Little Klein (13 page)

As fast as the train came, it passed, and the world was suddenly still, the water’s roar again the largest sound. Harold stood up slowly, touching the back of his bruised head with one hand to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. The ledge was slipperier now, and he crept along slowly to the spot where he’d seen his brothers and looked over the edge. There they were, just below him in a cave of sorts, their heads visible at the edge, nearly at the bottom of the falls.

“Guys!” Harold called. “You okay?”

“Little Klein!” Mark called back. “How did you get up there?”

“Walked. Well, climbed a little, slid on my sitter and . . . are you okay?”

“I am, but I don’t know about those two. They keep falling asleep like when they conked heads that time. They’re breathing, but . . .”

“Can’t you get out?” asked Little Klein.

“I’m not sure,” said Mark. “It happened so fast. We went over the falls and under at the bottom. We popped up so hard we landed in this cave but barely. I had to drag them in; they were hanging over the edge.”

“Is there another way out?”

“I crawled back a ways. There’s a sort of tunnel but then more water. We can’t slide into the river, and even though we’re close to land, I don’t see anyplace to step on this side. I guess we’d go your way.”

“Stay there,” said Harold unnecessarily. “This time I can go get help.”

“Be careful!” called Mark.

Again, Harold retraced the now familiar path to sodden ground, whistling his loudest whistle as he went. The forest was not the same forest he’d left not half an hour earlier. Where there had been a small meadow for picnicking, tree carcasses piled atop each other like oversize toothpicks. The top of one old oak lay across the river like a spent dandelion, the remains of the raft caught in her fluff. Harold was an ant moving among these fallen beasts.

He tried whistling for LeRoy, then crawled through the web of roots at the base of some trees, skirted others, and as he scrambled atop the back of a younger oak, his dog came winding through the debris, a soggy cap between his teeth.

“LeRoy!” Harold slid down to the ground, burying his head in LeRoy’s damp and smelly neck. “You came back.” LeRoy barked and dropped his offering. “Look here,” Harold exclaimed. “You found Luke’s cap! Good boy!”

“There’s one!” cried Widow Flom, and one by one the rescue crew descended on him.

“Put me down,” Harold insisted as Widow Flom scooped him up. She squeezed him, then set him down and wiped her eyes.

“You’re not too big to be pampered by a relieved old lady,” she scolded with a playful pat to his head.

“Come
on,
” Harold continued. “My brothers are back there and need help.” He led the way along the cluttered riverbank, stopping at the edge of the falls.

“There,” he said, pointing with one hand, his other petting LeRoy’s insistent snout.

Officer Linden rubbed his bald head, his beloved police hat long gone with the wind.

Harold stepped closer to the falling water.

“Don’t!” cried Reverend Clambush and Widow Flom, grabbing for him at once.

But they were not quick enough. Just as Nora Nettle arrived, leading Mother Klein, Muriel, Mac Gamble, and Mean Emma Brown, he disappeared from view, LeRoy yapping wildly at the water.

“Where are my boys?” demanded Mother Klein. “Why are you all standing around? What’s being done?”

Harold stepped out on the grass next to the falls and LeRoy. There was a collective gasp.

“Come on!” he shouted. “There’s a cave in the wall behind the falls. My brothers are in it.”

The adults stood with mouths gaping, but Emma Brown didn’t hesitate. She scrambled up next to Little Klein, and soon she disappeared as well.

Mother Klein grabbed Widow Flom’s hand and the two of them followed Emma’s steps. They planted themselves next to LeRoy, peering into the water.

“I’m going in,” said Mother Klein. She pulled at her shoes without unlacing them.

“Oh, no you don’t, Esther.” Widow Flom took Mother Klein’s arm, then held her close. “Sing yourself a sturdy song, but you’ll help ’em more by staying on dry land. Here, I’ll start.
Shall we gather at the river
 . . .”

LeRoy howled.

Behind the falls, Harold navigated with Emma right behind him. He studied the distance between their ledge and the cave.

“Mark, can you stand up?” Harold called.

“I think so,” he answered. The mouth of the cave jutted far enough out that his head cleared the rocks above him. “It’s wet, though, and slippery. If you’re coming down, you should take off your shoes.”

Emma slid down to sit beside him on the ledge and said, “I’ll get your shoes.”

Harold yelped and sidestepped away.

“Give me your foot, runt. I’m trying to help you,” Emma growled. Harold considered his options. He was behind a wall of rushing water with Mean Emma Brown on one side and a slick shelf of rock on the other. He stepped back and closed his eyes. Emma unlaced his shoes and held them down while Harold lifted out his feet.

“Now what are you waiting for?” she demanded.

Harold glanced down at Emma Brown. She hadn’t yanked his shoes out from under him. She hadn’t pushed him over the edge. Actually sitting there next to him, holding his shoes, puzzling over their dilemma, Emma Brown looked a lot like a regular girl. Harold tried to remember what it was that made her so mean, but aside from his brothers saying so, he couldn’t come up with anything. Still, a fellow had to be careful.

“I’m fine,” he squeaked. “You can go back.”

Without a word, Emma stood and edged back to land, carrying his shoes.

“Okay,” he called to Mark. “What now?”

“Ask for the doctor. But first, come down here,” Mark answered, “and we’ll figure out how to get Matthew and Luke out.” Mark pointed out bumps and ledges for stepping and holding.

“That will work,” Harold said, crouching in the cave. “I’ll go get help.” He scuttled up and out, where he met the waiting rescuers.

“We need Dr. Dahlke,” he said, then added hastily, “Nothing bad, Mother. They’re okay. Really. Matthew and Luke bumped their heads. We figured out how to get them all out.”

“Are they screaming in pain?” asked Widow Flom.

“No,” said Harold.

“Are any of their limbs hanging off in unnatural directions?”

“Uh . . .”

“They’re moving around, right?”

Harold nodded. “A little.”

“We don’t need Dr. Dahlke. They’ve probably got themselves a heap of bruises and a couple of mild concussions.

“Are you okay in there, Mark?” she bellowed, but if he heard her, his response was lost in the falling water. “Harold, you and Mark keep those other two awake. Soon as they can get up without being dizzy or throwing up, you start showing them the way out.”

And so they waited. Mother Klein, LeRoy, and Emma on the grass; Mark and Harold back in the cave, shaking Matthew and Luke whenever their eyelids fell. They splashed muddy water on them to hurry the process along, then started slowly out of the cave, Harold leading the way. He showed his brothers which rocks to step on, which knobs to grab for support. One by one the boys emerged on the grass and everyone rushed to them.

Harold slipped out of the sea of arms that was hugging and holding up his brothers. Mother Klein turned and caught his elbow, spinning him back to the group.

“Here’s the biggest of the Kleins today,” she said.

LeRoy sniffed through the assembly. His boys were all there. He brushed between and around Matthew’s legs, then circled Luke around and around with a triplet of barks. He jumped up on Mark’s chest and licked the face Mark bent to him. LeRoy bounded up to Little Klein and back to the Bigs.

“Shiner!” exclaimed Luke, putting his hand up to his bruised face.

“My baby,” crooned Mother Klein as the whole party started their parade through downed branches and trees to the road.

Harold and Emma lagged behind. As they passed the bridge, approaching a fallen tree whose branches nested a jumble of broken boards, Harold drew up his last sip of courage. “Can you help me with something?” he said to two large brown boots.

“What do you want, Little Klein?” Emma Brown boomed.

“Harold,”
he objected, and, when met with no bodily harm, looked up at Emma Brown’s face, its hard surface softening nearly into a smile.

“What do you want, Harold?”

“There’s a raft in that tree. Will you help me get it down?”

“What are you going to do with a broken-down raft, Harold Klein?” she asked.

“I’m going to use the boards to build a tree house.”

A
NNE
Y
LVISAKER
is the author of
Dear Papa,
named a
Booklist
Top Ten First Novel for Youth. She received the 2005 McKnight Aritist Fellowship for Writers Loft Award in Children’s Literature for
Little Klein
. She says, “The story got its start when a friend asked me to send him a three-sentence cliff-hanger. I found the Klein boys making mischief in the first sentence, and by the third they were bound for disaster.” Anne Ylvisaker lives in lowa with her fimily.