Eighteen

Why should Pythag have all the fun? I overcame the hand-railing with ease.

It was not so easy to make the climb aboard the skeleton, but I managed it. I enjoyed the view from its back only briefly-let me tell you, there is no comfortable seating astride the spine of a mastodon. Knowing that Pythag would be nettled that I had achieved this summit before him, I decided that I would leave some little proof of my visit. I made a rather precarious search of my pockets and found a piece of string. Tied in a bow about a knot of wires along the spine, it did very nicely.

The skeleton swayed a bit as I got down, and the only witness, a child, was soon asking his mother if he might go for a ride, too-but in a stern, Pythag-inspired voice, I informed her that I was an official of the museum, repairing the damage done by the last little boy who climbed the mastodon, a boy whose parents could be contacted at the poor house, where they were working off payments. Although we haven’t had a poor house in this city in a century, she seemed to understand the larger implications, and they quickly left the museum.

As anticipated, Persephone called the next day.

“Take him,” she pleaded. “Take him anywhere, and I’ll take you back.”

“Persephone,” I said sternly.

“I know, and I apologize, dearest. I will marry you, just as we pla

“Three of us?”

“Well, I can’t leave poor Pythagoras to fend for himself now, can I?”

And so once again, I found myself in the Museum of Natural History with Pythag at my side. He had do

He began teasing me about my recent setback with Persephone. If he was an expert at devising troublesome frolics, Pythag’s mea

I had experienced such taunting before, though, and I rebuffed his attempts to hurt and a

“Really?” I said, lifting my nose a little higher. “As it happens, Professor, I have done something you haven’t dared to do.”

His disbelief was patent.

“I’ve climbed the mastodon,” I told him.

“Rubbish,” he said.

“Conquered the proboscidean peak.”

“Balderdash!”

“Not at all. There’s a little piece of string, tied in a bow on his back to prove it.”

It was enough to do the trick. He climbed, and it seemed to me the skeleton swayed more than it had the day before. As I watched him, and saw him come closer to my little marker, it became apparent to me that I had tied the string at a most fragile juncture of supporting wires.

It was a wonder, really, that I hadn’t been killed.

The thought came to me as simply as that. One minute, Pythag was astride the spine, asking me to bring him a piece of string, so that he might tie his own knot. I imagined spending the rest of my days nearly as tied to him as I would be to his sister. All my life, protecting treasures of one sort or another from a man who thought rules were only for other people, never himself.

“You must bring my own string back to me,” I said. “That is how it’s done.”

And that was how it was done.

I was horrified by the result, and remain so. Mastodon skeletons are, after all, devilishly hard to come by. Persephone is convinced that the experts there are actually enjoying the challenge of reassembling the great beast.

The museum, no matter what it may say to the papers, is considering dropping its civil suit, hoping to extract a promise from Persephone not to pursue a wrongful death action against them. We are mulling it over.

I say we, because Pythagoras was mistaken, as it turns out. His sister will marry me. I confessed all to her, of course. Persephone merely asked me what took me so long to see what needed to be done.

Persephone and I are indeed well-suited.

Agatha Award Wi

Macavity Award Nominee for Best Short Story

The Haunting of Carrick Hollow

I reached the end of the drive and pulled the buggy to a halt, looking back at the old house, the modest structure where I had been born. At another time, I might have spent these moments in fond remembrance of my childhood on Arden Farm, recalling the games and mischief I entered into with my brothers and sisters, and the wise and gentle care of my loving parents. But other, less pleasant memories had been forged since those happier days, and now my concerns for the welfare of my one surviving brother kept all other thoughts from me.

Noah stood on the porch, solemn-faced, looking forlorn as he watched me go. It troubled me to see him there; Noah had never concerned himself overmuch with formal leave-takings-only a year ago, he would have all but pushed me out the door, anxious to return to his work in the apple orchards.

Upon our father’s death six months ago, Noah had inherited Arden Farm. From childhood, we had all of us known that Noah would one day own this land, and the house upon it. The eldest sons of generation upon generation of Ardens before him had worked in these same orchards. In our childhood, I had been the one whose future seemed uncertain-no one was sure what useful purpose such a bookish boy could serve. Now Noah spoke of leaving Arden Farm, of moving far away from the village of Carrick Hollow.

At one time, this notion would have been nearly unthinkable. Noah had always seemed to me a steadfast man who did not waver under any burden, as sturdy as the apple trees he tended. But then, as children, we never could have imagined the weight that would come to rest on him-indeed, on everyone who lived in our simple New England village.

I pulled my cloak closer about me, and told myself I should not dwell on such matters. I turned my thoughts to my work. When I first returned to Carrick Hollow after medical school, I wondered if my neighbors would be inclined to think of me as little Joh

Now, driving down the lane, I considered the patients I would visit tomorrow morning. Horace Smith, who had injured his hand while mending a wagon wheel, would be the first. Next I’d call on old Mrs. Compstead, to see if the medicine I had given her for her palsy had been effective.

A distant clanging and clattering interrupted these reveries. The sounds steadily grew louder as I neared a bend in the road, until my gentle and usually well-ma

My horse seemed to take even greater exception to this plodding, ill-favored cousin in harness. The peddler swore and pulled up sharply. I have never claimed to be a masterful handler of the reins, and it took all my limited skill to maneuver my small rig to the side of the narrow lane, which I managed to do just in time to avoid a collision. The mule halted and heaved a sigh. And there, once my horse had regained his dignity, we found ourselves at an impasse.