Chapter Thirteen: Maestro
Colin knew that the euphoria of almost winning the game wouldn’t last, but it was nice to sleep on the possibilities. In his dreams he saw a bewildered Edge, his hulking body squeezed into a uniform three sizes too small for him, trying to wiggle himself away from a constant deluge of soccer balls, his hands held pleadingly before him. Some bounced off his head, but most went into the goal behind him, filling it up like a nest of gigantic eggs. Then Edge, staring with horror at his arms, watched as he sprouted downy little feathers, which quickly grew into a full, brilliant coat of white chicken feathers. He began to squawk as a red set of comb and wattles grew on top of his head and below his chin. “COME ON,” he squawked, his head jerking back and forth spasmodically, arms flapping in agitation and his feet scratching the artificial turf. “COME ON!” Everyone was gathered about him laughing, gripped by hysterics. Then the Chicken Edge began to chase everyone, attempting to viciously peck them. Just as Colin was wondering if Edge’s spirit guardian was indeed a chicken or a rooster, Spike shook him awake.
“Come on, Grizzelda wants us downstairs for breakfast. You were dreaming again weren’t you? Was it G.T.?”
“No,” said Colin irritably, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “It was Edge and he was a chicken.”
“Cool, wish I was there. Come on, Melissa is already downstairs with Ofelia.”
“Since when did Grizzelda start calling us downstairs for breakfast?” asked Colin suspiciously, thinking maybe Spike was up to some sort of practical joke.
“That’s my point. Something must be up, something unnatural or unpleasant, or both.” He grabbed his throat with both hands and made a gagging sound, pulling a grotesque face to complete the look. “Remember those sandwiches?”
“You were the only one stupid enough to eat them,” said Colin, not yet ready to break out of his morning grouchiness. He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.
“Hey,” said Spike with feigned offense, “what did you expect me to do? Starve?”
“How did she sound? Happy, unhappy, angry, or all of the above?” Colin asked searching through a pile of clothes for his favorite pants. Since Melissa was now rooming with Ofelia, the boys had lost any need to keep their room tidy. They figured it was just compensation for having to keep the rest of the house clean, with its endless rooms, a house that seemed to be getting bigger and dirtier, which was strange considering there was hardly anybody living in it.
“Couldn’t say. Her voice didn’t have any emotion,” said Spike.
“That can’t be good,” said Colin sniffing his multicolored shirt for odor before pulling it on. He picked that specific shirt because, even though she would never admit it, it was Grizzelda’s favorite.
While Spike waited for him to finish dressing, he fidgeted over to the window to stare at the statue. How and by whom it was being chiseled, they hadn’t a clue. Once they had stayed up all night, taking turns watching, but nothing had happened. There were no elves, gnomes, or sinister artists in capes, just the mocking black form trying to free its arms and head from the impermeable marble. They felt that once the statue was free, something bad was going to happen, something very bad. But this morning Spike was greeted by a sight far more novel than the statue.
“Wow!”
Colin, quickly pulling on the red, blue and orange sweater, joined him at the window and they gaped at the scene before them. Out on the frost-covered grass, in a semi-circle in the front yard of the house were at least twenty horse-drawn caravans. No horses were hitched up to the caravans, but they assumed this was their means of propulsion. They looked strange enough to have simply materialized out of the air, wheels solid and motionless, steam rising off their curved roofs, waiting for the day to begin. The caravans were very colorful. It was as though painters had taken their brushes and splattered dots of reds, blues and greens into a semi-circle onto the grass, and each caravan was ornately decorated with bright warm colors each edged and framed with black, gold and silver swirling lines. Some of them reminded Colin of Grandfather Thunder’s tent. The peculiar shapes of the wood shingled roofs, being rounded, with little chimneys protruding from the tops, gave them the feel of a little medieval village. One caravan, at the apex of the semi-circle, caught Colin’s attention. It was colored exactly like his sweater, with broad splashes of red, blue and orange. He couldn’t help but wonder whose it was. Oddly enough, the two diamond- shaped windows in the front wall of each wagon made it look as if they were watching the statue.