47 - Legend of the Lost Legend (2 page)

“Huh? What do you mean?” I demanded, straightening a leg of my pajama pants.

“You haven’t been much help,” Dad complained.

“What did
I
do?” Marissa asked shrilly. “I didn’t try to burn the tent
down.”

“You wandered off and got lost this morning,” Dad reminded her.

“I thought I saw a weird animal,” Marissa replied.

“It was probably a squirrel,” I chimed in. “Or her shadow.”

“Give me a break, Justin,” Marissa muttered.

“Then tonight you both refused to get firewood,” Dad accused.

“We were tired,” I explained.

“And we didn’t know where to look,” Marissa added.

“In a forest?” Dad cried. “You don’t know where to look for firewood
in a forest
? How about on the
ground
?”

Dad was getting steamed.

Maybe he’s right, I thought. Maybe Marissa and I should try to be a little
more helpful.

After all, this was a very important trip for Dad. And it was really great of
him to bring us along.

My dad is Richard Clarke. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s a very famous
writer, storyteller, and story collector.

Dad travels all over the world, searching for stories. All kinds of stories.
Then he puts them in books. He has published ten books of stories. And he goes
all over the country, telling some of the stories he has hunted down.

He has been on a lot of exciting trips. But this one was special. He brought
Marissa and me to Europe—to this forest in the tiny country of Brovania—because of a very special search.

Dad had kept the whole thing as a surprise. But he told us about it as we
made our way through the forest that morning.

“We’ve come to Brovania to search for the Lost Legend,” he explained. He
pulled a large black beetle from his beard and tossed it away.

“The Lost Legend is a very old manuscript. It is said to be hidden away in a
silver chest,” Dad continued as we walked. “It hasn’t been seen for five hundred
years.”

“Wow,” Marissa murmured from far behind us.

She kept stopping to look at bugs and wildflowers. Dad and I had to keep
waiting for her to catch up.

“What is the legend about?” I asked.

Dad shifted the heavy equipment pack on his back. “No one knows what the
legend is about,” he replied. “Because it has been lost for so long.”

He used his machete to hack away a tall clump of weeds. Then we followed him
through a narrow opening in the trees.

The trees were so thick and leafy overhead, little sunlight could get
through. Even though it was still morning, the forest stretched as dark as
night.

“If we find the Lost Legend, we’ll be very lucky,” Dad said. “It will change
our lives.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

His expression turned solemn. “The ancient manuscript of the Lost Legend is
worth a fortune,” he replied. “The whole world is curious about it. The whole
world wants to read it. Because no one knows who wrote it—or what it’s
about.”

I thought about it all day as we twisted our way through the forest. What if
I’m
the one to find it? I asked myself.

What if I look down and see the silver chest? Hidden between two rocks,
maybe. Or half-buried in the dirt with only part of its silver lid poking up.

Wouldn’t that be cool? Wouldn’t that be
awesome
?

I pictured how happy Dad would be. And I thought about how rich and famous I
would be too. I’d be a hero. A real hero.

That’s what I thought about all day.

But so far, I knew I hadn’t been much of a hero. In fact, I nearly burned
down the tent.

And Dad was already grumbling that Marissa and I hadn’t been much help.

I’ll be more helpful, I promised silently that night. I snuggled lower into
the sleeping bag, trying to get warm.

On the other side of the tent, I could hear Dad snoring lightly. Dad can fall
asleep in seconds. And he’s such a sound sleeper, you practically have to hit
him in the head to wake him up!

Marissa and I are not like Dad. It takes us
hours
to fall asleep. And
the tiniest, tiniest sound wakes us up instantly.

So now I lay on my back in the sleeping bag, staring up at the dark ceiling
of the tent. Trying to clear my mind. Trying not to think about anything.

Trying to fall asleep… asleep… asleep.

I had almost drifted off—when an animal howl cut through the silence.

An angry howl. A menacing howl. So close!

Right outside the tent.

I jerked straight up. Wide awake. Breathing hard. I knew this wasn’t a
storybook creature. This creature was real.

The air in the tent felt cold against my hot skin. I realized that I was
sweating.

I listened hard.

And heard a shuffling sound. A low growl. The crackle of heavy paws over the
leafy forest ground.

My heart pounding, I slid the sleeping bag down. Started to crawl out of it.

“Oh!” I let out a whispered cry as someone pushed past me.

“Dad—?”

No. I could still hear Dad’s steady snores from across the tent.

I knew it would take more than a terrifying animal howl to wake Dad up!

“Marissa—” I whispered.

“Sssshh.” She held a finger up to her mouth as she crawled toward the tent
flap. “I heard it too.”

I moved quickly beside her. We stopped in front of the closed flap.

“It’s some kind of animal,” Marissa whispered.

“Maybe it’s a
werewolf
!” I whispered back.

There goes my wild imagination again.

But aren’t werewolves supposed to live deep in the forests of Europe? I think
that’s where all the old werewolf movies took place. In a forest just like this
one.

I heard another low growl.

I grabbed the tent flap and pulled it up. Cold air rushed in. A gust of wind
ruffled my pajama shirt.

I peered out into the night. A mist had fallen over the small clearing where
we had set up the tent. Pale moonlight shining through the mist turned
everything a shade of blue.

“What
is
it?” Marissa whispered from close behind me. “Do you see it?”

I couldn’t see any animal. Only swirls of blue mist.

“Get back inside,” Marissa ordered.

I heard more shuffling sounds. A loud sniff.

“Hurry. Get back in,” Marissa urged.

“Just wait,” I whispered. I had to see what was out there. I had to see what
was making those noises.

I shivered. The air felt heavy and damp.

Wisps of the blue fog seemed to cling to me. I took a step out of the tent.
The ground sent a shock of cold up from my bare feet.

I held my breath and took another step.

And saw the creature.

A dog. A big dog, tall. Like a shepherd, only with long, white fur. The white
fur shimmered like silver under the misty moonlight. The dog had his head
lowered. He sniffed the ground.

As I stared at the animal, he raised his head and turned to me. And started
to wag his tail.

I love dogs.

I’ve always loved dogs.

Without thinking, I reached out my arms. And I ran to pet him.

“No!
Don’t
!” Marissa screamed.

Too late.

I knelt down and petted the fur on the big dog’s back. It felt soft and
thick. My hand touched leaves and small twigs tangled in the fur.

The dog’s tail wagged furiously. I petted his head. He raised his eyes to me.

“Hey—!” I cried out. The dog had one brown eye, one blue.

“He might be a wolf!” Marissa called. I turned to see that she had taken only
one step from the tent. She clung to the flap, ready to duck inside at any
instant.

“He’s not a wolf. He’s a dog,” I told her. I studied him again. “At least, I
think
he’s not a wolf,” I added. “I mean, he’s too friendly to be a
wolf.”

I rubbed the top of his head. Then I scratched the thick, white fur on his
chest. I pulled blades of dried grass and weeds from his fur.

The dog wagged his tail happily.

“What is he doing out here?” Marissa demanded in a loud whisper. “Is he a wild dog? Justin—he might be dangerous.”

The dog licked my hand.

“I don’t think he’s too dangerous,” I told her.

“But maybe he’s part of a pack,” Marissa warned. She let go of the tent flap
and took another step across the ground toward me. “Maybe the other wild dogs
sent him out as a scout. Maybe there are a
hundred
of them!”

I climbed to my feet and glanced around. Squinting through the blue mist, I
could see the tall, dark trees that circled the clearing. A half-moon floated
low over the trees, shimmery through the fog.

I listened hard.

Silence.

“I think this guy is alone,” I told my sister.

Marissa gazed down at the dog. “Remember that story Dad used to tell about
the ghost dog?” she asked. “Remember? The dog used to appear outside someone’s
house. It was such a cute little dog. Very sweet and cuddly. It would tilt its
head up toward the moon and let out an
‘eeeh eeeh’
sound, as if it were
laughing.

“The dog was so cute, people had to come out and pet it. And when they did,
the dog would start to bark. It would call its ghost dog friends.

“The friends were mean and ugly. And they would circle the person, circle
faster and faster. And then gobble the poor victim up. And the last thing the victim would see was the cute, cuddly dog tilting back its head,
laughing
‘eeeh eeeh’,
laughing at the moon.

“Remember that story?” Marissa demanded.

“No, I don’t,” I told her. “I don’t think that’s one of Dad’s stories. It
isn’t good enough. I think it’s one of yours.”

Marissa thinks she’s a great storyteller like Dad. But her stories are pretty
dumb.

Whoever heard of a laughing dog?

She took another step toward the dog and me. I shivered. The forest air was
cold and damp, too cold to be out in pajamas and bare feet.

“If he’s a wild dog, he could be dangerous,” Marissa repeated.

“He seems gentle enough,” I said. I petted his head again. And as my hand
slid down the fur on the back of the dog’s neck, I felt something hard.

At first I thought it was another dead leaf matted in his thick, white fur. I
wrapped my hand around it.

Not a leaf. A collar. A leather dog collar.

“It’s not a wild dog,” I told my sister. “He has a collar. He must belong to
someone.”

“Maybe he ran away and got lost,” Marissa said, kneeling beside the dog.
“Maybe his owner is searching the forest for him.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. I tugged the collar up over the thick fur. The dog turned
his head and licked my hand.

“Does it have an ID tag or a license?” Marissa asked.

“That’s what I’m looking for,” I replied. “Whoa. Hold on. There is something
tucked under the collar.”

I pulled out a folded-up wad of paper. Squinting in the dim light, I started
to unfold it. “It’s a note,” I told Marissa.

“Maybe it has the owner’s address or a phone number on it,” she said.

I finished unfolding it and held the sheet of paper up close to my face to
read it.

“Well? What does it say?” Marissa demanded.

I read the handwritten words silently to myself—and gasped in surprise.

“Justin—what does it say?” Marissa repeated.

Marissa tried to grab the note from my hand. But I swung it away from her.

“It’s a very short note,” I told her. I held it up again and read it out
loud:

“‘I KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE. FOLLOW SILVERDOG.’”

“Silverdog?” Marissa lowered her gaze to the dog. “Silverdog?”

His ears perked up.

“He knows his name,” I said. I ran my eyes over the paper, trying to see if I
had missed anything. But that’s all there was. No name at the bottom. Nothing
else.

Marissa took the note from me and read it for herself. “ ‘I KNOW WHY YOU’RE
HERE’,” she repeated.

I shivered. The blue fog lowered around us. “We’d better show this to Dad,” I
said.

Marissa agreed. We turned and hurried to the tent. I glanced back to make sure the dog wasn’t leaving. Silverdog had
walked over to a clump of tall weeds and was sniffing around them.

“Hurry,” I whispered to Marissa.

We both made our way to Dad’s sleeping bag. He was sound asleep on his back,
making soft blowing sounds through his lips.

I dropped to my knees and leaned over him. “Dad? Dad?”

He didn’t stir.

“Dad? Wake up! It’s important! Dad?”

Marissa and I both shouted at him. But he’s such a sound sleeper, he didn’t
hear us.

“Tickle his beard,” Marissa suggested. “Sometimes that works.”

I tickled his beard.

Nothing. He snored away.

I brought my face down to his ear. “Dad? Dad?”

I tried shaking him by the shoulders. But it was hard to get a good grip
under the sleeping bag.

“Dad? Please! Wake up!” Marissa pleaded.

He let out a groan.

“Yes!” I cried. “Dad?”

He rolled onto his side. Sound asleep.

I turned and saw that Marissa had crawled back to the tent opening. She
stared out. “The dog is heading toward the trees,” she reported. “What should we
do?”

“Get dressed,” I urged. “Hurry.”

We both pulled on the jeans and sweatshirts we’d been wearing. I got one
hiking boot on, then discovered I had a knot in the other shoelace.

By the time I pulled the second boot on, Marissa was already back outside.
“Where is Silverdog?” I asked, hurrying up beside her.

She pointed through the thickening fog. Clouds had rolled over the moon. The
heavy darkness made it almost impossible to see.

But I spotted the big dog loping slowly toward the trees.

“He’s leaving!” I gasped. “We have to follow him.” I started jogging across
the dirt.