Unquiet Dreams (19 page)

"I don't know," Celia answered. "I feel kind of tired."

"You need a nice hot bath," Kari said, thinking about what her mother would say at a time like this. "Maybe it would get rid of the smell too, I mean, not to be mean, but you do kind of smell…funny. And then the blood would wash off better, too." She patted her friend's head gingerly where the blood still clotted her hair. The washcloth hadn't helped all that much.

"I don't know," Celia repeated. "I'm just so hungry,"

"But you didn't even eat the sandwich I brought you," Kari scolded. She rescued the plate out of the closet and thrust it before her friend. "One bite!"

"It just didn't taste right," Celia said apologetically. "Maybe angels need a different kind of food."

"Tastes fine to me," Kari said between mouthfuls.

"Well, do you think maybe you can find something else for me to eat?"

Kari sighed, just like she'd heard her mother do a hundred million times. "Why can't you go home? You know, I bet your mom would be real glad to see you."

Celia shook her head. "I went to her first, last night. I woke her up like I usually do, but she just screamed and screamed, so I ran away."

"Well, maybe if you go and see her in the daytime she won't be so scared."

Celia shrugged. Scaring your mom—really scaring your mom—wasn't so much fun. Kari paused. "You can't stay here forever. My mom will notice."

"Not if I hide when she comes. She won't see me."

"She already smells you," Kari reminded her. "If she sees you and gets as scared as your mom, what will I do? She won't let me watch TV for a week." The thought silenced them for a moment. "I suppose we could use one of those little pine trees. My dad has a bunch of them hanging in the garage, for spare. Then my closet will be pine-scented fresh. I'll be right back." Kari pushed off the bed and jumped to the floor.

"Don't forget some food," Celia whispered after her. She closed the door behind her friend and glanced listlessly around the tiny room. After a minute, Celia walked over to Pogo's Habitrail and watched him spin his wheel around like a maniac.

***

"I'm back!" Kari burst through the door with her usual manic energy. Celia jumped back in alarm, hiding her hands behind her back instinctively, although they were empty. "Look! Pine-scented freshness." Kari twirled the little green cardboard tree before Celia's eyes. "But you really will need to take a bath soon. You can sneak in with me tonight." Kari hung the freshener in the closet. "I hope that helps, it's pretty strong." She turned back to her friend. "So, whadda ya wanna play? Or do you wanna read comics? I have a new
Scary Godmother
one."

Kari picked up the stack of comics from her dresser, pausing to tap on the Habitrail in her always vain attempt to keep Pogo awake during the day. "Hey, sleepyhead! Wake up!" Bang, bang, bang—nothing. "Pogo!" Kari set down the comics and lifted the lid of the cage. Behind her, Celia slipped silently into the closet. "Hey, Pogo, wake up, boy! Out of bed, sleepyhead." Kari poked the shredded newspaper but Pogo wasn't in there. She leaned back to scan the myriad tubes radiating from the main chamber.
Hmmph. Nothing
.

"Celia, did you let Pogo out?" Kari asked, turning around. No Celia. She walked to the closet and pulled the door back open. "Celia!"

From the darkness, a rustle. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"It's all right, we just have to find him, before he gets out of the room and off into the kitchen or something. That one time he crawled under the dishwasher, he wouldn't come out for three days. Boy, was my dad mad!"

"I—I sort of let him out, b-b-but—"

"Yeah? Well, did you see where he went?" Kari was already looking into the netherworld under the bed. "C'm'ere Pogo! Hey, boy!"

Celia took a hesitant step out of the closet. "Um, I mean…I mean… I'm really really sorry, but I couldn't help it, I really couldn't, I don't want you to be mad at me, you're my only friend now and—" but Celia was overcome by the flow of tears and covered her face with her cold little hands.

Kari brushed off her knees and stood up, hands on hips. "What did you do with Pogo?"

"I didn't mean to!" Kari continued to stare stonily at her. Celia turned her back to her friend. "I really didn't mean to do it but—I ate him!"

"What!" Kari grabbed Celia and spun her around. "You ate my hamster!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"How could you eat little Pogo!" Anger lost way to sorrow, sorrow to tears. "Now we can't even have a funeral, like we did for Snowball." Kari wiped the tears from her cheeks, but more quickly followed them.

"I didn't mean to, it just sort of happened. I was just so hungry and it's the first thing that sounded—good," Celia finished lamely. "I'm really sorry, Kari. I am. I know it doesn't bring him back, but I am. And if I can make it up—"

"How?" Kari sniffled but she was listening.

Celia thought about it. "I think I still have my allowance in my piggy bank. I could sneak in at night and get it and get you another hamster. It's not the same, I know," she added quickly, "But then you won't be lonely."

"I suppose."

"And I didn't get a funeral either, so it's not too terrible."

"You did," Kari countered. "I was there. I wore my navy blue church dress."

Celia looked surprised. "How did they have a funeral without me?"

Kari chewed her lip. "Well, it was kind of different. There wasn't any coffin, just people saying things about how nice you were and such a sweet little girl—they didn't know you very well, did they?" Kari laughed.

"Ha, ha," Celia responded, pretending to be offended, but smiling at her friend.

"I was really sad thinking about not seeing you again."

"Did you cry?"

"Yes. But then there was cake and lasagna and cookies and all kinds of stuff, so we pigged out big time."

"Must have been nice," Celia said wistfully.

***

Kari rubbed her eyes sleepily, then smiled.
Saturday morning!
And Saturday morning, rain or shine, late night or early, good times or bad—Saturday morning meant pancakes, hot, golden brown pancakes, with real maple syrup from Granny Elizabeth's farm in Vermont. It was a tradition, one her folks looked forward to as much as Kari herself did. Whatever the rest of the week might be, Saturday morning was olly-olly-oxen-free. Her Mommy and dad didn't argue about The Bills in the mail marked URGENT. If their voices were loud, it was because they were laughing, or tickling Kari, or her dad was lifting her up over his shoulders, crying "Let's throw her to the moon, Alice!" even though her mommy's name wasn't Alice. She liked it so much when her folks were laughing.

Kari stretched and looked across the bed. No Celia. Now where? Maybe she went home, Kari thought hopefully. There had been that awkward moment in the middle of the night when Kari had awoken to the distinctly unpleasant sensation of Celia chewing on her arm. And although Celia was really, really sorry again, Kari was more than a little tired of her friend's strange habits. She knew she was supposed to be tolerant of the differences of others, like Ms. Gordon had taught them in class, but this wasn't like having a different god or skin color. It was unsanitary to say the least, Kari knew her mother would say.
Unsanitary—get the hand sanitizer!
Celia was going to have to go home, if she had not already.

Kari scented the air like a questing hyena.
Hmph—no smell of pancakes yet
. Mommy must have overslept. Time to get her out of bed with a flying leap. They might grumble at first, but her folks were always glad it was Saturday too. Hey, maybe they could go to Grand River Park today, too, and feed the ducks. It was a beautiful sunny day, full of possibilities.

Kari hitched up her PJ bottoms and hopped out of bed. Her feet made a small sound as she pattered down the hall to Mommy and Dad's room. The door remained closed. But just as Kari reached for the doorknob, the door opened and Celia squirmed out. She wiped her mouth with her hand but left behind a red smear. Kari heard her gulp, but Celia kept staring down at her dirty shoes, still covered with the mud and sticks from that shallow grave in the forest.

"What? What's the matter?"

Celia looked up at last, her eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Kari, I'm really, really, really sorry…"

 

 

I smelled lavender again today.

Nigel would bring me lavender from his walks across the fields, throw his arms around my shoulders and smother me in a hug. Lavender: the scent that meant his absence, his return. He would never come back now. But now and then the lavender's perfume arrived, bidding me remember, remember.

I turned back to the dishes drying in the rack, but the mundane task held little appeal now. A breeze carried the aroma of the roses blooming outside the back door. On impulse, I dropped the towel and stepped out the screen door. In a moment I was enveloped by the rich fragrance of the thorny climbers and by the dazzling warmth of the midday sun. Its touch felt like the embrace of love.

I passed under the arch, where the white-spotted ivy twined, and limped over to my little herb garden. Nigel always laughed at my attempts to domesticate "the wild," those unknown forests and streams where I could not follow him.

The sage towered proudly and the basil plants waved, as if yearning to become pesto. The mint threatened once more to burst beyond its careful hedging, and the cilantro had shot up another inch over night. But in the center, my pride and joy, the lavender seemed to be multiplying as I watched. The scent was heavenly. Last year it had barely survived—just goes to show what the right fertilizer can do. "And you won't leave ever again, will you, Nigel?"

 

 

Walther knew. But he could not resist; what ten-year-old could? Every year was the same. Grandmother Dunkelhaus would shake her finger at him and warn, "Walpurgisnacht, the devil's night—you stay indoors. Devils, witches, ghosts—they come, they get little boys, eat you." Then she would snap together her shiny wooden teeth—clack!—as if she knew the flights of witches first hand.

But this year—tonight!—he would know, he and Elsa. "We must see," they had promised one another. Walther slipped out this afternoon, to sleep a while in the orchard as Elsa had suggested. The nap should help him stay awake tonight. He had put apples in his rucksack and a handful of matches—also Elsa's idea. She swore she would sneak away with a lamp. He looked around the room; never know what you might need. His woolen cap and sweater would keep him warm—spring was on the calendar, but not in the night air.

Downstairs his family gathered round the fire. Its crackles and sparks echoed up here in the garret, where they all assumed their youngest slept. But Walther waited for Elsa, his rucksack on his shoulder, his eyes eagerly seeking through the darkness. A movement: only leaves, caught by the tempestuous wind, they whirled and danced, begging someone to join their waltz. Walther cocked his ear back toward the group downstairs but heard only the familiar murmuring argument, Gran and Grandfather arguing still, as they had these sixty odd years.

Another whispering movement, this one with legs. Elsa beckoned from the oak tree, almost disappearing in its enormous girth. Walther lifted up the window silently, swinging himself over the sill, hanging for a moment, then dropping to the ground ten feet below and rolling as he hit the ground. The apples would be bruised.

"Wally. Here." Elsa swung a lantern by her side. A battered rucksack lay at the foot of the gnarled tree. "Did you bring the matches?"

"Yes, a lot of them. Good kitchen matches, wooden."

Her grey eyes caught the moon's bright glow and reflected it back to him despite the fading bruise below her left one. Elsa's face, wind-swept and tear-stained, tilted up at him, her decisive chin jutting out. "Let's go," she said, taking his offered hand.

The two children ran between the darkened trees, feeling the limbs bend down in concern as if trying to stop their flight. Out of sight of the house they slowed their pace, their breaths making curlicues in the night air.

"Did they suspect?" Elsa asked, wiping her dripping nose.

"No, no one even checked on me—not that they normally do," Walther hastened to add, a man after all at age ten. "And no one noticed that I was gone this afternoon either. I feel quite awake."

"I got this too," Elsa said and stopped to root through her rucksack. She pulled out a flask that had perhaps seen action in the Great War. "Coffee. Help us stay awake. It's cold," she added with regret, "But I think it will still work."

"I've never had coffee before. Well, once. I sipped my Gran's coffee. She said it would put hair on my chest."

"Did it?" Elsa shook the flask and the contents sloshed noisily.

"No," Walther kicked the ground, wishing he had thought to bring coffee. "But I did feel stronger."

"Come, we have to walk faster. It will be midnight soon."

"Did you bring a watch?"

Elsa halted and whirled around. "Damn!"

"Elsa, don't swear. God will punish you."

"God doesn't know I exist."

"God knows everything."

Elsa laughed. "Such a good little boy, a good little boy."

"Am not. I'm grown up."

"Oh, I don't know about that—never had coffee, never can swear."

"Do you think we should go back and get a watch?" Walther asked, trying hard to change the unpleasant subject.

Elsa pondered the question, pulling her wool socks back up over her knees which looked bluish and cold by the light of the indifferent moon. "No, I'm sure we'll see them all. It should make quite a ruckus after all. Your Gran says she hears them all the way in your house."

"I think Gran fibs though," Walther admitted.

"Perhaps she exaggerates, but come on, it has to make a lot of noise, all that dancing and drinking and wild songs. I'm surprised that we haven't heard it in the past."

"We were too young," Walther said wisely. "Now that we are older we will go and see it for ourselves and we will be able to tell the others all about it. How envious Marta and Lulu will be when we tell them." Walther could see himself telling them, pretending to be bored by it all as if Walpurgisnacht came every night and he had flown with the witches a thousand times or more.