Liesl & Po

Perhaps Will felt, too, that the place they had come to was sacred. He bowed his head and began stepping carefully, as though worried he might cause the ground to shatter. Even Po was hesitant. In the watery daylight, the ghost was nothing more than a comma of gray air, flickering in and out uncertainly. Only Bundle turned merrily ahead, unaware.

Even though it was cold and the wind was raw, Liesl began to sweat as they crossed the field. The box slipped a little in her grip and she had to wipe her palms, one after another, against her jacket. They had traveled a long way to be exactly here, and yet Liesl had not given much thought to what would happen when she arrived and saw the house again after all these years. She had not given much thought, either, to what it would mean to put her father in the ground. Then she would truly be alone.

As if sensing her thoughts, Will whispered, “You all right?”

“Yes,” Liesl whispered back, and adjusted the box in her arms. No, she thought. Not alone. Not ever again. She had Will and Po and Bundle now.

They reached the low stone wall. Bundle and Po passed through it absentmindedly; Will and Liesl scrambled after them. Beyond the wall, the land dipped. At the bottom of the gentle, sloping hill was the Red House, and beyond that was the pond, reflecting the flat, hard silver sky and the weeping willow tree. The tree’s leaves were brown, and it looked more stooped and sad and saggy than ever.

“Oh,” Liesl said, and “Oh” again. There was a hollow feeling in her chest. The house, the pond, the tree—it was all both overwhelmingly familiar and different from what she remembered—smaller and shabbier, somehow. It was like waking up to find that your reflection in the mirror had aged overnight, or had sprouted a new mole: You were forced to admit that things changed, whether you gave them permission to or not.

Liesl was overwhelmed by a sense of the otherness of everything. She belonged to the world, but the world did not belong to her; she was only the smallest, sprouting part of it, a tiny wart growing on the backside of an elephant. Somewhere there existed a glowing, magical, center part of the universe, but she was nowhere near it. The idea made her feel both comforted and sad at the same time.

“We used to have picnics there”—Liesl gestured to an empty place—“and in the winter we made snow angels there.” She was alarmed to feel a lump building in her throat.

“Well.” Will’s voice was unnecessarily and deliberately cheery, and seemed out of place. “We might as well do what we came to—”

“Shhh,” Po hushed him sharply. “I hear voices.” In a second, Po and Bundle were gone.

Will and Liesl froze. They strained to listen, but could make out nothing above the howling wind and the pounding of their hearts.

Then Po and Bundle were back. Bundle was mwarking excitedly. Po was very grave.

“It’s them,” Po said. “The one you called the Lady Premiere, and the thin man.”

“The alchemist,” Will gasped, turning white.

“Quickly,” Liesl said, and started toward the house. They had come this far; they could not be stopped now. “There’s a closet behind the stairs. We can hide there.”

The windows of the Red House were covered with a thick layer of dust, and paint was flaking from its exterior, as though the house were slowly shedding its skin. But to Liesl’s surprise the front door opened easily.

The alchemist and the Lady Premiere had just reached the stone wall when Liesl, Will, Bundle, and Po slipped into the house.

“Shut the door,” Liesl whispered to Will, and he did. The windows were so grimy they admitted no light. Once the door was closed, Liesl could see absolutely nothing.

“Do you think they saw us?” Will whispered.

“I don’t know,” Liesl answered.

“Bundle and I will stand watch outside,” Po said. “We will tell you if the lady and the thin man are headed for the house.” Just like that, the ghosts were gone.

For a moment Will and Liesl stood inside the door, listening. They could hear the Lady Premiere and the alchemist speaking as they came down the hill, their footsteps crunching on the dew-coated grass.

“I see no signs of them,” the Lady Premiere was saying.

“We may have beat them here,” the alchemist responded.



“Come,” Liesl whispered. “This way.” She began to move very slowly toward the staircase at the back of the house, keeping both hands on the walls on either side of her, feeling her way. Wallpaper crumbled beneath her fingertips: yellow wallpaper, covered with purple pansies, she remembered. The house smelled like mildew and closeness, and windows that had not been opened in ever so long. But beneath it, Liesl thought she could detect another smell, one she remembered from long ago: of freshly baked cookies, and wild heather, and happiness.

Will stepped heavily behind Liesl, and a wooden board creaked under his boot.

“Be careful,” Liesl whispered.

“Sorry,” Will whispered back.

They inched along through the pitch-black hall. Liesl tried to remember the exact layout of the downstairs. That must be the kitchen they were passing on the right—she could feel the swinging doors, a different texture under her fingertips—which meant that any second, on the left, they would come to the dining room.