Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere (7 page)

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Authors: Jacqueline West

BOOK: Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere
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“Are you going to be in sixth grade or seventh grade of junior high this year?” Rutherford asked abruptly, without looking up.
The words
sixth grade
and
junior high
always made Olive’s stomach squirm and clench, as if they were grubs she had swallowed whole. “Sixth,” she managed to answer.
“So am I,” said Rutherford. “We’ll be going to the same school. I’ll be staying at my grandmother’s house for at least a year while my parents conclude their research.”
There was a soft rustle from the big potted fern by the fireplace. Olive stared at the plant for a moment, but it didn’t move again.
“I’ve already attended seven different schools throughout the U.S., Europe, and Canada,” Rutherford went on, “but my parents thought it would be better if I stayed here this time.”
The fern gave a soft hiss. Rutherford didn’t seem to notice.
“Wow,” said Olive softly. “I’ve only been to four different schools.” Bad memories darted through her, nibbling at her stomach like a horde of tiny, needletoothed fish: days of no one to eat lunch with, days of being picked last for teams, days of spending recess sitting near the playground fence, pulling up shoots of grass just to look like she had something to do. She took a breath. “Do you mind it? Changing schools over and over, I mean?”
Rutherford shrugged. “It can be hard to adjust,” he said. “But I just tell myself that everything is temporary. Wherever I am, I won’t be there for long.”
Olive nodded, but somehow this thought made her sad.
They both turned back to their books, and for a moment, the library was quiet, even the fern.
Olive coughed uncomfortably. Rutherford, crosslegged on the floor, went on thumbing through a big green book. Olive coughed again, and this time the cough went on and on, until her eyes started to water and Rutherford turned to look up at her.
“I—um. I . . . I mean,” Olive said, and coughed again. “That thing I told you. About this house?”
“Yes?” said Rutherford.
“Don’t—don’t tell anyone, okay?”
Rutherford gazed at her very seriously. He nodded. “I give you my word. I’ll even take an oath, if you want me to. I could sign something, or I could lay my hand on a holy book—”
“No, that’s . . . You don’t have to do that,” said Olive. “Just keep it a secret.”
“Certainly. I vow not to tell a soul,” said Rutherford. Then he stood up and gave Olive a low, courtly bow before plopping back down with the green book.
“Interesting,” he murmured a moment later.
“What’s interesting?” asked Olive, who was feeling
almost
(but not quite) friendly toward Rutherford, now that he’d promised to keep her secret.
“This book claims that Captain Kidd was the only pirate known to have buried his treasure.” Rutherford gazed up at the ceiling. “I wonder if your witches might have buried their treasures, like the grimoire, somewhere. But I suppose, being witches instead of pirates, they would have used a disappearing spell instead. Have you seen any evidence of disappearing spells?”
Olive wondered how a person could see evidence of something that had disappeared. She shook her head. “No. They didn’t—”
She stopped midsentence. Because the McMartins
had
made things disappear.
They had made people vanish forever. They had made men and women and children disappear just as completely as if they
had
been buried. They had hidden things where no one else could find them—no one but Olive. Maybe everything she was searching for had been hanging right in front of her face . . .
Rutherford didn’t seem to notice that Olive had trailed off. He was still sitting on the floor, skimming through a dusty book (and Olive was still staring off into space, thinking, with her mouth hanging open) when Mrs. Dewey came to take Rutherford home.
“I’ll help you search again tomorrow, if you want,” Rutherford offered, getting up and pushing a heavy blue volume back onto the shelf.
“That’s okay,” said Olive, as loudly and quickly as she could. “I—I’ll let you know if I need help. Thank you.”
“All right. You know how to summon me.” Rutherford stopped at the door where Mrs. Dewey was waiting, fastened his gauntlets, and gave Olive another long bow in farewell.
“Help look for what?” Olive heard Mrs. Dewey ask as she and her grandson headed into the hall.
“Oh, we were doing some research on the history of dinosaurs in this area. What particular species lived here, when they became extinct . . .”
The voices faded away, and Olive breathed a sigh of relief. He was gone. The whole room seemed to brighten, as though the air itself grew lighter. Rutherford had kept her secret—so far, anyway. And now it was
their
secret. Maybe that would be enough to balance the equation.
Olive glanced up at the trails of afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows. A beam struck the frame around the painting of the dancing girls, and suddenly the whole frame flared and glittered as though it had been electrified, its golden sparkle lighting the way forward. The idea that had formed in Olive’s mind began to flare and sparkle too. The spellbook’s hiding place was so obvious! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Just then, something greenish, damp, and feline belly-crawled out of the potted fern. “So, the spy is gone at last,” it gasped, struggling across the floor.
“Harvey!” Olive scrambled down the ladder. “I thought it was you.”
“I can’t fight it any longer,” the cat wheezed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling like a bad Shakespearean actor. “I only regret . . . that I have but one life . . . to give to my country.”
Olive crouched beside him, putting one tentative hand on his fur, which was stiff with green paint and coated with leaves. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Harvey whispered. “But the time has come . . . for a BATH.” And then he collapsed dramatically in the middle of the rug.
7
 
T
HAT NIGHT, HORATIO curled up in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. Harvey, still smelling strongly of cat shampoo, headed down the hallway to the pink bedroom, to guard the entrance to the attic. Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody both peeped in to wish Olive sweet dreams. Then the hallway lights clicked off and the house settled down into sleepy darkness.
With her head on the pillow and Hershel tucked under her chin, Olive listened to the low creaks and groans of the old stone house, and to the twigs tapping softly on the window glass. All of this was familiar now. Inside her own bedroom, Olive felt almost safe, even in the darkest part of the night. But she sensed that while she and her parents went to sleep, the house never did. It was always awake. Watching. Olive wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing—if the house was watching out
for
her, or if it was watching
her.
She lay very still, waiting, repeating the words to catchy songs over and over in her head to stay awake. After she had gone through “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am,” about twenty-five times (she lost count somewhere around thirteen), she sat up very slowly and blinked out into the darkness over Hershel’s fuzzy head. She had a plan: a plan to make Morton
her
friend again, and if her hunch was correct, to find the spellbook too.
The room was silent. Horatio was a motionless lump of fur. Even the distant white glow of the streetlamps had faded above the sleeping street.
Olive slid her legs to the edge of the mattress, careful not to bump Horatio. The big orange cat didn’t stir. The floor felt cold against the soles of her feet, but, as usual, none of her six pairs of slippers were waiting by the bed where they belonged. She slunk across the room and slipped out the door into the hall.
The floorboards creaked as Olive tiptoed past the paintings of the bowl of strange fruit and of the church on the craggy hill. She hurried by the dark, open doorways of the bathroom and the guest rooms, trying not to imagine anyone jumping out at her, any voices whispering her name from the shadows inside. But it was hard not to.
By the time she reached the front of the house, she was nearly running. She darted through the doorway into the pink room.
Harvey was asleep on a chair before the painting of the old stone archway that was the entrance to the attic. His head hung limply over the edge of the seat.
As gently as she could, Olive tapped the cat’s front paw.
Harvey sat bolt upright. “The royal fleet awaits your command, Majesty!” he declared.
“Shh!” Olive hissed. “Harvey, I need your help. I know where something I’ve been looking for might be hidden.” She stared into the cat’s wide green eyes. “Will you help me?”
“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else, Your Majesty,” said Harvey, straightening himself on the cushioned seat before taking a regal bow. “Perhaps you do not recognize me after my long months spent at sea. It is I, Raleigh, Sir Walter Raleigh. And I am at your service.”
“Okay, Sir . . . who did you say?”
“Sir Walter Raleigh. Explorer, writer, soldier, and all-around Renaissance man.”
“Okay, Sir Walter Raleigh,” said Olive. “But we have to be very, very quiet. No one else can know about this mission. You’re the only one I can trust.”
The cat gave a delighted nod.
“All right,” Olive breathed. “Now, we’re going to go out into the hallway, into the painting of Linden Street, and we’re going to find Morton.”
“Ah yes, the good Sir Pillowcase!” said Harvey with growing excitement. “We will navigate the straits and join our comrade!”
“Sure,” whispered Olive. “You navigate. I’ll be right behind you.”
Sweeping an imaginary cape over his shoulders, Harvey leaped from the chair and flounced toward the door. Olive tiptoed after him.
She followed Harvey’s fuzzy silhouette back down the hallway. In front of the painting, he offered her his tail, and together they clambered through the frame into the misty field below Linden Street.
They found Morton sitting on the lawn of the house next door to his own, which in Olive’s world belonged to Mrs. Dewey. He was yanking up a row of white tulips and flinging them into the air, where they spun end over end like floppy batons. Then they zoomed back toward the ground, bulbs first, and planted themselves neatly in their waiting holes.
“Morton, what are you doing?” asked Olive as she and Harvey stopped in front of him.
Morton gave her a look that said this question didn’t really deserve an answer. He pulled up the next tulip.
“Where are your friends?”
Morton shrugged. “Somewhere. Maybe they’re at home. With their families.” He threw the tulip into the air. It flipped over twice and dove back toward the ground like a lawn dart.
Olive wanted to say, “Are their families invisible too?” but looking down at Morton’s face, she decided not to. Instead, she crouched down on the dewy grass. “Hey, Morton,” she began. “Do you remember that book I asked you about?”
Morton pulled up another tulip and didn’t answer.
“I think if I could find that book, I might learn how to help you get back home.”
Morton looked at her out of the corner of one eye. “
Real
home?”
“
Real
home,” Olive repeated. “If the McMartins had a book of magic spells, they probably kept it in a magical place. I think that book is hidden in a painting somewhere inside this house.”
Morton’s round face turned skeptical. “Maybe.”
“So . . .” said Olive, trying to sound as though she really didn’t care, “will you help me look for it?”
“Oh,” said Morton, trying to sound as though he really didn’t care either, “. . . I suppose I could.”
“Excellent!” boomed Harvey. “An agreement has been reached between Good Queen Bess and the noble Sir Pillowcase. Now, onward, to explore the colonies!” And he charged off down the misty street, with Olive and Morton struggling to keep up.
Once they had all wriggled through the frame, they stood uncertainly in the hallway, glancing around at the dark, open doorways. “Where should we start?” Morton whispered at last.
Olive closed her eyes. She thought about the book. She imagined its cover, black or brown or red or green. She imagined the feeling of its pages. Maybe they would be heavy and soft, almost like cloth, or maybe they would be fine and delicate and nearly transparent, crinkling one over another like sheaves of tissue paper. And, very faintly, very gradually, something in the house began to guide her. It leaked out of the walls and rippled up through the floorboards into the soles of Olive’s bare feet. She could feel it turning her in the right direction, like the spinning arrow in a board game.
“I don’t think it’s downstairs,” she whispered back. “Let’s start up here.”
They threaded their way along the hall, Harvey trying to stay in the lead, even though he didn’t know where they were going, and Olive and Morton walking behind, tiptoeing on each other’s shadows.

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