The Ghostly Guardian Read online

  “This one needs to be dried,” said Asher. “I’ll trade you.” He lifted the dripping mass from the ground and handed it to Mason.

  “Fine,” said Mason with a sigh. But he’d been standing over the furnace all morning and felt sticky from the heat. “Are we almost done?”

  He glanced around the room, remembering how flooded it had once been. Now, only a few puddles remained.

  Tap, tap, tap! The wall beside him vibrated again.

  Mason hurried down the hall, but instead of stopping at the furnace, he raced up the steps to the deck of the boat. There, he found Luna and Savannah peering over the deck rail.

  Tap, tap, tap!

  Mason squeezed in between them. When he looked down, Mrs. Diaz looked up, sawdust blanketing her dark hair. “How does it look?” she asked, stepping back and gesturing toward the hull. “Sea worthy?”

  Mason leaned so far forward, he nearly lost his balance. The hull looked perfectly smooth. He could barely tell where the old boards ended and the new boards began. “Is it done?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” she announced. “And we nearly used up all of our spruce wood too.” She gestured toward the short stack on the pier, which Mr. Diaz was straightening up. “But we’ll get more in the Taiga.”

  Savannah and Luna exchanged a glance. “Ready to set sail?” asked Savannah, her eyes dancing.

  “I am!” blurted Mason. They’d already lost so much of the day. The sun was beginning to sink in the western sky.

  “Me too,” said Luna, her voice rising with excitement. “I mean, you promised we’d see some critters, right?”

  “And pillagers!” Asher raced up on deck. He drew his crossbow and pretended to take aim at the mast. Then he froze and lifted his head. “Wait, where’s the sail?”

  Mason glanced up. The mast was bare, like a tall skinny spruce tree stripped of its needles.

  “Still working on that!” called Mrs. Diaz from the pier below. “We need to meet with the shepherd and trade for some wool.”

  Mason groaned. If the sail wasn’t even crafted yet, they wouldn’t be sailing any time soon. He fought the urge to whine. Instead, he headed toward the stairs, stopping only to glance north one last time, toward the Taiga.

  Will we find the trader? he wondered. And if they did, would he be the person Mason was hoping for—the one the ghostly guardian had shown him in the ocean monument? Will it be Uncle Bart?

  The question hung in the air like an invisible sail—one moment full of hope, and the next flat and droopy. Mason sighed and started down the steps.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Is that a pillager outpost?” Asher pointed.

  “No! Chase already told you,” said Mason. “We won’t see any of those until we reach the plains.” But he squinted and looked again, just to be sure.

  They were sailing north past the swamp hills, small green slopes surrounded by flat marshes. He followed Asher’s finger across a flooded patch of land. “That’s just an oak tree,” said Mason. “Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  Asher harrumphed and turned away.

  Mason kept his sights set on the footpath that wound along the edge of the shore, hoping to catch sight of the robed trader and his llamas. But while he watched, Mason’s own words echoed in his head: Your mind is playing tricks on you.

  It’s what Luna had told him when he’d thought he’d seen Uncle Bart in the ocean monument. Was his mind still playing tricks on him? Could the wandering trader actually be his uncle, or was this whole journey a waste of time?

  As the ship picked up speed, something hissed overhead. Mason glanced up just in time to see the red parrot land on the very top of the mast. While it preened its feathers, the sail below billowed in the breeze.

  Mason grinned up at the bird. As he inhaled the fresh sea air, he felt his own spirits lift. This trip won’t be a waste of time, he decided, standing taller. I’m going to find what I’m looking for—what the ghostly guardian showed me.

  Asher was searching for something over the deck rail too, but it wasn’t the wandering trader. “Are we getting close to the plains yet?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

  Mason sighed. “You’ll know when we are,” he said. “Mr. Diaz told us to watch for the mouth of a river, remember? That’s when we’ll know we’re getting close.”

  Asher raised his enchanted crossbow, as if the plains were right around the corner. As if pillagers would greet him there with a big welcome banner and an invitation to fight.

  Let’s hope not, thought Mason. He tapped his fingers on the smooth wooden rail, thinking about what they might see next. Maybe we’ll see signs that the wandering trader camped near the river, he thought suddenly. Then we’ll know we’re on the right path. Or … maybe the trader is still there!

  He imagined the moment when he would see the robed man again. If he called out Uncle Bart’s name, would the man turn around?

  Mason was so caught up in his daydream, he barely heard Asher shout, “There! There’s the river.” He waved at Mr. and Mrs. Diaz, who stood near the captain’s wheel, to let them know he’d spotted it.

  Mason studied the shoreline until he saw it too—a break in the dull green grass where the river flowed outward. A few oak trees lined the mouth of the river.

  As the boat inched past, Chase crossed the deck. “That river is probably crawling with salmon,” he said.

  Asher shaded his eyes. “Are there any drowned in there?” he asked.

  He sure is itching for a fight, thought Mason, shaking his head.

  Chase shrugged. “Yeah, there are probably some drowned in the river. But if I were you, I’d start looking for pillagers now. There’ll be outposts in the plains, for sure.”

  Asher puffed up like a pufferfish.

  As they drifted slowly past the plains, the minutes passed like hours. I could walk faster than this, thought Mason. The wandering trader is probably miles ahead of us by now!

  When Savannah and Luna came up from the cabin below, Luna started jumping up and down, as if she’d swallowed an entire bottle of potion of leaping. “Horses!” she cried, pointing toward shore.

  Mason turned to admire the horses—chestnut, bay, and dappled gray—grazing in the field.

  “I need to ride one someday,” said Luna. She leaned over the rail as if she might dive into the water and swim to shore.

  Savannah threw her arm across Luna’s shoulders. “That’s right—you’ve been living underwater so long, you haven’t had a chance.” She squeezed tight and smiled. “We’ll find you something to ride,” she promised. “Or something to tame. Or something to cuddle—I mean, besides our parrot.”

  Luna grinned. But as the boat drifted past the field, she waved wistfully at the horses.

  She wants to find critters almost as much as I want to find Uncle Bart, thought Mason. He turned to see if Asher had seen the horses too. But his brother had fallen silent.

  “What?” asked Mason, nudging him. “What do you see?”

  Asher could only point.

  As the ship rounded a bend in the shoreline, a group of witch huts came into view. Mason instinctively ducked below the rail. From there, he peered out, studying the first wooden hut.

  It stretched upward two or three floors—taller than any hut he’d seen before—with a cobblestone base and a dark oak roof. Beside it stood a smaller hut. Except this one looked so strange too—with wooden bars, almost like a cage. Mason squinted, trying to make out the mob that was pacing inside.

  “That’s not a witch,” he whispered. “Those aren’t witch huts!”

  “I know,” said Asher, his voice squeaking with excitement. “It’s a pillager outpost!”

  Mason’s stomach lurched. He glanced at Chase for confirmation.

  The boy nodded, his eyes wide. Then he raised his finger to his lips. “Shh …”

  Asher didn’t seem to hear. He burst upward, setting his arrow.

  “No!” Chase grabbed his wrist. “Dad says we shouldn’t invite
a fight.”

  “But—”

  “Chase is right,” said Savannah firmly. “And anyway, I don’t see any pillagers. They’re probably out on a raid.”

  Asher turned back toward the outpost, his face drooping with disappointment.

  Mason studied it too. The main watchtower, which he had first mistaken for a witch hut, looked empty. Unless they’re watching us from the top deck, he thought, searching for dark shapes lurking behind the wooden rail.

  Beyond the watchtower stood a few white tents. Was anyone inside? It was impossible to tell. Through the opening, Mason saw plump orange pumpkins, stacked neatly like the vegetables in the Diaz’s cellar.

  His gaze shifted back to the wooden cage that stood beside the watchtower. Again, he saw a flicker of movement inside. The pillagers were gone, but it looked as if they had taken a prisoner.

  “It’s probably an iron golem,” said Savannah, catching his eye. “They trap them sometimes.”

  As Mason tried to get a better look, Luna nudged his arm. “Is that a Jack o’ Lantern?” she whispered.

  Mason tracked her gaze past the white tents to a carved pumpkin resting atop a hay bale. “It looks like a snow golem!” he said. “I mean, minus the snow.”

  “It’s a target,” Chase whispered. “The pillagers use it for practice.”

  “Really?” Asher sprang into action. Before anyone could stop him, he had loaded the arrow into his crossbow and taken aim.

  “Asher, no!” Chase cried, much too loudly.

  Thwack! Thwack, thwack!

  Instead of a single arrow, Asher’s enchanted crossbow fired off three.

  Mason watched in horror as the first arrow lodged itself into the side of a white tent.

  The second bounced off the bars of the wooden cage.

  The third arrow hit its mark. Mason sucked in his breath as the Jack o’ Lantern target belonging to the pillagers exploded into pieces.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Asher, how could you?” cried Luna.

  “Shh!” Savannah hushed her, pulling her down toward deck.

  Mason squatted beside them, holding his breath. Would the pillagers come pouring out of their outpost now, ready for a fight? He watched and waited.

  The flap of a white tent rippled, sending a jolt of fear from his head to his toes. He reached for his weapon and slid closer to his brother. Asher got us into this mess, Mason knew. But I won’t let him fight alone.

  He glanced toward the bow of the boat, wondering if Mr. and Mrs. Diaz would come running too, weapons drawn. But they didn’t.

  And the fight never came either.

  As the boat drifted past the outpost, a quiet settled back over the wooden buildings. Nothing stirred, except the mob pacing back and forth within the barred cage.

  Mason slowly blew out his breath and lowered his trident. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he scolded his brother.

  Asher hung his head. “It was only a target,” he said. “I didn’t hurt anything—I mean, except for that pumpkin.” His mouth twitched into a smile.

  “Your multishot enchantment was awesome,” said Chase, offering Asher a fist-bump. “Maybe we can aim for some trees onshore!”

  With that, the boys were off, racing toward the bow of the ship.

  Mason’s heart was racing too. He scanned the shoreline, hoping to see signs of the Taiga up ahead. But all he saw were grassy plains, stretching out for miles.

  The wandering trader is out there somewhere, he thought. But so are hostile mobs, ready to fight.

  He set down his trident for a moment but then picked it back up, his grip tight.

  * * *

  Mason dipped his spoon into a steaming-hot bowl of mushroom stew. He was about to take a bite when Asher started hollering.

  “Those mushrooms are ginormous!”

  Mason glanced down at his stew and noticed that the mushrooms were bigger than usual. In fact, they were too big for his spoon. Too big for his mouth, even. He set down the spoon and reached for a knife and fork.

  “Mason, wake up!” Asher hollered again.

  “What?” Mason murmured. “I’m trying to eat here …” But the words got stuck in his mouth—he could barely get them out. And then his knife and fork were gone, and he was sitting on the ship’s deck, gripping the rails instead. “Huh?”

  As he wiped a bit of drool from his chin, he realized he’d been dreaming. No mushroom stew, he thought with disappointment. His stomach rumbled in protest.

  “Look!” Asher squatted beside him, pointing through the rails.

  Mason wiped his eyes and looked. “Whoa.” The mushrooms dotting the shoreline were ginormous. Some of them were as tall as trees, towering over the ground on thick white stems. “Where are we?” he asked, wondering if he were still asleep.

  “The mushroom field shore,” said Chase, dropping down to take a seat.

  Savannah leaned against the rail overhead. “Cool, isn’t it?” she said. “Luna, come see!”

  “The mushroom field shore?” Mason repeated slowly. He slapped his cheek a little, trying to wake up. “Do you mean like Mushroom Island? Are we going to see some of those brown Mooshrooms you were talking about?”

  Asher’s face lit up like a Redstone torch, but Chase shook his head. “This isn’t an island.”

  When Mason glanced left and then right, he saw that what Chase said was true. The ship was still hugging the shore, heading north. But the mushrooms seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. He studied the closest one—a red dome-shaped mushroom with white polka-dots. Even at a distance, it looked as tall as an iron golem. Could it be real?

  “Want to get a closer look, kids?” Mrs. Diaz called from the bow of the ship. “Maybe we can dock here for the night, and harvest some mushrooms for mushroom stew.”

  Mason answered by leaping to his feet. For once, he felt like Asher, eager to be the first one on shore.

  As Mr. Diaz docked the boat, everyone spilled off onto the ground below. Mason’s legs wobbled, as if the dirt beneath his feet were still rocking. He couldn’t see a single speck of grass. But as he neared the mushrooms, he stopped looking down and started looking up.

  “This one’s the tallest!” Asher declared. He stood in the shadows of the red mushroom with the domed top, which was at least three times his height.

  “No, that one is!” Chase raced up a gently sloping hill toward a huge brown mushroom. Its flat top stretched out like a giant canopy, blocking the sun.

  But Mason had his sights set on a red mushroom in the distance. As he passed the girls, who were already helping Mrs. Diaz harvest huge chunks of mushroom, a bird flew overhead.

  “Hello, Hiss!” Mason cried. “Are you showing me the way?”

  The parrot hissed in response and flapped its wings, making the journey from the ship to the mushroom look much shorter than it really was. By the time Mason got there, he was panting. He leaned against the stem of the mushroom to catch his breath.

  The stem was cool to the touch and much smoother than the bark of a tree. When Mason glanced up, the dome-shaped cap of the mushroom seemed so far above him. He wished he could fly to the top and rest on that cushy cap, just like Hiss.

  The parrot strutted across the spotted mushroom, first one way and then the other.

  “You’re such a show-off!” Mason joked. Then he scanned the field for a mushroom that was short enough for him to sit on. If Hiss can rest, I can too, he decided.

  He found the perfect perch just over a rounded hill—a squat brown mushroom that looked out over the water. As Mason settled onto it, he breathed a contented sigh. From here, he could see Mr. and Mrs. Diaz lugging their mushroom harvest back toward the ship. His mouth watered just thinking about the mushroom stew they’d have for dinner.

  Luna and Savannah were hugging a tall mushroom, its stem so wide that they had to link hands to get around it. And where were Asher and Chase?

  Mason shaded his eyes against the setting sun. When he saw a brown horse on the crest
of a hill, he did a double-take. Had Luna spotted the animal yet? He glanced back at her. Nope. She was still hugging that mushroom.

  But when Mason looked again at the animal, he saw that it wasn’t a horse. Is it a cow? he wondered. A brown Mooshroom even?

  He stood up on the mushroom, trying to get a better look. Then he saw a second, cream-colored animal plodding along behind the first. And suddenly, he knew for sure.

  They weren’t horses.

  They weren’t cows.

  They were llamas.

  Mason sucked in his breath. He hopped off the mushroom and started to run.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mason tripped across the field, dodging clumps of dirt and darting around the trunks of giant mushrooms. With each step, he kept his eyes on the wandering trader. The man and his llamas were silhouetted against the setting sun, moving steadily forward on the trail.

  “Wait!” Mason called. But his voice was instantly swallowed up by the tide.

  His legs felt so heavy now, as if he were still in the ocean monument inflicted with mining fatigue. But I’d go there and fight that ghostly guardian again, he thought, if it meant seeing Uncle Bart’s face one more time.

  As Mason sprinted uphill, each step felt more difficult than the first. Was he getting any closer to the wandering trader? He couldn’t tell. Darkness was falling, and he’d misjudged how far away he was from the man and his llamas.

  “Wait!” Mason called again. “Uncle Bart!” The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He wondered if Luna and Asher had heard him. Then he realized he didn’t care. “Uncle Bart!”

  When the wandering trader stopped and turned, Mason felt a rush of excitement. He heard me, Mason realized. He’s waiting for me!

  That gave him the strength to keep running.

  The llamas had stopped walking now, too, and were warily watching him. As he got closer, the wandering trader stepped sideways, putting himself between Mason and the llamas.

  He’s protecting them, Mason realized. He’s afraid of me! He slowed to a jog, but he kept running. “It’s okay!” he called. And then, just in case this was Uncle Bart, he added, “It’s me, Mason!”