“I’m taking the treasure,” Drear was saying.

“You can’t take it, it’s not yours to take!” Pluto shouted.

“It is mine, I brought it here. I saved it. I have someone to give it to.”

“Who!” cried Pluto. He felt as if there were a fire within him. “Who are you giving it to? It belongs to slaves! You can’t take my forge.” He meant the treasure. He was dreaming of his forge, where he heated, hammered, and shaped iron, but it was the wealth of the cavern he had meant to say.

“I can and I will take it,” Drear said. “But I forgot where I put it. Tell me where I put it, Mr. Pluto.”

Pluto felt such fear and anguish. He squirmed, suddenly sick of the dream turned to nightmare. He tried to wake himself. He sat up, blinking, feeling as if his shoulders were bars of ice.

The figure at the foot of the bed was a solid form. Pluto couldn’t be sure who or what it was.

He fell back. The dark at the foot of his bed hadn’t moved. Pluto stared at it, panting. He felt chills shaking his body. A thin layer of sleep was ground fog on his brain. Slowly he sat up again. “Who?” he murmured. It hurt him to sit up and lie down so much. Hurt his back.

“It’s Drear,” the dark form said. “I misplaced it. Where did I put that treasure?”

Suspicion was like something Pluto could wrap around him. Like the great black cloak he wore to protect himself from old age. Somewhere deep down he knew he must avoid even dreaming anything that might give away the wealth that was hidden.

“I quit this dream,” Pluto said out loud, dreaming. “Quit it!”

The form wouldn’t go away. Its voice had reminded Pluto of someone, someplace. He had no idea what Drear’s voice would be like. But dreaming, he knew that this voice was too ordinary to be the great man’s.

“Huh? Wha—Huh?” Pluto said, rising out of bed.

The specter came around the bed, heading for the passage from the room on the side. It was almost there, but so was Pluto. Pluto leaped for it before he knew what he saw might be real. In dreams he did such things. In dreams he was always youthful and strong.

He and the form struggled. Is this real? It can’t be Dies Drear! It was not as long and as tall as Pluto. What it wore was dark and soft, cool as night rain. It had more than enough strength to subdue two old men. Whirling, breaking away, it knocked Pluto to the cane floor. Pluto grabbed its foot. Barefoot? No, slippery, rubbered foot, wet with icy cold. This can’t be a dream! It kicked out, caught Pluto under the chin. A perfect clip it gave old Pluto. Stunned, he thought he heard the thing sigh with despair at what it had done. He passed out.

Then it was dawn and gray cave light. Impossible to tell how the morning got into the cave. Pluto found himself on the floor. How’d I get here? he wondered. “Must’ve fallen out of bed,” he said out loud. “Cold.” His throat was sore and raspy. “Dreams.” He knew he had dreamed. Drear had been in his dreaming. For the thought of the old abolitionist was still with him. What was it about this time? He could not clearly remember. What more else could it be about?

“Been dreamin’ all night,” he murmured. “I’m tired. Thought I got rid of all such dreams.” Carefully he moved his legs and arms and moaned, got back into bed. He moved his jaw around, but it seemed to be in one piece. How did it get to be sore?

A cold shiver of fear climbed his back. He shook it off, shrugged it away. He would not allow himself even to think that anyone could invade his cave.

“I’m too old and tired.” He sighed inwardly. Later he must take a tonic, get rid of a raspiness. He couldn’t bring himself to get up yet, fix the fire, make his coffee. He was soon asleep again.

For a while he slept heavily. But then his throat seemed to thicken inside. It hurt him in his sleep, and he couldn’t swallow well. All moisture appeared to leave his skin. A slight fever rose. So, again, did his dreaming.

7

THOMAS’S EYES SPRANG OPEN. He was lying on his back as straight as a board. His room was bright with morning. Saturday. He got up and hurried to get dressed in his weekend outfit of corduroys, sweater, jacket, and hiking boots. No telling what he and Pesty would do today, but he had a good idea. That is, if she came over today. She ran off from me, day before yesterday, he thought. She had to know Macky was there in the woods, and she didn’t tell me.

Still, he expected her today.

By seven-thirty Thomas was downstairs. His mother was up and about; he had heard her in the parlor and in the dining room. Now, she was in the kitchen. Much earlier he’d heard her leave and a car going down the drive.

Must’ve been Papa going. Mama driving him to work.

His papa had only two classes to teach on Saturdays. After that he would have time for lunch at home; his mama would pick him up in the car.

When he looked out the front door, Thomas saw Pesty just stepping up onto the veranda. He poked his head out, whispering, “Shhhh. Be a minute,” and closed the door again.

Pesty stood there with her hands pressed against her mouth. Her alert eyes watched the closed front door. Thomas pulled on his gloves and went quietly out. He walked around her and down the steps. “Wait!” she said.

“Shhhh!”

She caught up with him. “Didn’t your grandmom come visit?”

“I told you, she’s not—she’s my great-grandmother Rhetty Laleete Jeffers, and she’s here. And this is where she’ll live with us forever, too,” Thomas said.

“When can I meet her?” Pesty asked.

“Not yet, she’s not even up,” Thomas said. He was heading toward the shed where the twins had played and painted. They went around behind where they were hidden from view. They leaned against the side. Pesty peered anxiously at Thomas.

“It snowed,” he said by way of greeting.

“It blizzard, too,” she said. “I heard it.” She smiled brightly at him. But Thomas didn’t feel much like smiling back. She could tell then that he was not happy with her.

“Escort service!” she said suddenly, mischief in her eyes.

“Shhh!” he said. “Girl, what’s on your mind!”

She covered her mouth again a moment. She’d forgotten that the house was still half asleep. “I mean, I’ll escort your great-grandmother to Mr. Pluto’s.”

“You mean, we,” he said, but changed his mind. “Don’t you think someone who lives hereabout should come to meet the new neighbor first?” Thomas didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ll go over and get him and bring him back here to meet Great-grandmother Jeffers,” he said. “That’s what we’ll do. That’s proper.”

At once he set off, going around the hillside toward old Pluto’s. Pesty followed, upset that she hadn’t known what was proper. They would be the escort service for Mr. Pluto.

Snow packed beneath their feet. She had an idea of her own. “Mr. Thomas! You-all can come over to my house, too. Your grandmama can meet my mama!”

The idea stunned Thomas for a moment before he said, “Pesty, please don’t call me mister.” Maybe it would be all right to visit Mrs. Darrow.

“See, it’s okay for my great-grandmother to come visit your mother,” Thomas said. “See, because she, your mother, is—is an invalid.”

Pesty looked down at her hands.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?’” Thomas said. He stopped to face Pesty. “You let Macky tell me when it’s you and me together every Saturday, and then some. Macky says that your mother won’t get up out of bed for months at a time.”

Thomas left off when he saw how uncomfortable talk of her mother made Pesty. She had turned sadly away, and somewhat guiltily, too, it seemed to him.

“You could’ve told me your brother was out there the other day,” he said, changing the subject. “You didn’t have to run off like that.”

Pesty clutched one hand in another and seemed about to cry.

They were friends, and he was quick to soothe her. “Do you feel okay? Did you have some breakfast?” he asked her.