Читать книгу Pioneer Poltergeist - H. Mel Malton - Страница 6

That was awesome,” the little girl said, coming to meet them when she saw them hurrying towards the fence. “Too bad you missed it.” It was the girl from before, who had been with her brother, talking to Alan and Ziggy just before they’d found the gun in the manure pile.

“What happened—Lisa, isn’t it?” Alan said. The girl smiled shyly, obviously pleased that he remembered her name. “Yes, well, my brother Ben, he was doing that paint race on the fence, and he tripped over the bucket and then had one of his thingies, and started throwing paint at the other kids, and it turned into a paint fight.” Her eyes were shining. She had a splotch of white on one cheek and a smear on her T-shirt.

“He had one of his thingies?” Josée repeated.

“Uh-huh. Tantra-somethings.”

“Tantrums?”

“That’s it. Ben’s got issues, my mom says.”

There was a mess at the fence. People were arguing. They could see Sheldon in the middle of it, and another staff person had appeared with a bucket of water and was handing out pieces of rag for people to clean themselves up with.

“Anyway,” Lisa said, “when the paint started flying, a man with a camera stepped in and got a sploodge right in his face, and then it was like something in a movie.”

“Okay, you guys,” Alan said. “I guess we better go and face the firing squad.”

“They’re not going to fire us, are they?” Ziggy said. “It’s our first day.”

“We’ll see,” Alan said. “Come on.” And he, Ziggy and Josée marched resolutely up to Sheldon.

“It was these here kids who started it,” the camera man with the loud shirt said, pointing, as soon as he saw them. “They shoulda never let my boy try painting—he’s only six.” His son, the one who had been the first one to try the paint race, was fidgeting as his mother (whose loud print shirt was now smeared with white) was wiping off his face with a wet cloth.

“Well, he did want to, m’sieu,” Josée said sweetly. “Did you get lots of good pictures? You were filming the whole thing, weren’t you?”

“I knew you kids were trouble from the moment you showed up,” Sheldon said. “We could’a got sued over this, you know, if some brat got paint in his eye or something.”

“It was only for fun,” Alan said. “People liked it. It’s not our fault if one kid had a tantrum and started throwing paint.”

It was at this point that Mrs. Tench arrived on the scene.

“What’s going on here?” she said. “It looks like a PETA demonstration. Any minks damaged?”

“Huh?” Ziggy said.

“She means those animal rights people who throw paint at people wearing fur coats,” Josée said. “I saw it on the news once. She was just making a joke, I think.” It certainly didn’t look like Mrs. Tench was very upset. In fact, she looked like she thought it was funny. Sheldon filled her in, taking her aside and talking rapidly and crossly, occasionally stabbing a finger in the direction of Alan and his friends.

After a minute, she stepped over to where a few parents and kids were gathered around the water bucket, cleaning up. “Don’t worry, everybody,” she said. “It’s only whitewash. Water soluble, as no doubt you’re discovering. It’ll come out in the laundry, trust me. And if anybody wants us to pay for dry cleaning, just drop in to the main office on your way out and let me have your contact information. Now, where are my three young employees?”

Alan, Ziggy and Josée stepped forward. “Let me do the talking,” Alan muttered.

“We’re here, Mrs. Tench. We’re really sorry about this. We were painting, and some kids wanted to try it out, and I guess it got sort of out of hand. You can take the dry cleaning out of our paychecks.”

“Hey!” Ziggy started to say, but Josée poked him quiet.

Lisa and Ben’s mother stepped forward, towing Ben along behind her. The boy was pretty painty, still, and looked totally pleased with himself.

“This is my son, Ben,” she said. “He was the one who started the paint fight. If anyone is going to be paying for dry cleaning, it’s him. Okay, Ben. Apologize.” Ben stifled his grin and mumbled an apology, and Mrs. Tench told his mother that there was no problem—it was all worked out. She then produced a sheaf of certificates from the pocket of her old-fashioned apron and started handing them out.

“It’s for a free ice cream cone at the general store,” she said. She gave one to everybody, even Sheldon.

“Bonus,” Alan said, when he got his.

“Well, yes, Alan. But don’t let it go to your head. It was irresponsible of you three to walk away from the job at hand. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Still and all, the fence does look nice. And I’ll bet that there are more than two coats of paint on it, hmm?”

“Four, more like,” Alan said, grinning.

“Tell me, have any of you ever read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer?” They shook their heads. “Well, that’s most interesting. I trust you will all do so, and report back to me about what you discover. Let’s say—next week? Now, take those paint buckets and brushes to the pump over there and wash them up, then go over to the Inn, will you? Mrs. Creasor has a job for you.” She turned back to Sheldon, said something more to him that they couldn’t hear, then headed back up the path to the main building.

The paint-covered people had all gone away, and there were only the three of them and Sheldon left. He stood looking at them, shaking his head.

“If I had my way,” he said, “you’d be outta here on your keisters quicker’n spit, but Mrs. Tench rules the roost here, as you can see. You better watch your step from now on, that’s all I can say. You may not get let off quite so easy next time.” He stumped off to his maintenance shed, calling over his shoulder that they could leave the clean bucket and brushes by his door.

“Wow,” Ziggy said, “that was intense.”

“Did Mrs. Tench just give us . . . homework?” Josée said.

“I think so,” said Alan. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I think I’ve heard of it. I hope it’s short. Maybe there’s a movie version.”

“You think she was serious about us giving her—what? A book report?” said Ziggy.

“I have a feeling that when Mrs. Tench says something, she’s très sérieuse,” Josée said. They picked up the buckets and brushes and headed over to the pump, which was an old-fashioned one, with a handle that you worked to get the water to come out. The water was wonderfully cold, and there was a wooden sign next to it that said “Fresh, clean spring water. Okay to drink.” They each took turns cupping water into their hands and easing their parched throats. It had been hot in the blacksmith shop, their costumes were heavier than the T-shirts and shorts they were used to, and the sun was fierce. Alan and Ziggy did a little splashing at each other, too, until Josée reminded them that they were all on probation.

“Thank goodness that the paint was the kind that washed out with water,” she said. “Otherwise, I think we would have been fired. Sans doute.”

The Inn at the Kuskawa Pioneer Village Park was a two-storey wooden building with several rooms on the top floor, a dining room and parlour on the main floor, and a huge kitchen at the side. The kitchen was a pleasant place to be, because Mrs. Creasor, the staff member who ran it, was always baking something in the big woodstove and liked to see people eating what she made. She always had a big pot of hot apple cider on the stovetop, and as visitors came in to see what an old-fashioned kitchen was like, she offered them a cup of cider and a cookie, or whatever she had just baked.

“You’re like a professional pioneer grandmother,” Alan said, when the three were meeting her.

She laughed. “Sort of,” she said, “but I think the pioneer ones were too busy to fuss over people much. They had to do everything by hand, you know, including the laundry. Oh—you must be the three Mrs. Tench was just talking to me about. She had a wonderful idea today about laundry, and I think she has you three in mind to help us. Now come on in and have a cookie, and explore the inn a little before we start with another job I’ve got for you.”

It was warm in the kitchen, but the windows and doors were open, so it wasn’t stifling, and it smelled wonderful—a mixture of cinnamon and bread, wood smoke and something lemony that Josée said was furniture polish. Just about everything was made of wood, the floors, walls, chairs and tables. There were a few rugs in the parlour, but mostly the whole inn was just smooth, polished or painted wood. The floors creaked a little when you walked on them, and your footsteps echoed. It was very quiet. Not library-quiet, they all agreed, but the sort of quiet that you got when there were no radios or TVs or air conditioners or fridges running. It was peaceful, Alan thought. And sort of sad, in a way he couldn’t quite figure out.

Nobody stayed at the Inn—it was a museum, really. The rooms upstairs were roped off, so you could look in, but not actually touch anything. The museum people had set it up so that it looked like someone was staying in each room, though, with clothes laid out, and some of the beds looking slept-in, old fashioned brushes and perfume bottles on the dressers and slippers on the floor. Josée said it gave her a weird feeling, being up there alone. Mrs. Creasor had sent her upstairs to get an apron from a closet in one of the bedrooms. She had to climb over the rope across the door, and reported to the others when she returned that she had felt a strange tingling feeling, as soon as she crossed over into the room.

“It was like I’d gone back in time,” she said. “Like the person who belonged there had just walked down the hall, but they could come back at any second, and ask me what I was doing in their room.”

“That’s nuts,” Ziggy said. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Oh, I know what she means,” said Mrs. Creasor. “Many’s the time I’ve been up there, tidying up or doing some dusting, and I’ve felt almost a presence watching me. Nothing harmful, you understand, but something, nonetheless. These old places often contain the energies of the past, I think.” She glanced at Josée, who was looking a little pale. “Nothing to be frightened about, though, dear. Now put that apron on, and come and help me peel these apples. I’m making apple pies today, you see, and it’s a big job.”

She handed Josée a small bowl of apples and a peeler, and showed her how to remove the apple skin without taking off too much of the apple at the same time.

“Boys, we’re going to need quite a few more of these. See that tree out there—the one beside the outhouse? That’s your job. You’ll find a bushel basket at the back door. There are quite a few fallen ones on the ground, but they’re not the best for apple pie. There’s a ladder somewhere out there, I think. Don’t be too long. We’ll have these ones peeled in no time.”

Mrs. Creasor bustled to the other side of the kitchen to get something from a cupboard, and Alan leaned down to whisper to Josée.

“She seems to like to talk. See if you can get her to tell you about the other staff members—especially Sheldon and that black-haired girl from the blacksmith’s shop. I’m sure there’s something going on with them. They’re way too prickly. I think they’re hiding something. Okay?”

“Pas de problème,” Josée said. “I am the spy in the women’s quarters, yes?”

“Exactement,” Alan said, and snitched a couple of apple-peelings to chew on the way. “Come on, Zig. We’ve got a tree to climb.”

The day had started out bright and sunny, but it had begun to cloud over. The air was very still, and it felt like a thunderstorm was on the way. As Alan and Ziggy began putting the fallen apples into the basket, a couple of pigs in a pen next to the tree left the muddy shade they’d been lying in and wandered over to poke their snouts through the gaps in the split-rail fence.

“Hungry, guys?” Ziggy said, and rolled a half-squashed apple within reach of the biggest one. It was crunched up in a moment, and the pigs jostled lazily for position, hoping for more, baffing each other aside in a blubbery way, their mouths half-open in piggy grins.

“I like pigs,” Alan said. “They’re sort of comfortable.”

“Smelly, though. I’m glad we weren’t assigned to clean out their pen,” said Ziggy.

“Yeah, how come the gun wasn’t tossed in with them? Nobody would ever have found it.”

“Good point.” Well, the pigs might’ve. They’re smart, I think. If they’d found it, they would have busted outta there and gone on a rampage.”

“Ha. Right—they would have broken into the tourist money safe, then bought tickets to some place where they don’t eat bacon.”

The pigs got the really rotten apples, and the rest were put into the basket, but there weren’t many, so the next job was to pick some of the fruit that was still on the tree. They looked around for a ladder, but not very hard. Climbing without it would be much faster.

Alan, the taller one by several inches, gave Ziggy a hand up, then swung onto the lower branch himself.

“Wait—shouldn’t we take the basket with us?” Ziggy said.

“Yes, Mr. Spock, we’ll haul it up with a rope or something, then when it’s full, we can lower it down without having to carry and climb at the same time.”

Alan went back to the back porch of the inn, where he’d seen a coil of thin rope that would be perfect. Ziggy called out to him, “Hey—if I’m Mr. Spock, and I’m guessing you’re Kirk, who’s Josée?”

“Maybe Dr. McCoy?” Alan called back.

“A friendly alien,” she said, coming up behind him. “Madame Creasor heard you at the back door and wants to know where the apples are.”

“We’ve got some you can take, but we haven’t picked any from the tree, yet,” Alan said.

Josée came over with him and filled her apron pockets with the ones in the bottom of the basket.

“Not many here,” she said. “We’re too fast for you, yes?” She looked up. “Whoa! You’re very high, Ziggy.” Ziggy had climbed up a good way, and they could only see his feet through the branches. There were lots of apples up there, at least, and some of them had fallen while he was climbing. Alan started picking them up and tossing them to Josée.

“Are you guys just going to throw them down?” she said. “It’ll make them have bruises, won’t it?”

Alan explained the rope-and-basket idea. “We’ll toss the end of the rope up to him,” he said. Then he called up, “Ready, Zig? It would have been easier if you’d waited. You could have taken it up with you.”

“This is more fun,” Ziggy shot back.

“He likes climbing trees,” Josée said. “So do I, actually. But not in a skirt. Pioneer girls must have been really mad about that.”

It took a couple of tries before they figured out how to tie the end of the rope to a small stick, which made it easier to throw. Ziggy looped the rope over a branch and tossed the stick end back down to them. They tied one end through the basket’s handles, then pulled the other end, easily raising the basket.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Ziggy called down, pleased. Alan clambered back onto the bottom branch and started climbing up to where Ziggy was.

“I’m not coming to rescue you if you two get stuck up there,” Josée said, heading back to the inn.

There were plenty of clean, ripe apples within reach, and they filled the basket quickly. Alan climbed down again, untied the end of the rope holding the basket up, and lowered it without trouble to the ground.

“Come on, Zig. We’ve got enough.”

“Just one more,” Ziggy said from above. “There’s a beauty one just a little further up, all red and perfect.” There came a rustle of branches, and then—“Hey!”

“Hey what?” Alan called up.

Ziggy came down double-quick, almost falling in his haste to reach solid ground again. His eyes were wide.

“I thought I saw something move in that little window up by the roof of the inn—a face, maybe. Really pale and sort of blurry. Just for a second. Next moment, it was gone.”

“Can’t be. That’s the attic. Remember that trapdoor in the ceiling? There can’t be anything up there.”

“That’s what I mean. I think I just saw a ghost!”