The Skull of Truth Page 7

  “She keeps trying. Anyway, I’m not sure it is nice to see you. You kind of scare me.”

  “Well, you scare me,” said Jerome. “But the old man wanted us to bring you another message.”

  “How did you get in?” asked Charlie, glancing at the window and seeing that it was still closed.

  “Rats are very good at getting into places,” said Roxanne. “It’s one of the things that make us such good messengers. First time, we couldn’t come in until you had invited us. That’s one of the rules. But now it’s easier.”

  “Great,” muttered Charlie, wondering if he was going to be seeing the rats on a regular basis, and at the same time noticing that the truth spell didn’t inhibit sarcasm.

  “Here’s the message,” said Jerome, dragging a rolled-up piece of paper from under the desk.

  “Sign here,” added Roxanne, producing a receipt.

  Charlie read it to make sure he wasn’t signing anything dangerous, then scrawled his name.

  Jerome handed him the message. “Good luck,” said the rat darkly. Then he and Roxanne headed back under the desk. A second later Roxanne scurried back and said, “It was nice to see you again, Yorick. It’s kind of quiet around the shop without you.” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “No offense, but I think Jerome is glad you’re gone.”

  “Why?” asked Yorick, sounding deeply offended anyway.

  Roxanne glanced over her shoulder, then turned back and whispered, “You’re funnier than he is. It depresses him.” With a little giggle she scooted under the desk.

  Charlie dropped to his knees and peered after Roxanne. She and Jerome had both vanished, and he could see no sign of where they had gone. Sighing, he got to his feet, then went to his desk and unrolled the message.

  To: Charlie Eggleston From:

  S. H. Elives

  Regarding: Warning Signs

  Mr. Eggleston,

  Signs indicate that you are entering a time of great danger. I have word of something that lurches toward you, something that wants the skull. The threads of truth are tangled around poor Yorick in ways I cannot yet determine.

  That you are in the center of this, while only partly your fault, is definitely your problem. I regret I am not able to return at this time. However, I will send help and advice as I am able. In the meantime, be wise, wary, and watchful, lest all this end in tragedy yet again.

  Please tell Yorick I said he is to behave, and that the answer to his riddle is “Seven chickens.”

  Sincerely,

  S. H. Elives

  “Drat!” said the skull, after Charlie had read the letter out loud. “I thought for sure I had him stumped that time.”

  “Forget the chickens,” said Charlie crossly. “What about all this danger stuff?”

  “I told you I was nervous. You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I don’t understand. No offense, but what could hurt you? I mean, you’re already . . .” Charlie let his voice trail off.

  “Ever hear the phrase a fate worse than death? Anyway, the old man didn’t say I was in danger. He said you were entering a time of great danger.”

  Charlie felt his throat go dry. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m a jester! Why should I be serious? However, I am telling the truth, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “Nothing, yet. So why don’t you worry about the immediate problems instead? For instance, what are you going to do in school tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” groaned Charlie. He shrugged. “Probably I should just go in with a big paper bag over my head.”

  “Oh, you’re not that ugly. And I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Shrug like that.”

  “Why not?” asked Charlie, baffled at the suggestion.

  “Because I can’t.”

  “So?” he asked, shrugging again without even realizing it.

  Yorick sighed. “Well, sometimes the best way to answer a question is with a shrug, the way you just did. Only, since I don’t have any shoulders, I can’t do it! So it’s very annoying to have to watch you do it. I mean, it’s like you’re rubbing it in. Do you suppose you could get rid of your shoulders for a while? Oh, forget it. I suppose that’s not possible. On the other hand (which I don’t have, either, now that I think of it) you could—”

  “Shut up, will you!” snapped Charlie. He got up and stalked out of the room, then out of the house. Though he had told himself he was leaving because he couldn’t stand any more of the skull’s chatter, as he walked he realized that what he was most upset about wasn’t the skull, or Karen Ackerman. It was Gilbert. Until Charlie found a way to make things right with him, the knot in his stomach wasn’t going to go away.

  Without actually intending to, Charlie found himself circling his house, then cutting through the cemetery toward Gilbert’s place, which also bordered on the graveyard. Not wanting to come out in Gilbert’s backyard, he ducked through Old Man Grimsby’s orchard, then out onto the sidewalk.

  Cautiously, he walked toward the Dawkins’s house.

  Gilbert was sitting on his front porch, reading. When Charlie saw this he turned and headed back toward the corner. He walked to the next corner. Then he turned and walked back far enough that he could see Gilbert’s porch again.

  Gilbert was still there, looking pale and frail and very bald as he turned the pages of a large book.

  Charlie took a deep breath and started forward. After three steps he turned back. If he was going to talk to Gilbert, and if he wanted to avoid another catastrophe, he had better practice the conversation first After all, he couldn’t offer any little white lies (“Gee, you sure look great without any hair!”) in order to make Gilbert feel better. Whatever he said was going to have to be the absolute truth.

  Ducking behind a wide hickory tree where he would be out of sight should Gilbert look up, Charlie leaned against the rough bark and thought about what he could say to his friend that was true.

  Well, to begin with, he really was sorry for what he had said on Friday. And he really hadn’t meant to hurt Gilbert’s feelings. And he really did want to apologize for—

  No, better watch out. That last one wasn’t quite true. He hated apologizing. But he did want to set things right with Gilbert, if only so this nasty feeling in his stomach would go away.

  Charlie sighed. That sounded so selfish!

  He tried it again, changing the last part: “I really do want to set things right with Gilbert. I’m worried about him.”

  Hmmm. That must be true, too. And it certainly sounded better. Of course, worrying about sounding better—

  He squashed the thought, realizing he was starting a circle of ideas that could ripple on forever.

  What else could he say to Gilbert? Not much, he decided, since most of the things that were true were not very nice—and most of the things that were nice weren’t true. For example, even though Mr. Diogen had assured the class that Gilbert’s illness was not contagious and there was no way any of them could catch it, Charlie continued to feel a twist of fear at the very sight of Gilbert. And some deep, treacherous part of his mind still suspected it might be dangerous even to talk to him.

  He didn’t really believe that—and yet at the same time he did believe it. Charlie sighed. Where was the truth in that kind of situation?

  He reviewed the few respectable truths he had managed to come up with, then gathered his courage and started toward Gilbert’s house for the fourth time. He was terrified—more frightened, he realized, than when Mark and his gang had chased him into the swamp. Even so, it would be better to take care of this now than at school tomorrow.

  Another nasty truth, thought Charlie regretfully. He would have liked to believe he was being entirely noble by going to see Gilbert. The truth, of course, was that he was trying to smooth things over today so he wouldn’t have to deal with them in front of the entire class tomorrow.

>   Cripe, he couldn’t even lie to himself anymore!

  Moving quietly, he walked up to Gilbert’s front porch. Gilbert didn’t look up from his book. Charlie wondered if Gilbert didn’t hear him or was just pretending not to notice him. He thought about making a noise to attract Gilbert’s attention, but he was so nervous about what he was going to say when Gilbert finally did look up that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  He stood in silence at the base of the steps, studying Gilbert. He remembered times they had sat on that porch together, reading comic books and drinking lemonade that Gilbert’s mom had made fresh. He and Gilbert had been pretty close friends in the third and fourth grades. But in the last year or so they had drifted apart. Not for any particular reason, no fight or anything; they just hadn’t seen as much of each other.

  Or was there a reason? Charlie wondered suddenly. Had Gilbert’s illness been starting back then? Was that why he had stopped coming out to play so often, not spent as much time with the other kids?

  Charlie felt his stomach add another knot to the mess already there. If he had been paying more attention, he might have figured out something was wrong. He might have been a better friend than he had been.

  Gilbert still didn’t notice him.

  Finally Charlie whistled three high notes, then one long, low one. Their old signal.

  Gilbert put down his book and looked up.

  NINE

  Gilbert

  “Hi,” said Gilbert. That was all. Just “Hi.”

  Charlie realized he had secretry been hoping Gilbert would make this easy for him, would say, “Don’t worry, Charlie. I understand. I’m not mad.”

  But he just sat there, holding his book.

  “So, how you doing?” asked Charlie.

  Gilbert shrugged. “Not real great.”

  Suddenly Charlie’s worries about himself faded into the background as he realized yet one more truth: Though he had been assuming that sooner or later Gilbert was going to get better, he had no idea if that was really the case. Maybe Gilbert wasn’t going to get better.

  Ever.

  Charlie felt his knees wobble. Forcing his legs to stay under control, he climbed the steps. “I’m sorry,” he said when he got to the top. “About Friday. About what I said. It was stupid. I didn’t mean to, it just came out. After I said it I wished—” He broke off. He had been about to say he had wished he was dead, but that wasn’t true. He swallowed, then finished lamely, “I wished I hadn’t.”

  “I wished you hadn’t, too,” said Gilbert, with a small laugh.

  Charlie nodded. Looking at the spot that used to be his, where he had spent so many hours reading and talking and laughing, he said, “Can I sit down?” Then, before Gilbert could answer, his traitor mouth opened again and asked, “Is it safe?”

  Gilbert closed his eyes. “It’s safe, Charlie. You can’t catch what I have.”

  “How did you get it?” asked Charlie, settling nervously into his old spot.

  Gilbert shrugged. “No one knows for sure. It’s just something that goes wrong in your body. But it’s not catching. And it has a name, Charlie. I have—had—cancer. They cut it out. But I have to have treatment to make sure it doesn’t come back. That’s what made my hair fall out. It makes me puke a lot, too. And feel tired. I hate it. I hate it more than I can tell you.”

  Charlie felt tears start up in his eyes.

  Before he could say anything Gilbert’s face hardened, and he turned away. The pale skin of his head gleamed in the afternoon sun, making it look almost like—a skull.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlie, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

  Gilbert turned back, and it was as if a curtain had been drawn behind his eyes. “I didn’t mean to say all that,” he muttered.

  Charlie wondered if the curse of the skull was stretching out from him, forcing Gilbert to speak the truth as well. Aloud he said, “Can I help?”

  Gilbert shrugged again. “Not unless you want to take my treatments for me. But I don’t think that would do either of us any good.”

  Charlie laughed. But it was just a small laugh. An uncomfortable one. Because, watching Gilbert shrug, he had just figured out what he had to do to make things up to him.

  And he didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  “Gilbert,” called a voice from inside the house, “I want you to come in and take your nap now.”

  Gilbert sighed. “That sounds so baby!”

  But Charlie, hearing the tiredness in his friend’s voice, knew it was time to leave. “Well, I’ll see you later,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Gilbert. “See you later.”

  All the way home Charlie fought the idea that had hit him on the porch. He really didn’t want to do it. But something inside him kept whispering that it was the only way to redeem himself, the only way to make things up with Gilbert.

  And below that, an even softer voice insisted it was the right thing for him to do.

  He was so wrapped up in trying to figure it all out that he forgot to stop and get a gift for Gramma Ethel’s birthday—which meant that when he got home he had to rush up to his room and make her a card.

  “What are you doing?” asked Yorick, when Charlie pulled out a piece of paper and some old crayons.

  “Making a card for my great-grandmother.”

  “Ah. Forgot to buy her a gift, huh?”

  Charlie tried to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. So instead he said, rather sharply, “Why ask a question if you already know the answer?”

  “To be annoying,” replied Yorick happily.

  Charlie had no doubt that this was true.

  He was still working on the card, which was coming out better than he expected, when the first of the guests arrived and his mother called him downstairs. He took the back steps, which led directly into the kitchen.

  “Aunt Hilda and Uncle Horace are here,” said his mother, who was mashing a big pot of potatoes.

  “I know,” said Charlie with a grin. “I can see Aunt Hilda’s calling card.”

  He pointed to a bowl of green-Jell-O-and-cottage-cheese salad sitting on the counter. Aunt Hilda had brought it to every family dinner she’d come to for as long as Charlie could remember.

  “Well, I’ve still got a lot to do in here,” said Mrs. Eggleston, giving the potatoes another whump. “So I want you to go into the living room and entertain them.”

  Charlie groaned. Aunt Hilda and Uncle Horace—who were actually his great-aunt and -uncle—were very nice people. Unfortunately, they were also leading contenders for the title “The Two Most Boring People on the Planet.”

  When he said so, his mother replied, “Well they bore me, too, Charlie. But I want you to go talk to them anyway.”

  Then she blinked, looking surprised, and somewhat nervous.

  Feeling even more nervous than his mother looked, Charlie went into the living room, where his aunt and uncle waited.

  “Hey-hey-hey!” cried Uncle Horace as Charlie entered the room. “It’s the Chuckster! How you doing, boy? Take any wooden nickels lately?”

  “Now, Horace!” said Aunt Hilda sharply. Then she turned to Charlie, spread her arms, and said, “Come here, my little Charlie-boy, and give me a kiss.”

  Abandoning his desperate hope that his aunt and uncle might have been kidnapped by aliens and given personality transplants since he last saw them, Charlie went to receive his aunt’s enthusiastic kiss (including the ritual wiping away of her lipstick with a crumpled Kleenex from her purse) and his uncle’s vigorous handshake. Then he sat a safe distance away and tried to answer their questions about school, life, and the family without saying anything too embarrassing. He wondered where his sisters were. His father, he was pretty sure, was hiding.

  “So how are things at school?” asked Aunt Hilda.

  “Pretty awful,” said Charlie, before he could stop himself.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Aunt Hilda sincerely. “What�
��s happened, sweetheart?”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question. For the past three years Charlie had cheerfully been telling Aunt Hilda things at school were great, no matter how good or bad they actually were. So naturally she would be interested in this change.

  He sighed. “Well, to begin with, my entire class hates me.”

  Aunt Hilda’s eyes widened in alarm. “Why would you ever think such a thing?”

  Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” he shouted, leaping to his feet in relief.

  It was Uncle Bennie and Gramma Ethel. Standing behind them was Bennie’s storytelling teacher. She had on a silk blouse whose colors kept shifting, and long, dangling earrings. She looked at Charlie with a clear, direct gaze that somehow made him feel both comfortable and nervous at the same time.

  “Hey, Charlie,” said Uncle Bennie, reaching forward to tousle his hair. “How you doing?” Fortunately he did not seem to expect an actual answer to this, since he immediately added, “You remember Hyacinth Priest, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Charlie, relieved to have a question that was so easy to answer truthfully. Looking up at her, he added, “I liked your stories.” He stepped back from the door. “Come on in. Aunt Hilda and Uncle Horace are here already.”

  “I hope your mother has the coffeepot going,” muttered Gramma Ethel. “It’s the only way I’ll stay awake if I have to sit and listen to those two old bores.”

  Hyacinth Priest raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Charlie, uncertain whether the comment was a side effect of the curse, or just Gramma Ethel being Gramma Ethel, led the way into the living room. Once there, Uncle Bennie introduced Hyacinth Priest to Uncle Horace and Aunt Hilda.