Barnaby's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Barnaby stood in the chalk ring, still sure he was trapped. Then Pip spun around, cupped both hands, and screamed the answer to the real riddle. The one Barnaby had carried for a hundred years. First try. Loud and sure. Something old cracked inside the earth. A vine-wrapped chain lay buried beneath the contest square, binding Barnaby to his post for a century. It split down the middle. Smoke curled up. Tiny sunflowers sprouted along the broken links as they twisted and fell apart. Barnaby felt the pull snap. For the first time in a hundred years, nothing held him to the gate. His vines loosened. His sunflower suit creaked and bulged as he straightened to full height. Petals burst wide around his face. "I'm free," he said. He did not believe it. He said it again, louder. "I'm FREE!" He ran. Not a waddle this time, a real run, straight toward the bash. Behind him he left his gate. His gate that he had fixed with his own hands. His gate that no horse, no stranger, no threat had passed in a century. He left it wide open. Rust-free hinges, cleaned wood, and a gap big enough to drive a wagon through. Ahead, the square glowed. Jack-o-lanterns strobed. Fog rolled over the stones. His crows crouched behind the turntables, flapping and bobbing to a beat. Monsters jumped in the mist. It was the party he had dreamed of while standing still for a hundred years. He plunged into the crowd and let it swallow him. But behind him, the line stayed. Barnaby's waiting line. The misfits who always lined up to try his riddle. A vampire held a cup of tomato juice, too polite to leave. A werewolf chewed his claws, shaking with stage fright. Three small trick-or-treaters clutched pillowcases and looked at the open gate. One trick-or-treater pointed. "Nobody's guarding it." They were not the only ones who noticed. Past the open gate, in the dark beyond town, something shifted. The glow spilling from the crack looked warm and inviting. It had waited for this gap a long time. High above the party, a cluster of small crows saw it too. They panicked. They grabbed a scythe far too big for them and flapped toward the gate in a frantic knot, shouting half-remembered riddles at the dark. They meant to guard the post Barnaby had abandoned. They had no idea what was coming. Barnaby danced on, grinning, with no idea either. A crow swooped down and dropped the Golden Gourd Trophy into his arms. It gleamed, shaped like his own smiling face. He had everything he wanted. Then a scream cut through the music. Not a dance scream. A real one, from the direction of the gate. Barnaby froze, trophy in his vines. The party kept thumping. But the gate he had sworn to guard now hung open, and something had finally walked through.