The Key to Extraordinary

by Natalie Lloyd

  “Oh, pffft. You’ve got time for this, Emma!” Greta said as she steered her scooter out of the daisy area. Greta pulled the walkie-talkie from the front basket.

  “Periwinkle!” she said into the crackly speaker. “The kids are here.”

  “Yep,” crackled Periwinkle’s voice. “On my way. Go ahead and show her the magic flowers first.”

  “Magic flowers?” Cody Belle squealed.

  Greta nodded. “It’s my favorite magic, darlin’. The best magic. Science!”

  So help me, Aunt Greta actually smirked.

  Cody Belle stilled. She yanked me close and whispered, “Is your aunt Greta actually smiling?”

  “I think so,” I said, surprised by the sight of it. “And I think she giggled. Something strange is in the air for sure.”

  Most people on a scooter would have paused and gently navigated the sloping hill behind the barn. But Aunt Greta is not most people. She careened down the hill so fast, dirt spun in her wake. We ran behind her—a little breathless trying to keep up—all the way into the woods. Aunt Greta led us to a thicket of tall spruce trees, all so thick your fingertips wouldn’t touch if you tried to hug them. Dense vines roped around each tree trunk.

  “Now,” Greta said, and pointed. “You see all these white, bell-shaped flowers blooming from the vines on these trees?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I reached for one of the pale blooms. “They look like lilies.”

  “Ah, but they’re not.” Greta clapped her hand on her knee. “Kids, there are three kinds of flowers that only bloom here in Blackbird Hollow. I call them the Oddities. In all my years of study and botanical explorations, I’ve never seen the Oddities—or heard of them—anywhere but here in the Hollow.

  “First, we have Keeping Susans. Girls around here used to put their wedding dress in a box of Keeping Susans,” Greta said. “Or tuck the blossoms into a letter, to keep the ink from running in the rain. Pin them with the clothes on the line, to keep the sun from fading the color. Keeping Susans still grow around here, but not as much as they used to.”

  “Blue keeps them in the pantry,” I said, not meaning to sound impatient. But flowers did not tell me things about treasure.

  “The second Oddity is called a Starbloom. Every so often, a hiker finds one in the woods, but they’re almost extinct now. And that’s a shame. Starblooms could heal all kinds of ailments.”

  “Why don’t you find some for your hip?” I asked.

  “Oh, that would take more Starblooms than we have left. We can’t even find one for here at the farm. The flower is pale blue and star-shaped, and under a full moon it shines as if somebody dipped it in glitter.”

  Cody Belle elbowed me hard.

  “I’ve seen one,” I said suddenly.

  “Then you’re as rare as they are!” Greta beamed. “They’ve all but died out now. I’ve heard when the moon shimmers over those petals, they look like stars on earth.

  “And then there’s a third Oddity. And that’s the kind of flower that I wanted to show you. These are the Telling Vines. And they do something extraordinary …”

  Extraordinary.

  Like my ancestors.

  Like me, maybe. Hopefully. If I ever found that blasted treasure. “Aunt Greta, we really have to …”

  Suddenly, Uncle Peri ran out the back door of the barn, his beard billowing in the breeze behind him. “It’s coming!” he yelled. “The wind’s coming. Get ready, kids! The Gypsy Roses are ’bout to blow!”

  As if we’d summoned them out of the air, a warm wind whooshed through the forest … bringing with it the red rain of the Gypsy Roses.

  “Okay, now!” Aunt Greta yelled over the wind. “Get close to those flowers, kids! Cup them gently against your ear. And listen …”

  We each ran to a different tree. And waited.

  At first, the woods were full of wind … but then, voices.

  Hundreds of voices.

  And the voices … they came from the Telling Vines.

  I cupped a flower against my ear and listened, the same way I’d listened to a seashell once, trying to hear the ocean.

  Faintly, a young woman’s voice came from inside.

  I’ll never forget you, Ernest Lee. I moved on, like you asked me to. But my heart stayed there with you.

  “Hot dog!” Cody Belle grinned as she reached above me and pulled the flower down so we could both hear it. The bloom held the gentle voice of an old man:

  This here is a message for my son. And I want him to know that I’m sorry for what I did, and I love him more than anything.

  Earl tapped my pant leg. He was kneeling beside the tree, listening to one of the low-growing vines. The flower held a woman’s voice, caught on a sob:

  I love you, Begonia McIntyre. You are my heart.

  “Emma!” Cody Belle yelled. She held a vine dangling from an old branch. “This one’s got the jamboree song in it! ‘Darlin’ Daisy’!”

  The song, sung in a small child’s voice, repeated over and over in the bloom.

  Darlin’ Daisy, lace your boots up,

  Take the lantern, shine it bright …

  “And that’s what I call magic!” Aunt Greta grinned. “As I said, these flowers only bloom here in Blackbird Hollow. The message you leave in a Telling Vine can only be heard by the intended recipient. Unless the Gypsy Roses are blowing.”

  “They all have messages inside them?” I asked.

  “Many do.” Peri smiled as he pulled down another Telling Vine for me to hear. “People used to send love letters in the Telling Vines. A lady might whisper I love you into a flower and tuck it in her beloved’s pocket when he marched off to war. Sometimes, before a person drew their last breath, they’d ask for a Telling Vine. Leave a message for someone who didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.”

  “How did they all end up here?” I asked. “I mean, once you pluck a flower … it’s dead, right?”

  Uncle Peri shook his head and grinned. “That’s a funny thing about Telling Vines. During a Gypsy Rose summer, the vines are full of old messages.”

  Peri walked past a vine and touched one of the blooms. A young girl’s voice called out, as mighty as the wind:

  Be brave, sweet Cillian. Come home to me.

  “Greta and I have made a special project of finding as many as we can, and moving them here. To preserve them, you see. Especially now that Warren Steele’s digging up the entire mountain. There are so few left as it is.”

  Greta nodded proudly. “Warren’s determined to snuff out the history of these hills. He might scar the mountain’s face with his bulldozer. He might send a wrecking ball through every last barn in the county. But the stories?” She shook her head fiercely. “He can’t touch those. Stories are made to last. It’s our job, I believe, to make sure the stories keep blooming.”

  “These are outstanding,” I sighed.

  Aunt Greta waved Earl and Cody Belle closer to listen to a particularly funny flower. Uncle Peri leaned down and whispered to me, “There’s one in particular I thought you might want to hear, little Emma.” He winked at me. “Just don’t tell Granny Blue.”

  I touched the bloom he pointed to, and listened. The voice belonged to a little girl. Her message was a brave and urgent whisper:

  Find Lily Kate. She knows the way.

  The Conductor holds the key.

  “The Conductor holds the key,” I whispered as we pulled our bikes from Uncle Peri’s truck. Due to the impending storm, he’d given us a lift back to the cafe. Peri whistled his way toward some Boneyard Brew. My fellow explorers and I meandered more slowly inside, so we could treasure talk.

  “Lily Kate definitely knew the Conductor,” I said. “That has to be what the clue in the vine means.”

  Cody Belle shivered and pulled her arm through mine. “It’s a good thing we didn’t dig up the grave.”

  I turned to Earl, who had an appropriately creeped-out look on his face. “We’re not crazies who dig up graves,” I assured him. “I just thoug
ht that particular grave might be a front for hiding treasure. It could still be that, I guess. The treasure might be buried with Lily Kate. But if that’s the case, she can definitely keep it.”

  “You heard the Conductor’s song, Emma,” Cody Belle said. “I think the ghost wants you to find the treasure. And since this ghost was—obviously—friends with Lily Kate, he wouldn’t want you being a creepy grave digger in order to do that. I think the grave is a clue.”

  I looked at Earl and wished he’d say something. Earl has an honest look about him, the kind of face that makes me think he would have sincere and valuable insight. Just having him around on our adventures made me feel more at ease, even though he didn’t contribute in words. I already had a feeling Earl was a rare friend, the kind of person who makes a place seem more pleasant, more calm, just because he’s there.

  Granny Blue pushed the door open and waved us inside. “Y’all look like you’re up to no good out here. Come in and drink some hot cocoa.”

  We thundered up the steps and into the cafe. Blue patted Earl’s shoulder. “Good to see you again, Mr. Chance! Why don’t you pop back in the kitchen with me for a second? See if an apple fritter strikes your fancy? We love newcomers here in the Hollow. Fritters are on us this week.”

  Earl’s a wise young man, because he followed Blue back to the kitchen with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

  Cody Belle and I snagged our corner table.

  “While Earl’s on Fritter Duty, let’s recap our clues,” I said as I stuck a daisy in my hair.

  Cody Belle opened our page of treasure notes.

  “And, of course, the symbol on the grave.” Cody Belle turned the page to the star that’d been carved on Lily Kate’s gravestone.

  I traced the image with my fingertip. “I know there’s a treasure, Cody Belle. We’re so close. I can feel it. We just need to figure out where to dig.”

  I scanned the notes again, tapping a pen against the table in a quick snappity-pop rhythm. Sometimes my mind works faster when I listen to music. “Okay,” I said as an idea took shape. “Lily Kate lived around the time of the Civil War. Everybody believes the Conductor was a Civil War soldier. Blackbird Hollow has a weird Civil War history. So maybe we need some more clues about the time period. Uncle Peri!” I hollered. He popped out from the kitchen holding a chocolate-covered spoon. I waved him closer.

  “I want to talk about the Conductor’s treasure on graveyard tours. Do you know anything else about him? Or anything about the Civil War in Blackbird Hollow?”

  “The Conductor is a mystery.” He clapped his hands and settled in close to us. “But I can tell you some interesting facts. Unlike most of the state of Tennessee, lots of the mountain people, like Blackbird Hollow, did not side with the Confederacy. They had no desire to secede from the United States. Tennessee was the last state to secede from the Union, but Blackbird Hollow tried to hang in there. For forty-eight hours, Blackbird Hollow became the Independent State of Blackbird Hollow. Many men left to fight for the Union cause. That’s true of every war, though. That’s why Tennessee is called the Volunteer State, you know. In every war, more men volunteered to go.”

  “Men and women,” I said.

  “Yes!” Peri agreed.

  “Sometimes they’d follow their beloveds into war,” I said to Cody Belle. “Other times, they’d dress like men so they could fight. And some people fought without ever pulling a trigger.” I pulled the Book of Days from my bag and pointed out an entry to Cody Belle.

  The Renegade

  I, Rachel Miller, had the blue flower dream of my ancestors when I was fourteen years old.

  My dream was more of a nightmare, though. In the field of blue flowers, I saw my family huddled together. Mama was sobbing. Daddy’s face was twisted in fear. “I’ll protect you,” I said to them, surprised by the strength of my small voice.

  I woke up covered in sweat. For the first time I could remember, I was more fearful than excited about my destiny. I’d only ever been Rachel—sweet and shy, a girl who loved books and animals and red roses. I wasn’t bold like the rest of my family. My father’d made our barn a hiding place for deserters—soldiers who’d defected from both sides of the war, who only wanted to get home to the people they loved. But I feared that once my dream came true, the hiding place on our farm wouldn’t be enough … for them or for us.

  Nothing could prepare me for the fear that took hold of me on the day Confederate soldiers came looking for my father. I was in town when I first saw them. I heard them ask where my father lived.

  “Hide in the woods,” I yelled as I ran inside my house. I leaned down and looked into my little brother’s teary eyes. “You remember the hiding places?”

  He nodded, resolute.

  My dad stood his ground, though his chin trembled as he looked at me. He wanted to stay.

  “They’ll take you if they find you,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Go hide in the woods.”

  My family—and the soldiers we hid—had barely run past the tree line when I heard the sound of horses’ hooves hammering down the path. I’d never felt smaller than I did that day, walking out into the yard to meet them. My heart raced.

  The soldier in front asked to see my father.

  “He’s not here,” I answered.

  The soldier cocked his head at me. “Then where is he?”

  He vowed to burn down our home if I refused to tell him. But I clenched my fists and said nothing. I watched through tears as our house and barn disappeared in flames. Ashes floated through the air like sinister snowflakes, settling on the wilted rose garden. But I would not tell the location of my family. The soldier finally motioned for his men to go … but not before he turned, raised his arm, and hit me across the face with the butt of his rifle.

  The scar he left was permanent, and so was the blindness in that eye. Some folks thought of me as a hero. I was asked to speak at rallies, churches, and schoolhouses, mostly because people wanted to see the little girl who fought the big army. They wanted bloody details.

  But I talked about forgiveness and family. I talked about learning to rebuild a farm and a life, even though we started from ashes. I couldn’t stop trembling the first time I spoke. But I always walked out with my head held high and my family close to me.

  My admonition to future generations is this: Sometimes even doing the right thing will leave you with scars. But beauty comes from ashes, too. And I know that to be true.

  “She kept people in the Hollow safe when the soldiers came,” I told Cody.

  Peri nodded. “There’s all kinds of caves and woods here—hiding places. I’ve heard soldiers who ran away from the war hid out there.”

  Hiding places. There were hundreds of hiding places here. How would I ever find the one place that hid my treasure?

  The door screech-banged shut again and Waverly Valentine stepped into the room. Her dress was silver gray and short, with little pink flowers all over it. It was the kind of dress that’s perfect for dancing, the kind of dress that ripples like water when you spin around. She wore her funky glasses, too.

  “Waverly!” I pushed out the extra chair at our table. “Sit with us!”

  “I saw the sign outside,” Waverly said quietly as she settled into the chair.

  Granny Blue walked past the table and refilled our Boneyard Brew. “The sign that says ‘Beware of Goat’?”

  Waverly shook her head. She grinned sheepishly. “The sign that says you have fresh-made lavender-peach muffins?”

  “You are a muffin aficionado, Waverly Valentine.” I meant it as a compliment. I have so much respect for people who know how to appreciate quality baked goods. Blue pushed a basket in front of Waverly.

  “We’ll have another fresh batch out of the oven in no time,” Blue assured her. “Emma, your buddy Earl’s back there sampling a new recipe for me. He’ll be out shortly.”

  “Whoa.” Waverly shivered. She dropped her muffin and pressed a trembling hand to the back of her neck. B
efore I could explain the Touch, she said, “I have an important question. The shortest route back to the trail is through the Wailing Woods. Since this whole town is haunted, I’m guessing there’s a ghost or two in there, right? How much will that part of the journey freak me out?”

  “I’ve never seen a ghost there,” Cody Belle said. “But I don’t like the Wailing Woods. Sadness presses down on me in those woods.”

  “Unfortunately, that makes perfect sense,” Periwinkle said. “Because ghosts aren’t the only things that haunt a place. And the Wailing Woods are proof of that. It’s another sad result of the Civil War. There was a battle fought in those woods, and many men died there. For the duration of the battle, the woods were filled with screams and cries. But after that, that’s when people heard wailing. They say it’s the sound the widows made, mourning their loved ones. Whether or not that’s true, I think Miss Chitwood is correct. I think your heart knows sometimes when you step in a place where something tragic’s happened. Sorrow has a residue about it, see. Sorrow seeps into the ground. Hovers over a place.”

  “So the ghosts aren’t … necessarily … bad?” Cody Belle asked.

  “I believe there’s something watching over us. Call it ghosts, if you want. Or maybe it’s our loved ones just peeking in every so often. Maybe nudging us toward our destiny.”

  “I do believe in destiny,” Waverly said. And then she cocked her head as she glanced down at Cody Belle’s notebook, still open to the page with the star. “I saw that when I came through the woods. You know where the trail drops off into the forest? I found an old chimney there. And I saw that mark carved into it.”

  “Ah!” Peri said as he leaned closer and studied the picture. “The only ruins in the Wailing Woods are from Jasper Abernathy’s homestead.”

  I glanced quickly at Cody Belle. She stared back at me, glittery-eyed with excitement. Joy had already replaced her fear. It’s addictive, the feeling of adventure. And without words or even actions, I knew we were saying exactly the same thing in our minds: