Uncle Anson sighed and took Egan’s hand. “Let’s go home, Nephew.”
“But look, Uncle Anson,” Egan pleaded. “There really isn’t any Megrimum. Uncle Ott explained it all, all about the spring and the cave and everything. It’s really true!”
Uncle Anson shrugged. “Perhaps. We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.”
Egan sat on the bench before a blazing fire and sipped at a cup of scalding soup. He was draped with quilts and his feet tingled in a pan of steaming water. He wiggled his toes and sighed, and Uncle Anson, from his chair across the hearth, sighed too. On the floor between them Ada sat hugging her knees, nearly bursting with the questions she had been sternly ordered to keep to herself. Aunt Gertrude, on the bench beside Egan, stretched out cold fingers nervously to the flames. It was very quiet.
Finally Uncle Anson shifted in his chair and spoke. “Are you warmer now, Nephew? Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Egan. “But I felt all right before, too. I don’t have any fever.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Uncle Anson.
And then Egan could contain himself no longer. “I saw what I saw,” he said stubbornly, as if they had all been arguing, “and I don’t see why you won’t believe me.”
Ada, too, erupted. “Tell us what you saw, Egan! Quick! Tell us all about it!”
“Well…” Egan looked toward Uncle Anson.
“All right. Go ahead and tell your story. We might as well have it now.”
“Well!” said Egan again. “I climbed up the Rise and when I got to the mist at the top, Annabelle ran on ahead and I thought she’d found the Megrimum, but when I caught up with her, there was Uncle Ott!”
“Ott?” cried Aunt Gertrude. “Ott at the top of the Rise? And he was safe?”
“Where was the Megrimum?” Ada prodded.
“Uncle Ott was up there all the time,” said Egan. He saw it again in his mind’s eye—the tinted mist, the ghostly trees, and he warmed to his story. “It’s all steamy up there. Uncle Ott said it made his breathing easier.”
“Where was the Megrimum?” asked Ada again, clutching at his quilts.
“Uncle Ott showed me a cave at the top of the Rise,” said Egan. He paused. This was the moment he had been looking forward to. “You should have been there, Ada. Guess what was in the cave!”
“The Megrimum!” cried Ada. “All hairy, with wings and lots of teeth!”
“Wrong!” declared Egan, looking around grandly. Aunt Gertrude was staring at him, quite speechless, her hand to her heart, but Uncle Anson sat with his eyes half closed, studying the fire. “Wrong,” said Egan again, deciding to ignore his uncle. “There was a hole in the ground inside the cave. And a spring.” And he went on to explain the secret as Uncle Ott had explained it to him. “And then,” he finished, “he took Annabelle and he went away down the other side of the Rise.”
When his story was over, there was a long minute of silence. He sat waiting to be called a hero, or a savior, but no one spoke. At last Ada said, “Did you go into the cave to see what was there?”
“No,” said Egan. “It was too hot. But I threw a rock in.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Aunt Gertrude. “He’ll be angry because of that.”
“But there’s nothing up there to get angry,” said Egan. “Don’t you understand?”
“You didn’t go inside the cave, though,” said Ada. “You didn’t really see.”
“No,” Egan began, “but…”
“He didn’t want you to see him!” cried Ada triumphantly. “He hid in the cave in the mist!”
“That’s it of course,” exclaimed Aunt Gertrude with obvious relief. “How clever of you, Ada! And of course he hid from Ott, too. Don’t you think so, Anson?”
“Perhaps,” said Uncle Anson.
Egan was very annoyed. “Look here,” he said loudly. “I went up there and nothing happened to me. Uncle Ott was up there for days and nothing happened to him, either. And nothing happened to Annabelle.”
“Maybe not,” said Ada, “but it could have. Maybe he didn’t feel like eating anybody just then. Maybe he wasn’t hungry. Maybe you were too skinny. And Uncle Ott and Annabelle were too old and tough.” She giggled.
“That’s enough, Ada,” said Uncle Anson. “Come along; it’s bedtime. We’ll get nowhere arguing like this. The whole thing can’t be proved one way or another, anyway.”
“Yes it can!” cried Egan. “It can be proved!”
“How?” asked Uncle Anson, frowning at him.
“I threw a rock right over that hole in the cave,” said Egan. “Right over it. Wait till it rains again. There won’t be a sound from up there. You’ll see.”
Ada got up from the hearth and opened the door. She peered up at the sky. “The moon’s gone in,” she announced. “There’s a lot of clouds. Maybe it’ll rain again tonight. I hope it does. And then you’ll see, Egan. Won’t he, Papa?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Uncle Anson wearily. “Come along to bed.”
“Do you want to know something funny, Uncle Anson?” said Egan, frustration souring his manners. “You’re always saying ‘perhaps.’ But Uncle Ott is different. He’s always saying ‘exactly.’”
Uncle Anson looked at Egan sadly. “There are a lot of things Ott doesn’t understand,” he said.
“Uncle Ott understands everything,” said Egan. “He’s a very wise man.”
“That’s true,” said Uncle Anson. “He is a very wise man. But…”
“But,” Aunt Gertrude interrupted, “he was a fool to climb the Rise. There’s no perhaps about that. Go to bed, Egan. Ada. We’ll talk again at breakfast.”
It seemed to Egan that he hadn’t closed his eyes all night. When, toward morning, the rain began to fall again, he lay waiting for Annabelle’s nervous panting. Then he remembered. Annabelle was gone, gone with Uncle Ott down the other side of the Rise. Egan climbed out of bed and went to Ada’s room. “Wake up!” he hissed at the warm lump under the quilts. “It’s raining.”
Ada sat up. “I heard it first,” she said. “I was just coming in to wake you up.”
“You were not, but never mind,” said Egan. “Come on. We’re going into my room and wait. I’m going to prove to you I’m right.”
The rain came down gently and steadily. Egan opened his window and he and Ada leaned on the sill, staring out at the slope of Kneeknock Rise through the gray, wet glow of dawn.
“All right, then, where’s the Megrimum?” asked Egan after a while. “I don’t hear a thing.” He grinned at Ada.
“You’ll see, smarty,” said Ada, not looking at him. “Be quiet. I’m trying to listen.”
Something moved in the yard outside the window. “Look!” whispered Ada. “There’s Sweetheart!” The cat emerged from the dim, dripping shrubbery and stood poised in the rain.
Then he sprang effortlessly to the top of the garden wall and disappeared over it. After a moment they caught another glimpse of wet orange fur starting up the side of the Rise. Ada pointed. “There he goes. He’s climbing.”
“Well,” said Egan, “he won’t find anything at the top.”
“You’ll see, smarty,” said Ada again. “For goodness’ sake, keep quiet.”
After another long wait they heard footsteps behind them and Uncle Anson came into the room in his white nightshirt, his thin hair rumpled from sleep.
“What are you doing out of bed so early?” he asked, coming over to the window.
“It’s raining, Papa,” Ada explained.
“Yes,” said Uncle Anson quietly, “I know.”
“It’s been raining for a long time,” said Egan, “and there’s not a sound from the top of the Rise!”
“Make him be quiet, Papa,” begged Ada, close to tears at last. “The Megrimum’s got to be up there! He’s always been up there, Papa, hasn’t he? He wouldn’t go away.”
“I think,” said Uncle Anson, “we should all go back to bed.”
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Egan smiled to himself and was just turning away from the window when from high on the top of Kneeknock Rise came the muffled boom of an explosion, immediately followed by a high-pitched whistling shriek.
“It’s the Megrimum!” cried Ada. “It’s the Megrimum! You were wrong, Egan! He was up there all along! Listen, Papa.”
The shriek cut thinly through the drizzling dimness, holding for a long moment. At last it broadened and dropped to the old, familiar moan. As they stood at the window staring out, a splash of orange fur came streaking into view down the side of the Rise, vaulted the garden wall, and paused for an instant in the yard.
“Sweetheart!” cried Ada.
The cat turned round, wild eyes to the faces peering out at him, and a second later hurled himself through the open window past them and was under the cot before Ada could make a move to catch him.
“What in the world was that?” cried Aunt Gertrude, appearing in the doorway.
“Something exploded on top of the Rise,” said Uncle Anson.
“But it was only the rock,” said Egan uncertainly. “It couldn’t be the Megrimum because I went up there and I looked and Uncle Ott told me…”
“It’s no use your arguing, Nephew,” said Uncle Anson. “It’s raining and the moaning has started and that’s really all there is to it.”
“Well, Sweetheart certainly is a sissy, anyway,” said Egan loudly, looking sidewise at Ada. “He was so scared he came right in through the window.”
But Ada only smiled. “I really like that scarf you bought for me, Egan,” she told him. And then she turned to her mother and said: “Let’s make a great big breakfast. There’s no sense going back to bed now. Let’s make a special breakfast to celebrate. Because of the Megrimum. He was up there all along.”
In the middle of the morning, Egan said goodbye to Ada and Aunt Gertrude and went slowly into the village and across the square into Uncle Anson’s clock shop, where the chandler had promised to pick him up for the long ride home. The rain was still falling softly and the moaning from the top of the Rise could still be heard, though it had grown much fainter now and was sadder than ever. Egan leaned on the counter in the shop, his chin in his hand, and watched while his uncle wound up all the clocks for another day’s ticking.
“Uncle Anson,” he said at last, “was Uncle Ott right or wrong about the Megrimum?”
“I’m sure he thought he was right,” said Uncle Anson. “I haven’t climbed up myself, so I really can’t say. I don’t know what the real facts are.”
“I can tell you one real fact,” said Egan. “I certainly didn’t see any Megrimum when I went up.”
A cart creaked by in the street outside the shop and a passing villager called to the driver. “Headed home?”
“That’s right. Back again next year. But I don’t see how there could ever be another Fair as fine as this one was.”
“Yes, it was just about perfect this year.”
“Did that boy get down again safely?”
“Yes, I understand he was perfectly all right.”
“I was sure of it. That old fellow up there would never harm a child. Well, see you next year.”
“That’s right. See you next year.”
Egan glanced at his uncle but Anson was tinkering with the open works of a clock and didn’t seem to have heard.
“Uncle Anson,” said Egan.
“Ummmm,” said Anson, looking up at last.
“Uncle Anson, please—tell me what you really think. Is there a Megrimum up there or isn’t there?”
“Nephew,” said Uncle Anson kindly, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is whether you want to believe he’s there or not. And if your mind is made up, all the facts in the world won’t make the slightest difference.”
Egan was silent for a moment and then he said, “But do you believe in the Megrimum?”
Uncle Anson laid aside the open clock. He stared out the shop window and rubbed his chin, just as Egan had seen Uncle Ott do at the top of the Rise. And then his expression changed to one of relief. “Look, Nephew, here comes the chandler. We’ll have to finish our talk another year. Are you ready? It’s time to go.”
Suddenly Egan remembered. “My presents! I forgot about my presents! I left them in the square.”
“Go see if you can find them, then,” said Uncle Anson. “The chandler will wait.”
Egan ran out of the shop and into the square, where a few men of the village were clearing away the last booths and flags. He hurried over to the spot where all of yesterday’s adventures had begun. There on the grass lay the red beads he had bought for his mother and the pipe with Instep Fair still bright around its bowl. The packet of needles was there, too, though its gay cloth cover was soaking wet. But the wishbone was gone. Egan searched about in the grass and before long he found it. It was broken, splintered into sharp little fragments, and the card to which it had been fastened was wilted and smeared. Only the words It’s best were still legible.
Egan sighed and, turning away, gathered up the other presents and hurried back to the clock shop. The chandler’s cart was standing in the street and Frieda, the mule, appeared to be asleep, her harness drooping. Inside the shop the chandler and Uncle Anson were chatting.
“Here comes the boy,” said Uncle Anson, looking up as Egan appeared in the doorway.
“Well, Egan!” said the chandler. “How did you enjoy the Instep Fair?”
“It was fine,” said Egan, “but the present I bought for my father got broken somehow. Here, Uncle Anson, this pipe is for you, and would you give these needles to Aunt Gertrude for me?”
“Why, that’s very kind of you, Nephew,” said Uncle Anson. “But look here—why don’t you take the pipe home and give it to your father? It would be a shame not to have a present for him.”
“But then there’s no present for you,” Egan protested. “I wanted to do something for you.”
“You’ve done something for me already,” said Uncle Anson, smiling.
“I have?” wondered Egan. “What did I do?”
“You found my brother Ott. Remember? And you took Annabelle back to him. Now I won’t be worried about either of them again.”
“It sounds to me as if you’ve had a busy visit, Egan,” said the chandler. “But no busier than that boy who tried to climb up Kneeknock Rise. You heard about that, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Anson. “We heard.”
“He got down again all right, I understand,” the chandler went on. “But they say he lost his dog to the Megrimum.”
“Is that what they’re saying?” asked Egan.
“I heard the whole story just now in the square,” said the chandler. “Well, come along, Egan. Your mother will be anxious to have you home. Oh, by the way, would you like to have one of these souvenirs? I have an extra.” He reached into his pocket and laid a polished wishbone on the counter. It was exactly like the one that lay in pieces in the square.
Egan picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Thank you,” he said, and then, echoing Ada: “But there isn’t any Megrimum where we live.”
“Better take it, just the same,” said Uncle Anson, smiling at Egan. “Goodbye. Come back again next year.”
“All right now, Frieda,” said the chandler in a voice warm with encouragement. “Let’s get a move on.” The mule shook herself protestingly and clopped off down the street and around the square. Soon they had passed through the gates of Instep and were on their way across the level plains toward home.
Egan, sprawling in the empty straw behind the chandler, watched the village grow smaller and smaller. The rain had stopped and a feeble, watery sunshine filtered down through the clouds and touched the misty top of Kneeknock Rise with gold. The chandler looked back over his shoulder from the narrow seat and nodded at the cliff. “That’s right,” he said. “Give the old fellow some good weather and let him rest. He put on a splendid show for the F
air and now he must be tired.”
“What if that boy, the one who climbed the Rise—what if he went all the way to the top and there wasn’t anything there?” asked Egan.
“Well, I’ll tell you something,” said the chandler in a confidential tone. “In spite of what they say, I think it’s more than likely lots of people have climbed up to look. And I’d be willing to bet that none of them saw a thing at the top. But he’s up there just the same. What would you expect? That he’d come right out and shake hands? Not him. He’s got his own ways. No,” the chandler finished contentedly. “He’s been there for a thousand years and he’ll be there for another thousand.”
Egan took the wishbone out of his pocket and looked at it again. “Will you be coming back next year?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed!” said the chandler. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s the best thing anywhere around. You come along, too, next year, if you like.”
“Thank you,” said Egan. “Maybe I’ll climb up there myself, and have a look around.”
“You’re welcome to, as far as I’m concerned,” said the chandler. “As long as you don’t expect to find anything. Just don’t take your dog along with you, that’s all.”
The cart jolted on into a grove of trees and Kneeknock Rise was lost to view at last.
What did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was a preschooler, I wanted to be a pirate, and then when I started school, I wanted to be a librarian. But in the fourth grade, I got my copy of Alice in Wonderland / Alice Through the Looking-Glass and decided once and for all that I wanted to be an illustrator of stories for children.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
I didn’t even think about writing. My husband wrote the story for the first book. But then he didn’t want to do it anymore, so I had to start writing my own stories. After all, you can’t make pictures for stories unless you have stories to make pictures for.
What’s your first childhood memory?