Lord of the Wings Read online

  They probably didn’t—but they were clearly in the minority. Most of the shops and houses contained enough jack-o’-lanterns, faux skeletons, black cat window decals, bat garlands, and rubber rats to make up for any excess of good taste on the part of the Garden Club.

  It was early enough that I had no trouble finding a parking spot near the courthouse. As I climbed the long marble steps up to the front portico, I could see that the two small groups of protesters were already on duty. I turned to study them for a moment. To the right were a small group of people who objected to our Halloween Festival on the grounds that it was a godless pagan holiday that a respectable town shouldn’t be celebrating. To the left was a group of about the same number of devout pagans who were protesting our commercialization of what was for them an important religious holiday and our use of decorations that perpetuated society’s negative stereotype of witches.

  Neither group had started picketing yet, only milling around as if waiting for something. The arrival of the first tourists, perhaps.

  If I’d been in charge, I’d have long ago sent a couple of local ministers out to placate the Halloween haters and tasked Rose Noire with figuring out what we could do to calm down the pagans.

  Then I saw them all perk up as two figures approached. It was Muriel, owner of the local diner, and one of her waitresses, both carrying trays laden with doughnuts and carryout cups of coffee. Muriel began serving the pagans while the waitress continued on toward the Halloween haters.

  “You were right,” said a voice from over my shoulder.

  I looked up to see Randall standing at the top of the steps, gazing down at the protesters. His buckskin costume already looked wrinkled, and his Davy Crockett-style coonskin hat was askew.

  “I usually am right,” I said, as I made my way up the rest of the steps. “What in particular am I right about today?”

  “We never should have tried to chase them off,” he said, nodding at the protesters. “Should have killed them with kindness from the start.”

  I refrained from saying that it was Lydia who tried to order the protesters away, and demanded that the police step in when her efforts failed. Fortunately Chief Burke had a cool head and a strong respect for the First Amendment.

  “I see you’re taking my idea about the refreshments,” I said.

  “Yup.” Randall smiled with satisfaction. “Coffee and doughnuts every morning from Muriel, and tea and cookies every afternoon from one of the churches. If the forecast calls for rain, we put up those little canvas shelters for them, and they know they’re always welcome to use the courthouse bathroom.”

  “You’re spoiling them,” I said.

  “And we’re down to about a third of the number we had last week this time,” he said. “Clearly it’s no fun protesting people who seem perfectly happy to have you stay around. What brings you downtown? I’d have thought you’d be out at the zoo with the first graders today.”

  “I will be,” I said. “As soon as I talk to Lydia and find out what’s so important that she had to drag me all the way downtown.”

  Randall winced, and I felt slightly guilty for venting at him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “She means well, and she’s learning.”

  Not learning fast enough to suit me, but I refrained from saying so aloud. I just nodded, went inside the courthouse, and took the elevator up to the third floor where Lydia had her office, a few doors down from Randall’s office.

  As usual, Lydia was on the phone. Not just on the phone, but switching back and forth between the two lines on her desk phone while texting something on her cell phone with her right hand and clicking something on her computer keyboard with the left. She nodded and smiled when she saw me, and held up two fingers, like the peace sign. Her intent, of course, was to say that she’d be with me in two minutes. I knew better by now.

  I sat down in one of her desk chairs and resigned myself to wait. If I were a snarkier person, I’d have brought along a thick book—War and Peace, perhaps—and made a show of settling down to read it while she talked. Instead, I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I call my giant to-do list, and made productive use of my time.

  Other people rarely understood how comforting I found it to spend time with my notebook. Knowing that everything on my plate was captured between its covers cleared my brain to concentrate on whatever I was doing. Since the boys’ arrival, life had grown even more complicated than before, and I’d traded in my original spiral notebooks for a small three-ring binder, but apart from that my system was the same. My notebook gave me peace of mind, and all it asked in return was that I tend it for a few minutes here and there. I marked a few tasks as done and added a few new ones.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lydia was saying. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I glanced up to see that she was scribbling something on a yellow sticky note.

  She stuck the sticky on the left side of her computer monitor, where it was largely indistinguishable from the hundred other yellow sticky notes that clung to the monitor, gradually encroaching on the viewing space. Her calendar and the wall it hung on were similarly encrusted. As I watched, one lonely yellow square gave up hope of ever being read and let itself fall to the floor.

  By contrast, her desk contained only a few sticky notes, hidden here and there among the books, folders, paper stacks, and yellow legal pads that covered every inch of horizontal space and in some places had begun to slide off onto the floor.

  Every time I walked into her office, my fingers itched to start organizing it all.

  Not for the first time I wondered where Randall had found her, and how in the world she had convinced him that she was good at organizing.

  “Chill,” I murmured under my breath. Lydia’s organizing skills might be overrated, the festival might not be running the way I’d like to have seen it run, but it was limping along adequately without me doing anything other than organizing and running the volunteer security force. I reminded myself to be grateful for that.

  “Sorry.” She hung up and turned to me with a perky little smile that didn’t really reach her eyes. “There’s just so much going on.”

  “Understandable,” I said. “What did you need to see me about?”

  “Oh!” She began scanning the sticky notes on the left side of her monitor and plucked one off. “Here it is. Dr. Smoot called. He seems to think someone broke into the museum very early this morning. Could you check to see if it’s something the police should handle or if he’s just being hyper again?”

  “You could have told me about it over the phone,” I said. “As it happens, one of my volunteers already told me about the break-in, and I was on my way over there when you called. If you’d told me that was why you were calling, I’d be there by now, dealing with it.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “But it’s only a little detour, after all.”

  “Only ten miles.” My smile probably didn’t reach my eyes, either. In fact, it was probably more of a grimace. But since Lydia had already half turned away to dial another number on her phone, she probably didn’t notice.

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I stood up and left her office, ignoring her cheerful good-bye wave.

  Luckily Randall wasn’t still at the top of the courthouse steps, so I was spared the temptation to tell him what I thought of his assistant.

  The protesters had finished their morning coffee break and were marching up and down their assigned sides of the sidewalk. The anti-Halloween crew carried signs with slogans like “Halloween Is the Devil’s Nite.” The pagans’ signs all had a picture of a spectacularly ugly cartoon witch riding a broomstick. The witch was in a circle with a line through it, reminiscent of a no-smoking sign. During the first few days they hadn’t had any slogans on them, giving some of the tourists the erroneous impression that they were against witches, or possibly declaring the town a no-fly zone for broomstick riders. So they’d added slogans like NO STEREOTYPING and CAERPHILLY UNFAIR TO WITCHES.


  The protesters were all remarkably well behaved, especially considering the fact that each group probably considered the other its archenemy.

  Behind them, in the town square, the farmers and craftspeople and other merchants were starting to set up for the farmer’s market. I could see merchants and volunteers performing a few last minute tasks, finishing up the job of switching things over from the Night Side, our evening mode, into the family-friendly Day Side.

  In the daytime, we insisted that none of the festival attractions display any excessively graphic or scary decorations, and we discouraged overly gory or provocative costumes. We had no control over what the owners did on private property, of course, but most of them voluntarily complied with the daytime guidelines. Then, an hour after sunset, dozens of volunteers throughout the festival rushed to transform everything. Smiling pumpkin heads turned into evilly grinning ones. Fluffy black cats gave way to snarling wolves. Instead of “Ghostbusters” and “Monster Mash” on the loudspeakers we played “Night on Bald Mountain” and Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” and, as the night wore on, truly sinister-sounding mood music. Welcome to the Night Side.

  Most of the volunteers found it easier to switch things back before going home, so there was less to do in the morning, but as long as the switch was complete before the tourists streamed in we were okay with it. Members of the Goblin Patrol checked every morning to make sure the switch was complete by 8:00 A.M. That was probably why Rob had been out at Caerphilly Haunted House so early, since the Haunted House and its environs were a hot spot for inappropriate decorations.

  My route out of town passed by Caerphilly Elementary and I could see that the children were lined up on the curb in groups of four, being given their marching orders by Mrs. Velma Shiffley, their teacher. I spotted Michael easily. At six four he towered over all the children—and for that matter, all the adults. He looked very impressive in today’s costume—a Union general’s uniform that he’d originally acquired for participating in the town’s Civil War celebrations. Probably more suitable for a school outing than the over-tight evil wizard costume.

  On impulse, I made a U-turn and pulled into the school parking lot. Lydia be damned. Dr. Smoot could wait. I was going to the zoo with my boys.

  Chapter 3

  “Mommy! You came after all!” Jamie was overjoyed to see me, and had to be restrained from running up to my car when I turned into the parking lot. Josh acknowledged my arrival with a casual wave.

  I parked my car and joined Michael at the Twinmobile, where Jamie and Josh and their two best friends, Mason and Noah, had resumed squabbling mildly over who got to sit in the third row. I wondered, for a moment, if Mrs. Shiffley’s decision to put these four together was wise. On the one hand, Michael and I had long ago realized that when the foursome got together they produced at least eight times as much noise and mischief as they did singly. But on the other hand, at least the odds were they’d comply pretty well with Mrs. Shiffley’s orders to stay together as a group. And we’d have plenty of help. There were almost as many chaperones as children, probably because the Creatures of the Night exhibit was usually crowded beyond belief during the zoo’s normal visiting hours.

  Once we’d settled Josh and Mason in the third row, promising Jamie and Noah that prized position on the way back, we headed out. I distracted the boys by pointing out all the Halloween decorations we passed and challenging them to pick their favorite. At first, the army of skeletons outside the Caerphilly Hospital was running neck-and-neck with the Caerphilly Garden Center’s display of three animated witches stirring a kettle that emitted dry ice fumes. But once we sighted the Haunted House it blew all its competition out of the water.

  “Awesome!” Josh and Noah whispered in unison, while Jamie and Mason just stared.

  “It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” Michael said.

  The Haunted House had started life as the Smoot family house. Like our house, it was a sprawling three-story Victorian. But in the last ten years we had transformed ours from a seedy wreck into a showplace, under Mother’s guidance and with much expensive help from the Shiffley Construction Company. After inheriting it from his aunt last year, Dr. Smoot had taken his house in the other direction. The white siding and woodwork were now gray and black. The ornate gingerbread trim was still intact, but painted in gray and black it gave the impression that the house was trimmed with sooty geometric spiderwebs. Many of the windows had faux cracks painted on the glass, and flickering candles in a few of them seemed to be the only light. Right now the irregular slate front walk still looked ever-so-slightly too new, and I was suspicious that the weeds springing up between the stones were planted, since it was a little too soon for even the most enterprising weeds to grow quite so tall. But time would no doubt mellow all that. I’m not sure I would have replaced a perfectly nice white picket fence with an eight-foot black wrought-iron fence, but it looked elegant. Although I hoped the skull-shaped lights on the posts were Halloween decorations, not permanent features.

  “Look!” Noah said. “Is that a vampire?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s just Dr. Smoot, who owns the Haunted House.”

  “Awesome,” Josh said. “Does he live there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “On the third floor.”

  “I bet he has fangs,” Mason said.

  I decided to ignore that remark. Where did they learn about such things? At least, since it was Halloween, I wouldn’t have to answer questions about why Dr. Smoot was dressed like a vampire. Their parents could explain that later, when the kids noticed he did it year round instead of just at Halloween, like most people. Halloween was the one time when Dr. Smoot looked more or less normal. Normal for Caerphilly, at least, where almost everyone would be dressed in costume for the entire ten days of the festival.

  Before the children could ask any more questions, fresh sights pushed Dr. Smoot out of their minds. First the Halloween Fun Fair, a temporary amusement park complete with rides, games of skill and chance, and food concessions—a sort of Halloween-themed midway that filled the nine and a half acres of Dr. Smoot’s property not enclosed by the fence around his house. It would be silent until noon today, but it still captivated the children. And beyond the Fun Fair was the field in which Randall had erected the Maize Maze—a giant ten-acre cornstalk maze. He’d originally hoped to plant the world’s largest cornstalk maze, but upon learning that the current record-holding maze was over forty acres, he’d decided to start small and work up to world domination in the all-important maze race.

  Then, shortly after we passed the maze, the children’s excitement reached a fever pitch when the zoo gates loomed into sight in the distance. Or maybe it wasn’t the zoo gates that excited them but the figure standing in front of them—a tall figure in a homespun gray cloak. His hood was pulled over his face, but as we drew closer you could imagine you caught a flash of the piercing eyes beneath. He carried a staff as tall as he was, with a carved raven at the top, and around his shoulders swirled half a dozen ravens.

  “Cool,” “awesome,” and “wow,” were the small boys’ verdicts.

  The birds banked and soared around the figure, occasionally landing on his arms or his shoulders. And as I watched, one soared over its head and unleashed a spatter of droppings on his hood. The figure didn’t seem to notice, but then perhaps that was the reason he was wearing the hood pulled up to cover his head so completely.

  “Is that Gandalf?” Mason whispered.

  “No,” Jamie said. “It’s Great-grandfather. He owns the zoo.”

  But even Josh and Jamie were slightly cowed by Grandfather’s imposing figure in his unfamiliar garb. Our four charges scrambled out of the van and went to stand at a respectful distance from Grandfather. He waited while all the vans and cars emptied out and the children and chaperones gathered around him. The sooty black ravens all settled on his arms and shoulders and stared at the children as if studying them.

  From time to time, the ravens would utt
er harsh cries and, occasionally, recognizable words.

  “Nevermore!” exclaimed one who was sitting on Grandfather’s shoulder.

  “Nevermore!” agreed one who was trying to perch on his head.

  “Doom! Doom!” croaked another.

  “Room service,” chimed in a fourth. Grandfather, who rather enjoyed the first three ravens, scowled at the fourth and shook his staff at it.

  When the circle of children and chaperones was complete, Grandfather glanced up slightly, and seeing no wings directly overhead, he pushed the hood back, dislodging two of the ravens.

  “Greetings, mortal children,” he intoned. “Are you ready to visit the Creatures of the Night?”

  Enthusiastic cheers greeted this. Mrs. Shiffley stepped forward.

  “Before we get started, I want everybody to remember that we’re guests here,” she began.

  Some of the children fidgeted, while others put on the sort of ostentatiously obedient and attentive faces that marked them in my eyes as potential troublemakers in need of watching.

  “I think all of you know Dr. Montgomery Blake, the very famous zoologist and environmentalist who owns the Caerphilly Zoo,” Mrs. Shiffley went on. “I want you to be quiet and listen to him. Anyone who misbehaves will be sent back here to wait in the parking lot while the rest of the class finishes the tour.”

  A hushed and anxious silence followed her words. Then Grandfather stepped forward.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We won’t be sending anyone back to the parking lot.”

  A few cheers greeted this statement. Mrs. Shiffley frowned.

  “We’ll feed anyone who misbehaves to the hyenas!”