Horns & Wrinkles (5 page)

"How long ago did all this happen?" the doctor asked, fumbling for his notebook.

"Oh, they were young fellows then," Grandpa allowed. "Didn't know any better. It would have been back in the Depression."

The fact that it had happened seventy some years ago didn't bother the doctor in the slightest. Right away he asked Grandpa if he'd ever heard of anyone growing a horn like Duke's.

"Of course I have," Grandpa said, dragging out the story of Huntington Bridgewater and his brother Floyd.

Having to tell a story twice never slowed Grandpa down any. What's more, the doctor scribbled notes and even asked Grandpa to repeat dates and places. Grandpa was pretty near in heaven.

They were still at it when the siren came woo-wooing down the street, cutting off right in front of the house. Seconds later came a
bam-bam-bam
at the front door. Rushing through the living room, we found Dad still in his pajamas and looking kind of sheepish. Standing next to him was a tall, thin sheriff's deputy who was holding Uncle Norm's thermos.

"You got a couple of people turned to stone in there?" the deputy asked.

"We certainly do," Mom answered.

"Then you better let this man through," the deputy said, handing Dad the thermos. "He's carrying river water."

"Home remedies won't help," Dr. Moneybaker scoffed.

"You some kind of doc?" the deputy said, sizing him up.

"I am."

"You ever heard of fish scales?" the deputy asked.

"Don't be impertinent."

"On people?" the deputy persisted.

"Of course on people. Around here I've heard of everything."

"Good," the deputy said. "Then maybe you can tell us what's the best way to get rid of fish scales."

"As a general rule, you don't."

"Tell that to my Aunt Buffy," the deputy shot back.

"Let me guess," Grandpa B said. "River water?"

"Mixed with a little mustard and goose fat," the deputy agreed with a nod. "So when I pull a guy over for speeding, and he's wearing pajamas and holding a thermos between his legs, the first thing I do is ask what's in the thermos. When he says, 'River water,' I say, 'Better let me see.' And when it really turns out to be river water, I help him get to wherever he's going—fast. We've got orders directly from the sheriff himself on that one. So step aside in the name of the law."

"Now, hold on here," Dr. Moneybaker balked. "I haven't conducted any tests yet."

But he said it from behind us. Dad had already pushed past him, and the rest of us weren't collecting dust either.

"Where you planning on pouring it?" the deputy asked.

That question brought Dad to a dead stop in the living room, right in front of the stalled mantel clock.

"Does it matter?" Dad said.

"It can make all the difference in the world," the deputy told him. "Aunt Buffy got her best results by pouring it over her heart, even though the scales were on the back of her legs."

"Uh-uh," One-shot disagreed. "I've always heard you should pour on the top of the head."

"From what I've heard," Mom said, "you pour where the spell touched them first."

Hearing that from Mom stunned us all. She never admitted to having the least bit of interest in river gossip.

"How do we know where they got touched first?" Dad wondered.

"Time's a-wasting," Grandpa blurted, and, grabbing the thermos from Dad, he took off for the kitchen, where he skidded to a stop in front of the breakfast nook.

Grandpa was unscrewing the thermos cap when Dr. Moneybaker shoved his way forward, saying, "I still need a sample of the moisture on that woman's cheek." He lunged for the thermos.

Grandpa B and the doctor were both old as the hills, but Grandpa's hills were in better shape, and he was winning until the deputy tried to separate them. They all got tangled up with each other and toppled forward, falling into the breakfast nook.

I closed my eyes, afraid to watch. When I opened them, there were five stone statues crammed in that breakfast nook. Six if you counted Duff. Dr. Moneybaker was sprawled across Uncle Norm's back. The deputy was standing on one leg, with a hand on Aunt Phyllis's arm for balance. Grandpa was stretched out beneath the table, the back of his head touching Duff's tail. His mouth was open as if about to shout something colorful.

The thermos with the river water had gone flying, so I retrieved it and with some help from Dad unscrewed the cap. Pouring river water over their heads didn't undo anything, though. They looked as stony as ever, and wet. Aunt Phyllis kept right on tearing up too. Those of us who hadn't been turned to stone weren't too surprised—Grandpa's stories weren't known for their accuracy.

The clocks may have been stuck, but the phone, though full of static, was still working. Dad didn't waste any time getting ahold of the police. Hearing that a deputy had been lost to stone, the dispatcher immediately rang the sheriff at home.

Sheriff Tommy Pope wore a crisp brown uniform with a shiny bronze star directly over his heart. The top button of his shirt was undone, but nothing else about him said he'd been relaxing at home. His well-padded gut and gray sideburns made him look as capable and dependable in person as he did in all his re-election posters, the same posters that sprouted up all over town every four years as if by magic.

What the sheriff's reelection posters didn't prepare you for was a talker. One glance at the breakfast nook had him sighing as if he'd been through all this a hundred-plus times before. Without introducing himself, he leaned back against the kitchen counter, hitched his thumbs inside his belt, and said, "First things first. One-shot, it's time for you to hit the road. The last thing we need is a newspaper man hanging around."

"You know that paper of mine," One-shot protested. "It won't go anywhere near a story like this. Not for anything."

"Still and all," the sheriff said, "these people might like some privacy."

"Oh." One-shot acted a little embarrassed for not seeing that himself. "Sorry," he added, and with a nod, he left.

We scrunched together a little closer to hear what the sheriff might say next.

"There's folks in this town that choose not to believe in fortunetelling catfish, or low-flying buffalo, or whatever," the sheriff remarked, staring at a spot on the ceiling rather than at us. "I'll tell you straight out, I'm not one of them. After all I've seen during my years of sheriffing, I'll believe most anything and then some. Even these TV talk shows wouldn't touch half the things I've had reported to me. There's a woman over on Huff Street with talking mice in her walls. The thing is, I've had a word or two with them myself. Real polite, they are. And you can't hardly get by a rainbow around here without two or three honest citizens calling to ask if anyone's lost a pot of gold. And that new housing addition out west of town? There's a coyote trying to burn it down. I've seen it running around with a flaming branch in its mouth. Not to mention the troll sightings, ogre swindles, and blue-wing fairy disturbances." Lowering his gaze to us, he went on, "What I'm getting at is this—you can feel free to tell me exactly what's happened here. I won't be poking fun at it or spreading it around. On that you can be sure. Antagonizing voters isn't my style at all."

So Dad told him. The sheriff un-huhed and ahem-ed through everything. When Dad pointed to the stopped clock on the mantel, the sheriff clicked his tongue and said that spells generally raised hob with clocks. When Dad got to the part about his being escorted back by a deputy, the sheriff smiled proudly and confided, "That's what I tell 'em. If somebody's rushing somewhere with river water, help 'em get there. Time's a-wasting."

"The river water didn't help," Mom said.

"Generally doesn't," the sheriff agreed. "Always worth a try, though."

After Dad finished the rest of his story, the sheriff nodded thoughtfully and crossed over to the wide-open back door.

"Not a scratch." He whistled lowly in admiration as he shined a flashlight on the lock. "There never is. Two or three times a month we find 'em open like this. You won't be able to close this door for years." To show us what he meant, he slammed the door shut and quickly stepped away. It flew back open immediately, as if flung by an unseen hand. "Unless you're willing to leave it open until the spell wears off, the only thing you can do with a door like this is pay Secondhand Tim to haul it away. He's got a back room full of 'em."

Still admiring the door, the sheriff added, "If you folks don't mind staying put, I think I'll take a spin around the backyard and see what I can see. I don't imagine there's anything out there to worry about, but best to be on the safe side, don't you think?"

As the sheriff went down the back steps, we packed ourselves around the door, not wanting to miss anything.

First off, the sheriff squatted on his haunches to point his flashlight at Aunt Phyllis's vegetable patch, which was freshly tilled for spring planting. He must have been looking for footprints in the loose dirt, as it was too early for any vegetables to be sprouting. After that he worked his way over to the white picket fence, where it ran along the alley, and walked its length, stopping here and there to sweep his light around. Once he stood still for nearly a minute, as if he'd found something. We all leaned forward. That's when he pulled a leafy willow branch free from two pickets, except that it couldn't have been a leafy willow branch. There wasn't a tree around that had leafed out yet.

"Troll tracks," the sheriff explained, once back in the kitchen. "Three sets of them, which is the usual number they travel in." He held up the willow branch. "River trolls, not rock."

"You can tell that from a willow branch?" Dad said.

"Forget the willow branch," the sheriff corrected. "This here is a hair off a genuine river troll, or so I'm told. Never seen one myself. They're tricky brutes."

At first we all edged back, but then we changed our minds and inched closer. The branch in the sheriff's hand was thinner and more leathery than anything off a tree. It smelled different too, more fishy than foresty.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Mom asked, pinching my arm hard enough to leave welts. Her other hand was doing the same to Tessa, and if she'd had two more hands, they would have been clamped onto Lillie and Fran.

"This particular spell's solid as can be," the sheriff said. "Waiting's not really an option, unless you've got a century or two to spare. I'm told there's only one thing to be done with stone like this, and that's hunt up the trolls responsible. They're the ones who can reverse what's happened here."

"And how are we supposed to find them?" Dad wanted to know.

"That's a problem, all right," the sheriff agreed. "I'd put out an all points bulletin, but that might get picked up by a reporter, which I'm afraid would only cause more problems than it'd solve. Publicity drives the slightest little rivery thing underground. Our best success has come from working closely with the family. Believe it or not, you're the ones who know the most about what happened here today. Doesn't have to be anything big or exciting that started all this. It doesn't take much to set off a troll, and there must have been some funny business going on here. If my eyes don't deceive me, that's Dr. E. O. Moneybaker turned to stone over there. And I know for a fact that he doesn't make house calls for your run-of-the-mill aches and pains."

I checked in with Dad, who nodded for me to go ahead and tell everything.

"Well, our cousin Duke," I volunteered, "he's got a rhino horn where his nose used to be."

"There you go," the sheriff said, encouraged. "That's a start. I can tell you from experience that nothing draws trolls like a rhino horn, though from what I hear it's usually rock trolls that come calling."

From there I spilled the rest of what had happened to Duke.

"That wagon wheel bridge," the sheriff muttered, shaking his head when I'd finished. "It's a real hangout, all right. Well, here's what I suggest we do. First, we form a search party. If we haven't any luck by morning, we enlist as many kids as we can to help us. They've got the best eyes for spotting anything rivery. Either way, once we find these trolls, we offer each of them a dollar."