Curse of the Spider King (8 page)

“Oh dear,” said Nelly. “I think you'd better go.”

“What—what is it?” asked Autumn.

Nelly put the book in Johnny's arms and ushered the kids hastily from the room. “Dreadfully sorry about that,” she said. “But I can't have one of you going home with a bite or scratch.”

“
Eww
. It was a mouse,” said Autumn.

“Well, not exactly, my dear,” said Nelly as they neared the store entrance. “Now, I wish I could explain more. Just take the book home. Read it thoroughly. We will talk again.”

“I'd rather have ice cream,” said Johnny.

“I'll tell you what,” said Nelly, “if you don't like this book, next time you come in, I'll give you two free scoops of ice cream.”

“Deal!” Johnny said.

“Now, I need to go, and so do you. Everyone else has already left.”

Johnny and Autumn looked around. Everyone had left. The door to the bookstore closed behind them with the ringing of a little bell. A Sorry, We Are Closed sign appeared in the window.

Nelly Brookeheart raced back to the parlor. “Where are you?” she demanded.

A soft trill came from behind a bookcase.

“I hear you,” she said, storming across the room. She reached back behind the case and felt around. “Come on, get over here. Ah, there you are . . . gotcha.”

She gently pulled her hand out. Something fuzzy and very warm nuzzled between her fingers and around her hand. It looked up expectantly with very large dark eyes.

“Shame on you,” said Nelly. “You know better than to scare the humans. I'm sending you home tonight!”

“Some gift this is,” Johnny scoffed as he gave the book back to Autumn. They stashed their bikes inside the old hay barn and walked back to the house. “I'm looking forward to those extra scoops of ice cream.”

“Well, I think it's cool,” Autumn said, fingering the old leather cover.

“It's a book,” Johnny said, grabbing the book from her and holding it up in front of her face. “You know, a book for reading?”

“I know, but it looks old. Don't you wonder what it's about?”

“What I wonder is how that lady knew your name. Maybe she's a stalker or something.”

“Johnny!”

“I'm serious. There are crazy people out there these days.”

“Johnny, she's not a stalker.”

“I'm just saying.”

Autumn shot him a stare and he knew better than to press further. “All right, she's not a stalker. Here, give it to me.”

“No, you don't want to read.” Autumn pulled the book from Johnny and turned back toward the barn. She opened the cover and flipped the first sheet to a page with a beautiful ink drawing of a thick forest. The scene captivated her immediately, so much that she stopped walking. The leaves of the trees were amazingly detailed, almost as if she could see them moving in the breeze. Birds sat on tree limbs, and insects fluttered about. A brook meandered around rocks and a fawn stood alert in the distance. And there, peering around a tree, was a strange face—

“Give me that!” Johnny yanked the book away.

“Hey! Give it back!”

But Johnny was too quick and too strong and folded the book against his chest. Autumn beat on his back relentlessly as Johnny passed her and jogged toward the barn.

“All right, all right! Enough!” Johnny raised his hand to stop the assault. “I'm not giving it back unless we can both read it.”

Seeing as how she couldn't get the book back by any other means, Autumn said, “Okay, we'll both read it.”

“I can't believe we're fighting over some stupid book. Don't tell my friends.”

The two stepped through the barn doors and climbed the ladder to the loft, brushing away newly formed cobwebs that clung to their faces. Amidst the ruins of stale hay, they found a place to sit and laid an old piece of canvas in front of them. Afternoon light poured in through the wide cracks of the planks behind them, and a small spider slowly descended from a thread affixed to a beam up above. The siblings placed the book in front of them. Then Autumn opened to the drawing once more.

“Where'd he go?” Autumn burst out.

“What? Where'd who go?”

“There was a face.” Autumn pointed to a tree in the drawing. “It was right there! I saw it.”

“A face?” Johnny examined the tree.

“Johnny, there was a face right there. I promise. Just before you pulled the book away.”

“There's a deer and some birds. Autumn, you're totally imagining stuff.”

“I'm not! I'm serious! There was a face of a . . . of a . . .”

“See, you're crazy.”

“Johnny!” She punched his arm. “You have to believe me! It was like an elf or something.”

“An elf? One of Santa's?”

“It's not funny.” Autumn turned and folded her arms, hot tears welling up in her eyes. He never trusted her.

“Aw, look, Autumn. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.” He grabbed her shoulder. “C'mon, let's turn the page.”

She didn't budge.

“Autumn . . .”

She lifted her chin up further.

“I'm sorry,” Johnny breathed out. “There, happy?”

“Mean it,” she said.

“I'm really, really sorry. I shouldn't have said the Santa thing.”

“And?”

“What else do you want?” Johnny threw his hands up.

“For not believing me, Johnny?”

“All right! I'm sorry for not believing you.”

“Really sorry?”

“Yes, really, really sorry. Autumn, can we please read the stupid book now?”

She turned to face him. “It's not stupid.”

“Autumn,” he pleaded, completely exasperated with her.

She looked down at the drawing. “Fine.” She reached for the book and flipped the page.

In the center of the next aged sheet of paper was the title,
The
History of Berinfell
, and beneath in smaller print,
The Chronicles of the
Elf Lords and Their Kin
.

“See! I told you there were Elves!”

“The Elves of Berinfell actually.” Johnny smiled and turned the page. They flipped past what appeared to be a table of contents, laid out with big numbers and strange titles, then turned to a second drawing with the title
9680 Founding of Allyra
and a section of text. A path bordered by briars lead to a gentle waterfall adorned by a thicket of tall pine trees—
amazingly lifelike for a drawing
, they both thought. And beneath the waterfall, a cave. More like a narrow mouth set to one side of the falls than a fairy-tale cave entrance.

“Huh.” Johnny sat back. “That reminds me . . .”
No, she'll think
I'm nuts.

“Of the cave in the woods!” Autumn finished.

“What? Hey, don't finish my sentences. That's not even what I was going to—”

She ignored him. “Johnny, think about it. The path, the briars, even the waterfall and the pine trees! That's exactly like—”

“You are nuts, Autumn!”

“No, I'm not!” She'd had enough of his insults.

In a flash, Autumn flipped the book shut, picked it up, and leaped from the loft.

“Autumn!”

She landed with a soft thud in a stack of square bales that tumbled over as she scampered down.

“Where are you going?” Johnny yelled and started down the ladder. Once out the barn door, Autumn was almost to the house. “Autumn!”

“I'm telling Mom!” she yelled and then stormed through the screen door into the kitchen.

Mrs. Briarman stood at the counter, marinating chicken for dinner, her hands dripping with Italian dressing. Her brown hair was pulled up, and she wore a paint-smeared sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the elbow.

“Mom!”

“Autumn, inside voice,” she said without looking from her work.

“Mom, Johnny is being—is being . . .”

“Have a seat, dear.”

Just then Johnny burst in through the door. “She's lying!”

“Autumn hasn't said anything yet, John,” Mrs. Briarman countered.

“But she's going to! And it's not true!”

“You don't ever believe me!” Autumn blasted him. “And you know it's true about the cave!”

Mrs. Briarman turned. “The cave?”

The room grew silent.

“Now you've done it,” Johnny said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I wish your father had never given you permission to go there. You know it makes me nervous. You shouldn't have gone there alone,” Mrs. Briarman said.

“But we didn't, Mom!” Johnny retorted.

“I don't want to hear it, John.”

“But, Mom, he's telling the truth,” Autumn defended. “I'm talking about this book.” She offered it up. “It talks about the cave in our back woods. I'm sure of it.”

“Where did you get that?” Mrs. Briarman asked.

“At the bookstore,” Autumn said. “A Likely Story Book Shoppe.”

“And with what money?” Mrs. Briarman was growing more concerned.

“It was a gift from the owner, Nelly,” Autumn explained.

Mrs. Briarman looked to Johnny.

“It's true, Mom. She was really nice and gave us the book.”

Mrs. Briarman accepted the answer, although still wary. “Well, it looks a little old to be describing our property, my gems. Of course, the cave has been there a long time.” Mrs. Briarman washed her hands and dried them on a kitchen towel before joining Autumn at the table. Taking the tome in her hands, she flipped open to the first page. Johnny slid into the chair beside his sister.

“Let's see what we have here,” Mrs. Briarman said, flipping the thin sheet and examining the drawing. “Fine work.”

Johnny and Autumn looked on eagerly. It was their cave. Autumn had voiced the conclusion Johnny had been too skeptical to verbalize. But he knew what he had seen. There was no mistaking the landmarks and the way they were described in such amazing detail. Unless, of course, every waterfall-hidden-cave appeared in the woods the same way.

“
Pioneers of the Western United States
”—Mrs. Briarman began—“by M. S. Ward, Esquire.”

Thinking their mother had made one of those jokes that adults thought were so funny, Johnny and Autumn stared at their mother. If she was joking, she hid it awfully well.

“Foreword: Those who braved the treacherous journey westward, leaving their homes in search of destiny, wealth, and the unknown, faced many hardships. . . .” Mrs. Briarman looked up. “Impressive. This is some fine reading you two are doing. I'm thinking you can go to that bookstore anytime you wish.”

The siblings were speechless, mouths agape.

“And where's this section about your cave?”

Autumn stood up cautiously and sidled next to her mom, flipping back to the opening section.
9680 Founding of Allyra
had been replaced by
Foreword
, and the text was completely different. It was as if an entirely different book sat before her. Even the drawing was not the same—now a grand vista of the Rocky Mountains.

“I—I don't understand,” Autumn said, perplexed.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“It's not there.” Her mind was racing, trying in vain to sort it out. Johnny, too, was perplexed, thinking as fast as he could.

“Go ahead and show me,” Mrs. Briarman instructed.

“No, I mean it was right here,” Autumn stated. She flipped the pages back and forth.

“Let me explain, Mom,” Johnny said, a bit distantly, Autumn noted. “She thought our cave was formed the same way the Rockies were, with the plates in the earth and all. But I told her no. This is upstate New York, not Colorado. She's nuts.”

Autumn looked to her brother and then to her mom, then back to Johnny.
Thanks, bro
, she thought. “So . . . our cave
wasn't
made by the same gee-o-more-phical—”

“Geographical,” corrected Mrs. Briarman.

“
Geographical
am-o-mally—”