“That’s right, Andy,” said Harry. “And the nice thing about the whole investigation is that we pay a hundred dollars for every authenticated spectral sighting.”

He took out his worn leather wallet, and produced a ten-dollar bill, which he waved in front of Mr. Beaver’s face. It looked to Neil as if that was the only money he had left.

“See this sawbuck?” smiled Harry. “You can have this and nine more like it if Andy comes up with a ghost sighting that we can substantiate.”

Henry Beaver’s eyes followed the bill backward and forward. Then, without taking his eyes off it, he called out of the corner of his mouth, “Andy! Come on up here, boy!”

Andy Beaver, gingery and disheveled from play, appeared round the corner with his toy pistol. He frowned at Harry, and then at his father, but Henry Beaver waved him forward and said, “This gentleman here wants to ask you some questions, boy. You just go ahead and answer the best way you can.”

Andy peered over at the Pinto. “Hi, Mr. Fenner,” he called, and he gave a quick wave to Toby. Harry watched him keenly for any indication of a special wave or a hand signal, but it didn’t look like anything more than one schoolboy saying hi to another.

Harry put his arm around Andy’s shoulders and led him along the veranda to a quiet corner. He perched on the rail, and Andy stood looking at him, his hands in his jeans pockets, his eyes screwed up against the sun.

“Toby tells me you’ve been having some nightmares,” said Harry. “Something about blood, and killing.”

Andy looked away, without answering.

“He says you’ve been having nightmares about Allen, and the day the Wappos caught Dunbar and the rest of the settlers up at Conn Creek.”

Andy turned back toward him again, but still said nothing.

Harry said, “Toby tells me that you’re one of the twenty-two.”

Andy’s eyes fixed themselves on Harry with a strangely luminous stare. They were pale blue, but as he stared they seemed to widen and darken. It was hard to image that these were the eyes of an eight- or nine-year-old boy. They seemed to be infinitely wise, and knowing, and deeply self-contained in their malevolence.

“You are Harry Erskine,” said Andy. “We have been waiting a long time for you.”

“You and Misquamacus?” asked Harry, trying to appear unruffled. A chicken stalked up onto the veranda, lifted its head questioningly, and then stalked away again.

“You will discover nothing,” Andy growled. “I know why you have come, but you will discover nothing. The day is fixed, and you cannot prevent it.”

“The day of the dark stars?”

“The day when the mouth comes from the sky.”