Tiberius has the Knack
The children demanded a Halloween story today. They were so eager and excited, and they absolutely wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“I’m sorry,” I told them, with a certain amount of trepidation, “but I’m useless at that sort of thing, even if my life depended on it.”
Cicely smiled and approached in her stiff-legged way. “Really, Uncle? Are you sure?”
From his stool by the fireplace, where he roasted something dark and greasy over the coals, her brother, Esmond, chimed in, “You must be very sure before you tell us no.”
Even their little friend, Tiberius, remarked, “I don’t believe the word ‘no’ has ever been directed at me.”
What could I say — tied, as I was, to the living room armchair?
“In that case, children, I — ”
Tiberius coughed.
“In that case, dear friends, it will be my pleasure to attempt a Halloween story.”
I must have been convincing because Esmond returned to his roasting, Cicely clambered back onto the couch and resumed her stitching — though stitching what, I couldn’t say — and Tiberius … Well, Tiberius is an interesting child, to say the least. I don’t believe I’ve seen another boy dressed in knickerbockers and a dicky bow tie in this day and age.
“Should the story be warm and uplifting, or would you prefer something dark?” I asked.
Cicely’s expression was eloquent.
“Dark, then,” I said. “Considerably dark.”
A murmur of approval spread among them.
“How about a scarecrow story? I’ve read some that are really very good.”
As if by the action of a communal muscle, they frowned.
“No? Ah, well. A pumpkin! Yes, a diabolical pumpkin that sits on the porch and plots and schemes against the neighborhood children.”
Tiberius clambered down from the table, where he’d recently delivered an oration, and said, “It’s customary, when it comes to storytelling, for the storyteller to …”
He approached so close I struggled to see him — he being so small, and me being restrained.
“… just tell the story.”
“An insightful comment, Tiberius,” I said. “I only thought to give you a choice. You know — ”
“A scary story,” said Cicely, popping her sewing needle through what appeared to be an emaciated doll. “We want a scary story. That’s all.”
Tiberius nodded and Esmond muttered something unintelligible around a mouthful of whatever he’d been roasting on the fire.
“Of course, of course,” I said. “Then let me begin.”
Brave words, indeed, because I was entirely at a loss for ideas.
A scarecrow, a pumpkin, a witch upon her broom: what other subjects were there for a Halloween story?
I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, applied my mind to the problem, and then … salvation!
“A raven. Yes, a dark and ominous raven appears on All Hallows’ Eve and glares evilly at some children playing in the garden. Oh, and then — ”
“Beaks like hatchets,” intoned Esmond, his pale face flushed from sitting so close to the fire. “That’s what I read in a book in the attic. And when they get together it’s called an ‘unkindness’ of ravens, and they have a queer way of looking at you, as if they can read your mind.”
He cocked his head and stared at me.
“Well, that’s as maybe, Esmond, but the ghostly raven in my story — ”
“Is quite boring,” said Cicely, and Tiberius nodded.
“Oh, very well. I shall start again.” After a pause, I ventured, “Once upon a time ...”
The children groaned.
“No, no. Wait just one moment. Give me a chance. Once upon a time, there were three very good and clever children who were entirely under the control of their evil uncle.”
Tiberius hooted, and Esmond shouted, “Bah!”
Cicely threw aside her doll, which landed with a wet thump on the floor, and she plopped down from the sofa, the tutu of her grimy fairy dress forming a crinoline toadstool around her midriff.
They exchanged one of those glances that so unnerve me.
“We’re beginning to suspect you don’t know any scary stories,” said Cicely.
Oh, good gracious! Why did my sister leave me alone with these children for an entire weekend?
I noticed Tiberius slip out the living room door, then Cicely said, “We’ll have to make our own entertainment, I suppose,” and Esmond tossed a few more lumps of coal on the fire.
“Really?” I inquired, while testing, for the umpteenth time that day, the strength of the knots that bound me to the chair.
“Why, yes,” said Cicely, resuming her place on the couch. “We might just play with a doggy.”
“Doggy,” echoed Esmond, and he giggled.
I frantically searched my memory for a dog, then recalled our neighbor’s charming little dachshund.
“Oh, Snip,” I said. “Such a dear creature.”
Esmond snorted, and Cicely said, too coyly for my taste, “The other doggy.”
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine which dog they meant, then, with mounting horror, recalled the crop-eared mastiff from across the road that growled like a gathering earthquake whenever I walked by.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “The brute’s uncontrollable.”
I heard the front door open then close, Tiberius’s shrill voice say, “This way,” and the ponderous scratch, scratch, scratch of heavy paws on the linoleum.
“Not uncontrollable,” said Cicely. “Not uncontrollable at all.”
The living room door creaked open, a large shadow appeared on the wall, and Cicely smiled: “Tiberius has the knack.”
