The Halloween Tree

"They?"

But they knew he meant the long line of mummies. In order to get out he would have to run the gauntlet between the nightmares, the mysteries, the dreadful ones, the dires and the haunts.

"They can't stop you, Pip."

Pip said: "Oh, yes, they can."

"...can...," said echoes deep in the catacomb.

"I'm afraid to come out."

"And we're--" said Ralph.

Afraid to go in, thought everyone.

"Maybe if we chose one brave one--" said Tom, and stopped.

For Pipkin was crying again, and the mummies waiting and the night so dark in the long tomb hall that you would sink right through the floor if you stepped on it, and never move again. The floor would seize your ankles with bony marble and hold you until the freezing cold froze you into a dry-dust statue forever.

"Maybe if we went in in a mob, all of us--" said Ralph.

And they tried to move.

Like a big spider with many legs, the boys tried to cram through the door. Two steps forward, one step back. One step forward, two steps back.

"Ahhhhh!" wept Pipkin.

At which sound they all fell upon themselves, gibbering, and scrambled yelling their dires and frights back to the door. They heard an avalanche of heartbeats bang pains in their chests.

"Oh, my gosh, what we gonna do, him afraid to come, us afraid to go, what, what?" wailed Tom.

Behind them, leaning against the wall, was Moundshroud, forgotten. A little candleflame of smile flickered and went out among his teeth.

"Here, boys. Save him with this."

Moundshroud reached into his dark cloak and brought forth a familiar white-sugar-candy skull across the brow of which was written: PIPKIN!

"Save Pipkin, lads. Strike a bargain."

"With who?"

"With me and others unnamed. Here. Break this skull in eight delicious bits, boys, hand them 'round. P for you, Tom, and I for you, Ralph, and half of the other P for you, Hank, the other half for you, J.J., and some of the K for you, boy, and some for you, and here's the I and the final N. Touch the sweet bits, lads. Listen. Here's the dark deal. Do you truly want Pipkin to live?"

Such a fury of protest burst forth at this, Moundshroud was fair driven back by it. The boys barked like dogs against his so much as questioning their need for Pip's survival.

"There, there," he curried them, "I see you mean it. Well then, will you each give one year from the end of your life, boys?"

"What?" said Tom.

"I mean it, boys, one year, one precious year from the far-burned candle-end of your life. With one year apiece you can ransom dead Pipkin."

"A year!" the whisper, the murmur, the appalling sum of it ran among them. It was hard to grasp. A year so far away was no year at all. Boys of eleven or twelve cannot guess at men of seventy. "A year? a year? why, sure, why not? Yes--"

"Think, boys, think! This is no idle bargain struck with Nothing. I mean it. It is true and a fact. It is a grave condition you make, and a grave bargain you strike.

"One year, each of you must promise to give. You won't miss the year now, of course, for you are very young, and I see by touching your minds you cannot even guess the final situation. Only later, fifty years from this night, or sixty years from this dawn, when you are running low on time and dearly wish an extra day or so of fine weather and much joy, then's when Mr. D for Doom or Mr. B for Bones will show up with his bill to be paid. Or perhaps I will come, old Moundshroud himself, a friend to lads, and say 'deliver.' So a year promised must be a year given over. I'll say 'give,' and you must give.

"What will that mean to each of you?