Thunder from the Sea by Joan Hiatt Harlow Page B

I am the Mischief Maker.”
    The jannie with the horse’s head said in an echoing voice, “I am the Horsy-hops!” He pulled a string and the horse’s mouth opened and shut with a knocking sound. Tom could see nails for the horse’s teeth.
    The Horsy-hops pointed to the stranger with the crown. “This here’s the Fool. And your dog knows this to be true.”
    The Fool nodded.
    Thunder stood by the parlor door and watched, his head tilted quizzically.
    Pickle Herring and Fool? What could that mean? Tom glanced at Fiona and Enoch, who were laughing and shaking their heads.
    A mummer played a harmonica through a hole in his yellow papier-mâché mask. The Fool stood by silently while the other mummers danced and stomped their feet on the linoleum floor. Pickle Herring pulled Fiona by the handand she, in turn, pulled Enoch. All eight danced in a circle. “Come on, Tom,” said Fiona. “These circle dances stand for the different cycles of life.” But Tom shook his head. He didn’t feel at ease joining in with these strange creatures.
    When they stopped, a jannie with a lunker—a yellow oilskin hat—and a beard of pine needles glued to his pillowslip mask, croaked, “Now it’s time for you to give us a grog or some of that duff pudding I spy on the table.”
    â€œWhy, certainly,” said Fiona, scooping pudding into dishes while Enoch filled mugs with hot cider. The mummers sat on the floor by Thunder and gobbled up their treats through the mouth holes in their masks. Never once did they lift their masks.
    Thunder sniffed at the strange costumes and the jannies spoke to him in their squeaky jannie talk. “Whadafine’ncleverbeastiewe’ave’ere.”
    â€œAn’eblongsright’erewiddatbye.”
    â€œNow, this here dog is the reason for our visit,” Pickle Herring finally said. He took the crown from the Fool and placed it on the dog’s head. “I hereby crown you the King of Dogdom,”he proclaimed. Thunder cocked his head and the crown slipped over one ear.
    Everyone laughed.
    â€œYou are the finest animal on this great island of Newfoundland. And this here’s the greatest fool,” Pickle Herring said, pointing to the silent mummer.
    Surprisingly, the Fool turned to Tom and spoke in a guttural whisper. “Now hear to my warnin’, me boy. Don’t risk your dog by bringin’ him to Chance-Along. Keep him here at Back o’ the Moon. There’s peril waitin’ across the bay.”
    The odd group then got up, went to the door, bowed, waved good-bye with their hats, and left.
    â€œWho were they?” Fiona asked. “I couldn’t tell.”
    â€œOne of them reminded me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on it,” Enoch said. “They must have come across from Chance-Along. The ice is strong enough now.”
    â€œThey came to pay homage to Thunder,” Fiona said, “the King of Dogdom!”
    â€œNo,” Tom said. “They came to warn me … and Thunder. There’s some sort of danger waitin’ for us in Chance-Along.”
    Fiona and Enoch looked at each other, then Fiona said, “It’s too bad their visit had to end with the Fool’s warning.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Tom,” Enoch said, after thinking about it for a moment. “After all, the message came from ‘the Fool.’ You can’t rely on anything a fool tells you.”
    But when Tom went to bed that night, even the soothing, familiar
ticktock
beneath his pillow couldn’t drown out the Fool’s throaty warning:
There’s peril waitin across the bay
.

18 Trouble In Chance—Along
    d uring January, blizzards drove the snow in drifts so high that the windows were completely covered. Enoch and Tom shoveled and threw ashes onto the slippery walkways. Fiona stayed in the house, except for the times she went to see Margaret for a granny