More Bones

Table of Contents

 

 

 

VIKING
Published by Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 
First published in 2008 by Viking, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group 

 
Text copyright © Arielle North Olson and Howard Schwartz, 2008

Illustrations copyright © E. M. Gist, 2008
All rights reserved 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

eISBN : 978-0-670-06339-0

For Randy and Melissa, Jens and Janet,
Laura, Eric, Miranda, and Rose
—with much love.
—A.N.O.

 
For Shira, Nati, Miriam, Ari, and Ava.
—H.S.

 
I would like to dedicate this book to Mom, Dad, Jeff,
and Krista, for all their support and guidance in life;
to Doug Stambaugh for all his help; to Meadow for more
love than one man deserves; but most importantly,
to the loving memory of Basil.
—E.M.G.

 
We would like to acknowledge the editors who contributed so much to this book: Tracy Gates, Kendra Levin, Harriet Sigerman, and Janet Pascal.

Introduction

The many readers of
Ask the Bones
have made their wishes clear—they want to hear bones rattle as soon as they open our books.

Take care if you read
More Bones
before you go to sleep. You don't want to wake up to find a draug staring at you, his head covered with seaweed and his teeth coated with green slime. If he invites you to take a boat ride with him—don't do it.

Beware of those lovely maidens who are not what they appear to be. Be especially careful of women who sharpen their teeth on wood or have beautiful red hair that turns into writhing serpents.

If you're reading these stories alone at night, watch out. When evil men need help carrying a corpse, they just might pick you for the job. And whatever you do, don't double-cross the witch who sleeps with a knife under her pillow.

We have dug deeply in every corner of the world—from Egypt to Iceland, from Japan to Germany, from Spain to Hawaii—for the scary stories in
More Bones.
Listen! Can you hear the bones beginning to rattle?

A Story to Tell

IRELAND

 
 
Pat Diver was not easily frightened. He had spent many lonely nights on the road traveling from one town to the next. But now a cold wind was whipping through the trees.

Pat trudged on, longing for a warm fire and a snug roof. He was a tinker who could repair a kettle or a saucepan in the wink of an eye. But no one wanted anything fixed in exchange for a night's lodging. “Go away,” they said, even when Pat offered them a few coins.

He pulled his coat tightly across his chest and kept walking up the dark mountain road. Finally he came upon a cabin. When he looked through the window, he could see an old couple sitting beside a flickering fire. Surely they would welcome him.

The moment they opened the door, Pat asked if he could spend the night. He said he would pay them or mend their pots and pans. He would do anything for them, if only they would invite him inside.

The old man looked at the old woman and she nodded. “You can stay,” he said, “if you tell us a story.”

The tinker rubbed his cold hands together. “I wish I could,” he said. “But I have no stories to tell.”

“Not even one?” asked the old woman.

The tinker shook his head.

“Then be off!” the old man cried. “No one gets in here if he can't tell us a story.” He slammed the door shut so quickly that the poor tinker stumbled backward and almost fell.

Pat didn't want to take another step. He was too tired, too cold, and angry besides. Never before had he encountered such unfriendly people.

He sneaked into the rickety old barn behind the cabin. There was a pile of straw in one corner. “Any bed will do,” he muttered. He burrowed deeply into the straw, pulling it over himself until he was completely hidden from view. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Later that night, harsh voices awakened him. He didn't dare make a sound, but he peeked through a little hole between some blades of straw. And there in the middle of the barn he saw two huge men starting a fire on the dirt floor. Their faces were almost hidden by their long, greasy hair. When the flames rose, Pat could see them pull something out from the shadows.

It was a corpse!

Pat could barely keep his teeth from chattering. He watched in horror as they tied a rope around its feet and hung it from a beam over the fire. Then one man turned it around and around, roasting it.

“I'm tired,” the man said, “you take a turn.”

“Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver turn it.”

Pat gasped. How did they know he was there?

“Come on out,” they shouted, kicking some straw aside.

What else could Pat do? He crawled out on his hands and knees. One man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and set him on his feet.

“Start turning the corpse,” said the other, “and mind you don't let it burn!”

Pat shuddered. His mouth went dry and sour. He thought he might faint, but the huge men bent down and glared at him just inches from his face. He had no choice. He gritted his teeth and turned that corpse as skillfully as a seasoned chef.

The huge men laughed at his terror. “Keep turning,” one said.

“We'll be back,” said the other, and they disappeared into the night.

Pat didn't dare to stop turning that corpse, even when the flames rose high around it. Before long, the flames reached the rope—quickly burning it. Pat watched in horror as the rope broke and the corpse fell into the fire. Sparks and ashes flew into the air.

And Pat? He flew out the door.

He ran faster than he had ever run in his entire life. He ran and ran and ran. Sweat poured down his face even though he was racing into a cold wind. His legs ached, but he wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and those horrible men with the burning corpse.

When he couldn't run another step, he slid down into a soggy ditch and dove behind a clump of overgrown weeds. He hid there, panting. But he had barely caught his breath when he heard heavy footsteps coming down the road. Worse yet, he heard harsh voices. He peeked out and saw the same awful men he had seen in the barn.

“I'm tired of carrying this corpse,” one man said. “You take a turn.”

“Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver carry it,” and he jumped into the ditch and dragged Pat out of the weeds.

Pat was already clammy and shivering, and when that smoky corpse was draped around his shoulders, his hair stood on end. He almost retched.

“It's your fault,” one man said. “You're the one who burned it. Now we have to bury it.”

“Move,” said the other, and down that road they went—mile after mile. Pat thought his back was going to break. He desperately wanted to stop. He almost didn't care what those huge men did to him, but somehow he kept staggering along.

A sickle moon barely lit the way. Finally they reached an abandoned graveyard beside a tumbledown church. Weeds and vines and brambles covered the graves and broken walls. Owls hooted to one another, and bats circled low on silent wings.

The huge men shoved brambles aside. One grabbed a shovel and began digging a grave.

Pat let his awful burden slip quietly to the ground. He thought he might creep away while the men weren't looking. When he spotted a hawthorn tree close by, he climbed high into its branches and hid.

“I'm tired of digging,” one man said. “You take a turn.”

“Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver do it,” and he shook that big old tree so hard that Pat came tumbling down at his feet.

Poor Pat. He took up that shovel and tossed dirt out of the grave as if his life depended on it, for it probably did. What would those huge men do if he refused? Pat dug and dug until his hands were blistered. He was exhausted and had lost all sense of time.

But the two huge men kept watching for the sunrise. Just before the first rooster crowed, they said they must go. Pat would have to finish the job himself.

“It's your lucky night, Pat Diver,” one man said.

“If we could stay a little longer,” said the other, “we would bury you with the corpse.” And the two huge men rushed out of the graveyard.

My lucky night?
Pat couldn't imagine one more ghastly. A few tears began to run down his cheeks, but he pushed the corpse into the grave and shoveled all the loose dirt back in the hole. It was all he could do to keep from sobbing. His entire body ached. He wiped off the tears with gritty fingers, staggered out of the graveyard, and trudged down the road.

For weeks afterward he shivered and shook. He couldn't mend a pot or a pan if he tried. When his hands finally stopped shaking, he resumed the tinker's trade—but wherever he roamed, he was careful to find lodging well before nightfall.