help them, Albert,” she said, as if she were the adult and he the child.
“Why?”
“Because you know it’s the right thing to do.”
Albert looked to heaven and rolled his eyes. He shook his head, as if it were hopeless, then he finally gave a nod. “Okay, but just me. You two stay here. Less chance we’ll be spotted.”
“Thank you, Albert,” I said, thinking that my brother wasn’t such a bad egg, and thinking that Emmy was wise beyond her years, and thinking how grateful Maybeth would be. Thinking that most of all.
Albert limped off, his leg still paining him, and was gone all afternoon. So was Forrest. And God only knew where Mose had disappeared to. I began to worry. What if none of them came back? What if Emmy and I were alone? And that’s when I remembered the words Mose had signed again and again into Emmy’s palm when trying to comfort her near the outset of our journey: Not alone.
He was right. We weren’t alone. We had each other, Emmy and me, and now we had the Schofields. Maybe Chicago would be a better place than Saint Louis. Better mostly because Maybeth and I would be together. And I thought that might be just fine with me.
“I miss Mose,” Emmy said.
I did, too. Not the Mose who was dark and moody, but the Mose who’d always had a ready smile and, although he couldn’t really sing, had always seemed as if there’d been a song in his heart. Then we’d found the skeleton of the dead Indian kid and everything had changed.
Emmy began building a little house of twigs, and I asked her, “Do you remember saying to me that they’re all dead?”
“Who?”
“When you had your last fit, you said, ‘They’re dead. They’re all dead.’ Do you remember that?”
“Unh-uh. It’s always like a fog.” She knocked down the twig house and, sounding bored, said, “Tell me a story, Odie.”
The sun was well to the west, the shadows among the poplars growing long, birds settling in the branches as if preparing for the night.
“It begins this way,” I said.
The four Vagabonds had traveled far since their battle with the witch’s snake army, and they were tired and decided to make camp beside a river. In the distance rose the towers of a castle.
“The castle of the witch?” Emmy asked. “Where the children are trapped in the dungeon?”
“No, this a different castle. Just listen.”
The Vagabonds weren’t sure about the castle, and with good reason. The whole land was under the shadow of the Black Witch, and the Vagabonds knew it was dangerous to trust anyone. They drew straws to see who would approach the castle to take its measure. The imp drew the short straw. He bid goodbye to his companions and made his way alone up the river, where the castle rose on the far side. He came to a bridge long ago abandoned and overgrown with vines. When he crossed, he found the road on the other side in bad shape. The land all around was a jungle that grew right up against the walls of the castle. The castle gate was wide open and there weren’t any guards, and the imp cautiously entered.
Inside, he found people walking like the dead, no life in their eyes, their bodies thin as Popsicle sticks. They were starving, but there was more to their horrible situation than hunger. The Black Witch had stolen their souls. They were living but they had no life. The imp tried to speak to them, but it was like talking to the stone of the castle walls. They didn’t have the will, or maybe even the strength, to speak. They walked in a terrible silence, and because they didn’t have the gumption to leave the castle, they went round and round in useless circles.
The imp had a magic harmonica, given him long ago by the great imp who was his father.
“Just like your harmonica,” Emmy said.
“Not like mine,” I said. “A magic harmonica.”
“It’s like magic when you play, Odie.”
“Hush,” I said. “Let me finish the story.”
He drew out his harmonica, wanting to bring a song of hope to that dreary place. As he played, a beautiful voice joined him, singing from the tallest castle tower. It seemed magic, in the same way his harmonica was. He followed the sound up a long, winding staircase and came at last to a room, where he found the loveliest princess imaginable.
“What was her name?”
“Maybeth,” I said. “Maybeth Schofield.”
“Maybeth