UGO’S PRINTOUT OF Frieda’s schedule was taped to the refrigerator. “Your turn again, Georgie dear,” said Aunt Alex, consulting it. “This afternoon from one to three. Will you be all right? If you need me, give me a shout.”
The day was hot. Now that the tree house was finished, there was nothing for the gallant Knights of the Fellowship to do but take turns keeping watch, so today all of them were somewhere else. Then Eddy untangled his bike from the bushes and rode away to goof off somewhere with Oliver Winslow. The only knight left was Georgie.
Slowly she began the long climb to the tree house, moving up from the first ladder to the stout branches that spiraled up and around the massive trunk, reaching all the way to Cissie’s mother’s step stool, the grand approach to the trapdoor in the floor of the tree house.
Nimbly Georgie crawled through the opening, then made her way across the floor to the sunlit square of the window. Below her through gaps in the leaves she could see Cissie’s horse drowsing on the grass with lowered head. Mr. Moon was not marching out of his house with a chain saw, although if Georgie had looked higher, she might have seen a flicker of movement in the attic window. But she didn’t.
Turning around, she settled down on the soft pillows that Rachel had brought from home. Rachel had wanted to bring the velvet cushions from her mother’s sofa, but her mother had cried, “Rachel Adzarian, you bring those back!” So Rachel had brought pillows instead, along with a cute picture of kittens to hang on the wall, a low stool for atable, and a pink bath mat for a rug.
The pillows were comfortable, but Georgie was bored. She should have brought a book. Turning back to the window, she rested her elbows on the rough edge of the sill and looked out at the great branch that supported the tree house on that side. The branch was round and solid like a powerful arm. All the apples within reach had been picked and turned into pie, but there were the usual sprays of bright green leaves. Idly Georgie reached out, picked a leaf, and turned it over to look at the insect trail on the other side, the scribble that looked almost like writing.
Then she sucked in her breath. It
was
writing. The scribble was words, real words. Joyfully Georgie held the leaf to the light and read the scribble again.
Uncle Fred had said that the whole earth was covered with alphabets, but the chickens had not known their ABCs, and neither had the moss nor the rock nor the cat. But the tree was different.
On the underside of the leaf, distinct and clear,were the words
HUMPTY DUMPTY.
“We can’t just keep her locked up forever.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
29
THE DRAGON TREE
I T WAS NO LONGER a game. Uncle Freddy understood it at last. The silly schedule of tree-guarding, the crazy routine of getting up in the middle of the night, the general bedlam and hubbub and the takeover of No. 40 Walden Street by an army of holy terrors—everything had turned out to be important.
The growing tree that spread its broad crown high and wide over the house was not just a tree, it was an enchanted library.
He threw himself into the task of guardianship. “I’ll stand watch all night,” he told Georgie stoutly.
Aunt Alex volunteered to do double duty, and Eddy forgot to be heroic. “Me too, Georgie,” he said humbly.
And when Georgie called Frieda to tell her the news, Frieda whipped her phone out of her pocket and passed the information along to everybody else. At once they all came running, and soon all the Knights of the Fellowship were clambering into the tree.
Sidney was first on the ladder. He raced to the top and snatched at a leaf.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “This leaf is blank.” He picked a whole handful and said loudly, “They’re all blank.” He looked accusingly at Georgie as she scrambled past him. “You’re out of your mind, Georgie Hall.”
Georgie was undaunted. She
The day was hot. Now that the tree house was finished, there was nothing for the gallant Knights of the Fellowship to do but take turns keeping watch, so today all of them were somewhere else. Then Eddy untangled his bike from the bushes and rode away to goof off somewhere with Oliver Winslow. The only knight left was Georgie.
Slowly she began the long climb to the tree house, moving up from the first ladder to the stout branches that spiraled up and around the massive trunk, reaching all the way to Cissie’s mother’s step stool, the grand approach to the trapdoor in the floor of the tree house.
Nimbly Georgie crawled through the opening, then made her way across the floor to the sunlit square of the window. Below her through gaps in the leaves she could see Cissie’s horse drowsing on the grass with lowered head. Mr. Moon was not marching out of his house with a chain saw, although if Georgie had looked higher, she might have seen a flicker of movement in the attic window. But she didn’t.
Turning around, she settled down on the soft pillows that Rachel had brought from home. Rachel had wanted to bring the velvet cushions from her mother’s sofa, but her mother had cried, “Rachel Adzarian, you bring those back!” So Rachel had brought pillows instead, along with a cute picture of kittens to hang on the wall, a low stool for atable, and a pink bath mat for a rug.
The pillows were comfortable, but Georgie was bored. She should have brought a book. Turning back to the window, she rested her elbows on the rough edge of the sill and looked out at the great branch that supported the tree house on that side. The branch was round and solid like a powerful arm. All the apples within reach had been picked and turned into pie, but there were the usual sprays of bright green leaves. Idly Georgie reached out, picked a leaf, and turned it over to look at the insect trail on the other side, the scribble that looked almost like writing.
Then she sucked in her breath. It
was
writing. The scribble was words, real words. Joyfully Georgie held the leaf to the light and read the scribble again.
Uncle Fred had said that the whole earth was covered with alphabets, but the chickens had not known their ABCs, and neither had the moss nor the rock nor the cat. But the tree was different.
On the underside of the leaf, distinct and clear,were the words
HUMPTY DUMPTY.
“We can’t just keep her locked up forever.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
29
THE DRAGON TREE
I T WAS NO LONGER a game. Uncle Freddy understood it at last. The silly schedule of tree-guarding, the crazy routine of getting up in the middle of the night, the general bedlam and hubbub and the takeover of No. 40 Walden Street by an army of holy terrors—everything had turned out to be important.
The growing tree that spread its broad crown high and wide over the house was not just a tree, it was an enchanted library.
He threw himself into the task of guardianship. “I’ll stand watch all night,” he told Georgie stoutly.
Aunt Alex volunteered to do double duty, and Eddy forgot to be heroic. “Me too, Georgie,” he said humbly.
And when Georgie called Frieda to tell her the news, Frieda whipped her phone out of her pocket and passed the information along to everybody else. At once they all came running, and soon all the Knights of the Fellowship were clambering into the tree.
Sidney was first on the ladder. He raced to the top and snatched at a leaf.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “This leaf is blank.” He picked a whole handful and said loudly, “They’re all blank.” He looked accusingly at Georgie as she scrambled past him. “You’re out of your mind, Georgie Hall.”
Georgie was undaunted. She
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