The Halloween Tree

“Is this what you used to do on Halloween?” asked the Witch boy.

“This, and more. But, let me introduce myself! Moundshroud is the name. Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud. Does that have a ring, boys? Does it sound for you?”

It sounds, the boys thought, oh, oh, it sounds …!

Moundshroud.

“A fine name,” said Mr. Moundshroud, giving it a full sepulchral night-church sound. “And a fine night. And all the deep dark wild long history of Halloween waiting to swallow us whole!”

“Swallow us?”

“Yes!” cried Moundshroud. “Lads, look at yourselves. Why are you, boy, wearing that Skull face? And you, boy, carrying a scythe, and you, lad, made up like a Witch? And you, you, you!” He thrust his bony finger at each mask. “You don’t know, do you? You just put on those faces and old mothball clothes and jump out, but you don’t really know, do you?”

“Well,” said Tom, a mouse behind his skull-white muslin. “Er—no.”

“Yeah,” said the Devil boy. “Come to think of it, “Why am I wearing this?” He fingered his red cloak and sharp rubber horns and lovely pitchfork.

“And me, this,” said the Ghost, trailing its long white graveyard sheets.

And all the boys were given to wonder, and touched their own costumes and refit their own masks.

“Then wouldn’t it be fun for you to find out?” asked Mr. Moundshroud. “I’ll tell you! No, I’ll show you! If only there was time—”

“It’s only six thirty. Halloween hasn’t even begun!” said Tom-in-his-cold-bones.

“True!” said Mr. Moundshroud. “All right, lads—come along!”

He strode. They ran.

At the edge of the deep dark night ravine he pointed over the rim of the hills and the earth, away from the light of the moon, under the dim light of strange stars. The wind fluttered his black cloak and the hood that half shadowed and now half revealed his almost fleshless face.

“There, do you see it, lads?”

“What?”

“The Undiscovered Country. Out there. Look long, look deep, make a feast. The Past, boys, the Past. Oh, it’s dark, yes, and full of nightmare. Everything that Halloween ever was lies buried there. Will you dig for bones, boys? Do you have the stuff?”

He burned his gaze at them.

“What is Halloween? How did it start? Where? Why? What for? Witches, cats, mummy dusts, haunts. It’s all there in that country from which no one returns. Will you dive into the dark ocean, boys? Will you fly in the dark sky?”

The boys swallowed hard.

Someone peeped: “We’d like to, but—Pipkin. We’ve got to wait for Pipkin.”

“Yeah, Pipkin sent us to your place. We couldn’t go without him.”

As if summoned in this instant they heard a cry from the far side of the ravine.

“Hey! Here I am!” called a frail voice. They saw his small figure standing with a lit pumpkin, on the far ravine ledge.

“This way!” they all yelled. “Pipkin! Quick!”

“Coming!” was the cry. “I don’t feel so good. But—I had to come—wait for me!”

Chapter 6 (#ulink_bd8459b6-4c80-52c5-9a42-2bc16dbd8818)

They saw his small figure run down the middle of the ravine, on the path.

“Oh, wait, please wait—” the voice began to fail. “I don’t feel well. I can’t run. Can’t—can’t—”

“Pipkin!” everyone shouted, waving from the edge of the cliff.

His figure was small, small, small. There were shadows mixed everywhere. Bats flew. Owls shrieked. Night ravens clustered like black leaves in trees.

The small boy, running with his lit pumpkin, fell.

“Oh,” gasped Moundshroud.

The pumpkin light went out.

“Oh,” gasped everyone.

“Light your pumpkin, Pip, light it!” shrieked Tom.

He thought he saw the small figure scrabbling in the dark grass below, trying to strike a light. But in that instant of darkness, the night swept in. A great wing folded over the abyss. Many owls hooted. Many mice scampered and slithered in the shadows. A million tiny murders happened somewhere.

“Light your pumpkin, Pip!”

“Help—” wailed his sad voice.

A thousand wings flew away. A great beast beat the air some-where like a thumping drum.

The clouds, like gauzy scenes, were pulled away to set a clean sky. The moon was there, a great eye.

It looked down upon—

An empty path.

Pipkin nowhere to be seen.

Way off, toward the horizon, something dark frittered and danced and slithered away in the cold star air.

“Help—help—” wailed a fading voice.

Then it was gone.

“Oh,” mourned Mr. Moundshroud. “This is bad. I fear Something has taken him away.”