The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (6 page)

“Doesn't sound like much fun—all that work,” I put in.

“It wasn't just work. We had all manner of diversions, and feasted on apple pie and mulled cider and good roast beef. Of course, the best part was the labyrinth the older lads made out of hay over yonder in the south meadow. I was so young, I was barely out of leading strings, but I reached the end of the maze before anyone else. I was right proud.” Geordie stopped, a faraway look in his eyes. “The only part of the raising I didn't like was the husking bee, a kind of a party,” he said. “We all sat about pulling the husks from the ears of corn. It was my terrible misfortune to husk an entirely red ear.” He gave me a significant look.

I gave him back a blank one. “A red ear? I don't get it.”

“Whoever husked a red ear got kissed by
all
the girls! When I saw I'd husked one, Will saw it, too; he whistled to call attention to the fact.” He grinned. “Will had the loudest, most piercing whistle you can imagine. Mother said he could out-whistle the wind and forbade him doing so indoors. But Mother wasn't husking corn that day, so Will whistled until everybody screamed and covered their ears. That gave me a chance to ease out the toad I happened to have in my pocket. When I held it up by my face, all those lasses thought the better of kissing me, I assure you. Will's whistle and their squealing nearly raised the new barn roof off the ridgepole!” he said, tossing the riddle to me.

I decided that a raising must have been more fun than I'd thought. “Geordie,” I asked lobbing him the riddle with a laugh, “did you have another raising to rebuild the barn after part of it burned?”

Geordie's face turned sober. “No, times weren't right for a party, and . . . well, we just fixed it as best we could. Made it smaller—like it is now.”

“No mulled cider or apple pie? No husking bee?” I asked.

Geordie crowed, “And no red ears or kissing girls!”

Our laughter threatened to raise the roof yet again, but we abruptly stopped when we heard Dad's voice.

“Lars! What are you up to in there? Sounds like a pack of hyenas!” he said, coming through the barn door.

Some instinct sent me leaping across to stand in front of Geordie. My father frowned and asked, “What's that?”

For a second, I thought he was asking about Geordie, and I was awash in panic, but his eyes were on the rusty sieve in my hands. “It's a riddle to me, Dad,” I said solemnly.

“What's a riddle to
me
is what you've been doing out here all this time. You haven't even turned the light on yet!”

“Couldn't find the switch,” I mumbled.

“That's because there isn't one. You just pull this cord hanging down from the lightbulb, here in the middle.”

The barn was flooded with light. Holding my breath, I looked carefully around. Geordie was nowhere to be seen. Whistling with relief, I walked over and put the riddle back on a large wooden peg jutting from the wall. I figured it must have been hanging there when I dislodged it in the dark.

Dad was looking at me kind of funny. “Your moods certainly shift gears in a hurry lately, Lars. Your mother said you were depressed, and here you are grinning away like a Cheshire cat.” He shrugged. “Look, I have to run some errands. I want you finished here by the time I get back. Now rake up this old straw and put it in garbage bags to take to the dump. Better toss in that sieve, too.”

I snatched the riddle off its peg and held it to my chest protectively. “Can't I keep it?”

“I guess so, but check with Aunt Cass before you take it in the house. No telling what it's been used for.”

“No telling,” I echoed with a grin as I watched him get in the car with Mom and drive away. After they were out of sight, I picked up the rake and pitched in. Somehow cleaning the barn didn't seem so boring after all.

5

After I finished in the barn, I picked up the old sieve and headed for the house, ready to pop with excitement about my experience with Geordie. Remembering how I'd boggled at the riderless fence, I punned, “That's one riddle solved!”

Inside, I found Aunt Cass scribbling on a pad of yellow legal paper, which she quickly turned over when she saw me.

I plopped the riddle down on the table next to her. “Do you like riddles as much as you like puns?” I asked.

Aunt Cass picked up the sieve, which left a rusty outline on the tablecloth. Instead of chewing me out for making a mess, she only said, “Yes, I . . .” But whatever she'd intended to say was broken off by the sound of a car pulling up. “That's the Hargreaveses' van!” she exclaimed, taking my arm and half dragging me out to meet the visitors. My reluctance must have been obvious to Pat Hargreaves, who, after hugging my great-aunt, glanced at me and turned red.

“Hello, Ellen,” Aunt Cass said. “Sorry to take you away from your Saturday chores, Will, but this is important.” She made the introductions, then with a significant look at me, added, “Of course, George and Pat have already met. Why don't you two youngsters take a walk? We have some business to attend to.”

Not very enthusiastically, I took off toward the barn. Pat fell into step beside me. Without speaking, we marched past the wagon in the lean-to and stopped by the pond.

“How about some ducks and drakes?” I asked.

Her brown eyes opened wide. “What?”

“Ducks and drakes. Somebody told me that's what you call skipping rocks around here.”

She shrugged. “As Aunt Cass would say, somebody's been bamboozling you, Lars. Was it Eddie? He loves teasing new kids—probably because he's so out of it himself.”

“Nope, not Eddie,” I replied calmly, though inside I felt like shouting in celebration. If Pat Hargreaves had never heard of ducks and drakes, she had probably never met Geordie. Grinning, I picked up a stone and tried to skip it on the water. It skittered about one inch and sank. I tried again. This time the rock didn't even skitter—it just sank.

Pat squatted down by the edge of the pond, picked up several stones, examined them, and tossed them back down. Finally finding one that suited her, she turned it over a couple of times to fit into her hand properly, then flung it at the pond. It skipped a good six or seven times.

Maybe Pat didn't know that skipping rocks was called ducks and drakes, but she was what Geordie would call a “dab hand” at it. “That wasn't too shabby—for a girl,” I said.

Pat tossed her head. “It wasn't too shabby,
period!
”

I picked up another rock, and, determined not to be outdone by a girl, hurled it with everything I had. It skipped about ten times—my best throw ever. “How about
that?
” I asked proudly.

“How about
what?
I was looking for another rock and wasn't watching,” she said airily, playing with the ring on her chain.

I shook my head in disgust. “You girls always have some excuse when you're beaten,” I declared.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Look, Lars, there's no reason for you to have a chip on your shoulder.”

“That's easy for
you
to say.
You
don't have to move.
You
don't have to make new friends.”

“I certainly don't!” She whirled and ran toward the house.

I felt like kicking myself. Instead, I tore off after her, but by the time I came around the barn, she was already in the van. Her parents were outside talking to Aunt Cass.

“Oh, there you are, George. Just in time to say good-bye.” She turned back to speak to the Hargreaveses. “Thanks again for coming over. I needed signatures of someone outside the family; although, loosely speaking, you're in the family.”

“We tenth cousins are always happy to help, Cass. But shouldn't you get a lawyer to read it?” asked Mr. Hargreaves.

“No. Ebenezer Bank told me it was perfectly legal if it's signed by two witnesses, and even they don't have to read it. I have an idea. Why don't you come to our party tonight? I'm sure Sandra and Erik would like to see you, and Lars would certainly have a better time with Patience than with grown-ups.”

I glanced at Pat to see if she understood what Aunt Cass was talking about. My mom was always telling me to be more patient, but how was that better than being with grown-ups?

Pat looked as confused as I was, if not more so.

“I'm sorry, Cass,” said Mrs. Hargreaves, “but we have a meeting to go to, and Pat has other plans. Otherwise we would've loved to come. Wouldn't we, honey?”

Pat gave a minimal nod. Her parents quickly got in the van, and they drove off.

After they were out of sight, Aunt Cass looked at me. “Well, George,” she said, “what do you want to dress up as tonight?”

“I'm too old to wear a costume for Halloween,” I answered.

“Nonsense. If
I'm
still young enough to do it, so are you!”

She put her hand on my arm and gave it a little squeeze. “Don't worry, George, you won't look any sillier than the rest of us.”

“I don't wear costumes. Period,” I said dully.

She let my elbow drop. “Okay. I give up. I'm sure we'll still have a good time. We'll pull out all the stops!”

She wasn't kidding. We did actually pull out all the stops—on her pump organ, that is. We pulled all the organ's knobs out until it was so loud the wavy old glass windowpanes rattled. As I pumped and she played, I told Aunt Cass about the Nautilus exercise machine/submarine pun I'd thought of the first time we'd met—only a few days before, but it seemed like a lifetime. She liked my joke, and proved it by playing the Captain Nemo piece. Duddle-la . . . deedle deedle deet deeeeee.

My mother, rigged out as Mae West, came and tapped me on the shoulder. “Do you have to play that organ so loud? It's deafening!”

“Don't be a party pooper, Sandra,” Aunt Cass said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I'm sure Mae West never was.”

Mom pointed at Cass's old black dress. “Judge Bank will be here any minute, and you're not even in costume yet!”

“Ah, but I am! I only need my makeup and hat to be ready,” Aunt Cass said. She peered at me. “I told Ebenezer not to come without a costume. I don't think much of a man who's too proud to put on silly clothes once in a while; there's nothing like a little foolishness to take one's pride down a peg or two.”

“What?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“That's just an expression, honey,” Mom explained. “To take someone down a peg means to humble him a little.”

Dad came into the room, dressed as Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest—green long johns that were silly enough to meet with Aunt Cass's full approval. Raising his eyebrows under his feathered hat, he exclaimed, “Funny how Lars has always hated wearing costumes!”

Mom frowned in my general direction. “Well, he'll just miss out on some of the fun,” she said, then shooed Aunt Cass down the hall to finish dressing.

While they were gone, Dad cleared his throat the way he always does when he starts one of his “man-to-man” speeches. “I would think you could make an effort, Lars. After all, Aunt Cass won't have too many more Halloweens to celebrate. If your mother and I can dress up to please her, I should think you could . . .”

I was saved by the knocker. At the door was an elderly, dignified man dressed formally in a tuxedo, a top hat, and a pig's snout. It was Aunt Cass's old friend Judge Ebenezer Bank.

My mother came out to greet him and babbled on about how long it had been and all that stuff. Finally, she introduced us. I looked at my blonde-wigged mother, my long-johned father, and our pig-faced guest and felt a little embarrassed for them. Suddenly, Aunt Cass made a grand entrance through the arched doorway. Apple-green makeup covered her face, a witch's hat sat on her white hair, and in her hand was a large picnic basket. She struck a menacing pose. “And your little dog, too,” she cackled.

I looked at her smiling green face, crinkled with age and laugh lines, and wondered how I'd ever thought she looked like Dorothy's witch. Toto would have eaten right out of her hand.

That Halloween party was a strange mixture of fun and solemnity, just like Aunt Cass herself. Although we joked a lot as we popped corn in the old wire popper and roasted apples over the coals in the huge old fireplace, the grown-ups would sometimes forget their weird appearances and plunge into serious topics.

Finally, as she stirred hot spiced cider in the big copper kettle in a pretty witchy way, Aunt Cass said, “You know, people keep moaning gloom and doom about how horrible everything is now and mooning on about the good old days.” She sniffed. “The good old days were just as mixed a bag as any other days, old or new. And yet we muddled through.” She pointed a knobby finger at me. “That's the value of history, L. George. Don't you forget it. People have always managed to muddle through, and I believe they always will. I guess it's human nature to forget the bad times, gloss 'em over, shine 'em up, and put 'em all neat and clean in the history books.” She absentmindedly scratched her head, knocking her witch's hat askew.

Judge Bank took the last bite of his pumpkin pie and leaned back in his fireside chair. “By the way, Cass, I saw the Hargreaveses this afternoon and they said you'd made a new will. I wish you'd let me take a look to make sure it's done properly.”

My parents sat up a little straighter in the settles.

“Oh, don't fuss about it, Eb. It's almost like my old one. I just had to change a thing or two.”

“But you shouldn't keep it around here. It should be in a safety deposit box,” Dad said.

Judge Bank humphed. “Just you try to get her to keep anything in a safety deposit box! I've been trying for years, but no—Cass has some hidey-hole that beats the bank!”

“I've always said that yours was the only bank I trusted, Eb,” Cass said, giving the judge's hand an affectionate pat.