Джеймс Хоу - Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

“Now he’ll never want to use me as a character in one of his books,” Howie whimpered as we skidded to a halt on the kitchen linoleum. There before us were the Monroes, wearing coats pulled on over their nightclothes. They were all staring at the same thing.

It was, in Chester’s words, déjà vu all over again. For there, in the center of the kitchen table, was a mound of white vegetables: carrots and Zucchinis and tomatoes and string beans.

“Bunnicula was here,” I whispered to Chester. “That’s good, right? At least we know he’s not in the bag.”

“Perhaps,” said Chester, “but then where is he?”

“And where’s Edgar?” I asked.

“That’s easy,” said Chester. “Edgar went off to meet with the head crow. Why do you think Miles opened the window?”

“Ah, yes, the head crow.”

“I’m ready!” a voice called out behind us.

We turned to see Miles Tanner, towering over us in his black cape and a mood to match.

“Upstairs I saw ...” he began.

“We are in so much trouble,” Howie muttered.

“... the window . . . open. That must be how . . . Edgar . . . got out.”

Chester snorted. “As if he didn’t know,” he said. “Oh, it’s all theater, I tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Monroe said. “We forgot to tell you there was no screen on that window.”

“Do you think Bunnicula got out that way, too?” Toby asked. “If he jumped ...”

“No,” Mr. Monroe said, squelching Toby’s fear. “Look at these vegetables. He must have managed to get down the stairs and into the kitchen and—”

“Through the pet door!” said Pete, pointing.

“Right!” Mr. Monroe cried. “Let’s go!” He waved a flashlight and threw open the door. We rushed into the yard, and what we saw there brought us to a standstill.

There were crows everywhere. On the grass. In the trees. In the air. Other than the occasional flapping of wings, they didn’t make a sound.

“Omens,” Chester hissed.

I didn’t try to talk him out of it this time. Omen-wise, a swarm of silent crows in a backyard is in a whole other league from a raisin in a bowl of oatmeal.

Suddenly a single bird cawed loudly. We looked up and saw it sitting on a branch, its mouth opening as it continued to caw. Next to it on the branch perched another crow, this one making a bobbing motion, bowing up and down, up and down. And then it stopped, looked directly at us, and swooped in our direction.

“It’s Edgar!” Miles shouted.

At the sound of his name, Edgar flew toward us ... and then flew off . . . and then back to us, and then away.

“He’s beckoning us,” Mr. Monroe said. You have to love a man who can use the word “beckoning” in a sentence before he’s even had breakfast. “He wants us to follow him.”

And so we did.

SEVEN

Astonished in the Pumpkin Patch

It didn’t take long for us to figure out where Edgar was leading us. For there, in the garden behind the last house on our block, was a blur of black and white caught in the beam of Mr. Monroe’s flashlight.

“It’s Bunnicula!” Toby shouted.

“But what’s he doing in Amber’s garden?”

“It’s Delilah’s garden, too,” Howie said with a wistful sigh.

Amber, as you may remember, is rumored to be Pete’s girlfriend. Delilah is Amber’s new puppy. Howie and I met Delilah on a recent jaunt around the neighborhood. After a perfunctory hello to me, Delilah joined Howie in an interminable round of—not to mince words—sniffing. I will spare you the details; suffice it to say that I have spent much of my life trying to rise above this barbaric canine greeting ritual. In any event, the sniffing routine was followed by an equally interminable game of nip-and-chase. In the end, it was clear that Howie was as smitten with Delilah as Pete is with Amber.

But I digress. It was not Delilah or Amber or any other member of the Gorbish family that was the reason Edgar had brought us here. It was Bunnicula—and something more. Bunnicula had disappeared behind a pumpkin. But was it an ordinary pumpkin? Oh, no. This pumpkin was white!

“How . . . astonishing,” Miles remarked as we approached. “I’ve never seen a white pumpkin. Which reminds me. When I went upstairs to get my . . . cape ... I noticed that the . . . salad next to my bed had turned ...”

“White,” said Mr. Monroe.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Vegetables in the kitchen turned white, too,” said Mrs. Monroe, “although how in the world he got them out of the refrigerator I can’t imagine.”

“He?” asked Miles. “Surely you don’t mean ...”

“It’s Bunnicula,” said Pete. “He’s turned vegetables white before, like I told you in my letter. But I sure never saw him turn a pumpkin white! That’s—”

“Astonishing,” Miles repeated, licking his lips. His eyes glowed. His face had more color.

Edgar flew to him, landing on his shoulder.

“Did you bring me here to see this?” Miles asked.

Edgar nipped his ear.

“Astonishing,” Miles said for the third time in a matter of minutes.

Now it so happens that there is such a thing as a white pumpkin. I know this because I saw it on public television. Chester isn’t the only one who learns a thing or two now and again, although I confess that technically this wasn’t research on my part. This was Mr. Monroe sitting down to watch a program and my refusing to get off the couch.

In any event, it was quite clear—as Mr. Monroe was now explaining to Miles—that this was not the kind of pumpkin that was meant to be white. For one thing, all the other pumpkins around it were orange. For another, this one wasn’t entirely white. If you looked carefully, you could see a hint of orange. And finally, there were two tiny marks on it, marks that would be easy to miss if you didn’t live in a house with a rabbit who was fond of getting his nutrients by sinking his fangs into vegetables and draining them of their juices.

When Miles bent down to look at the marks, he said, “Astonishing.”

He is a man of few words. Or in this case: one word.

We had become so distracted by all this talk about pumpkins, however, that we had forgotten about the culprit who had turned this one white.

“There he goes!” Pete called out. “We’ve got to catch him!”

There he was indeed, and off we went in pursuit of our runaway bunny. Edgar was in the lead, of course, but with his long legs Miles came in a close second.

As we were running home, it began to grow light.

“Bunnicula must sleep soon,” Chester said, panting alongside me.

“I can’t take this kind of workout first thing in the morning,” I complained. “It’s too early, my joints ache, I’m old, and I’m lazy. And what do you mean, Bunnicula must sleep soon?”

“He’s a vampire, Uncle Harold,” Howie piped up. “He can’t let the sun’s rays touch him or . . . oh, it’s too terrible to say!”

“He’s ... rounding the corner of your ... house!” we heard Miles cry out just before he himself rounded the same corner.

By the time we caught up with him, Miles was shaking his head. “We lost him,” he said. “I’m . . . sorry.”

“He can’t be far,” said Mr. Monroe. “He always goes to sleep just before daylight. Odd habit, that. I’ve never understood it. But at least we don’t have to worry about him for now. Let’s go in and have breakfast. We’ll search for him again later.”

“Promise?” Toby asked plaintively.

“Of course, son,” said Mr. Monroe. “I’m sure he’s sleeping soundly under a bush or under the house. We’ll find him.”