apparently Brains knew that Mold-and-rot's mother—”

“Her name isn't Mold-and-rot,” the old lady snapped.

No-Bone looked confused, and Goldenrod realized he must have never known her real name. “Oh…,” he said.

“It's Goldenrod,” Randy squeaked.

“So what did Jonas know about Goldenrod's mother?” the old lady continued.

“Well, he says that she has a really nice garden that she loves, so he was going to—”

“No!” Goldenrod watched with surprise as her little brother went flying down the ladder.

No-Bone and Toe Jam both looked shocked to see him. “You're here?” No-Bone asked stupidly.

Goldenrod supposed that Birch had had it. Between getting kidnapped, and being called names, and hiding in strange, musty attics with curiously strong old ladies, it seemed his tolerance for fear had broken through the threshold. Now, he looked simply angry.

“You, you…,” he sputtered as he stamped toward the bigger boys. “You!” he finally screamed as he punched No-Bone in his hurt arm.

“Ow!” No-Bone looked furious. “I'm gonna …”

“You will do nothing,” the old lady boomed, “or I will call the cops.”

By this point, Goldenrod had climbed down the ladder and was standing beside Birch.

“Let's go stop him, Birch,” she said.

Birch turned to her, and Goldenrod saw a look of determination and confidence she had never, ever seen on his face before. Her heart surged with pride.

“Okay,” he said and immediately started for the door.

“Thanks,” Goldenrod told the old lady before jogging after him. “Wait,” she stopped just as she had gotten to the front door. “What's your name?” She turned to the old lady.

“Cassandra Rubina Lewis.” The old lady stood up a little straighter as she said it. “Pleased to meet you, and you'd better hurry.”

Goldenrod and Birch were running faster than they ever had in their lives. Each was conjuring up a different horrific vision of what they might find when they finally got back to their house.

Birch was imagining a front lawn that resembled the color of severely rusted iron. The sun would blaze on the penny-colored grass, sharply outlining the wilted brown petals of all his mother's flowers. A tumbleweed would roll by as a whistling tune played.

Okay, so that's probably not exactly how it would go, but Birch was imagining the worst.

As they got nearer and nearer to their house, Birch could feel the pit of his stomach stretch farther and farther down toward his feet. He was almost dreading this moment more than anything else that had happened to him all day.

Finally, they turned the corner onto their street and could see their green roof at the end of the block. Little by little, as they passed each neighboring home, more of their house came into view. First the white sidings. Then the windows. The front door. And, finally, they caught a glimpse of their lawn.

It was green. As green as their roof. As green as it had ever been.

Birch could hardly believe it. Maybe they weren't too late after all … he could see the purples of some of the dahlias, the tall goldenrods, the chrysanthemums, and all the rest. And there, happily spraying them, was his mother, in her orange gardening gloves and clogs. She was humming to herself.

Goldenrod ran to her. But, as overjoyed as Birch was to see no damage done, he also quickly remembered that he was probably in trouble. He couldn't see how it would be possible, but he hung back behind Goldenrod, hoping that she might create some distraction that would make their mother forget he was supposed to be sick in bed. At least she was wearing some crazy face paint. That might help.

“Mom!” Goldenrod yelled breathlessly.

Their mother looked up. “Hello, darling,” she said cheerfully. “What's that on your face?”

“Oh. Right. I was just practicing my camouflage techniques.”

Mrs. Moram looked like she was thinking this through for a moment before shrugging it off with a smile. “Oh.”

It figures that it'd take more than face paint to bother her
, Birch thought with a sigh.

“So … is everything all right?” Goldenrod asked.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Moram squinted as she looked up at her daughter in the late-afternoon sun.