Actually, it did hurt, or was beginning to. Daniel might justify looking into a man’s diary, but his nervous system wasn’t going along. To his brain, it was too much like lying. His skin had a prickly feeling, and pain signals began zipping along neural pathways, making Daniel wince his eyes shut.
Still, why not a quick look? He’d need to do it before the throbbing in his head became intolerable.
He leafed to the most recent page, and the words “kicking myself.” He read on. “Hate to admit I was taken in by that rustic act of theirs. Just simple farmers, stumbling over their dung heaps. All the while …”
Daniel closed his eyes tight and massaged his temples. The pain was sharp and getting sharper. He glanced at the page, scanning the last sentences. “All the while plotting and scheming. The old lady’s worst of all. See how these traitors feel when we leave, and there’s not one stick left standing, nor by God one stone on top of another.”
Daniel slapped the journal shut, sweat beading his forehead, his stomach nauseated with pain—or was it fear? He buried the book under some dirty laundry at the bottom of the duffel.
The man’s crazy, he thought. He thinks we’re plotting against him, when all the while he’s the one …
Daniel had to find that map. Whatever it meant, it mustn’t be left in Sloper’s hands. Daniel tried to think. Maybe the closet? His own clothes, he found, had been pushed aside, and several of Sloper’s uniforms and shirts hung in their place. He went through pockets and was peering inside shoes when a whistling sound from downstairs stopped him. The sound started low and rose to a scream, like a hysterical woman. The kettle, he realized.
Daniel went back to work. He’d found nothing and was running out of places to look. He turned finally to his bookcase, to books he hadn’t read since childhood, as well as fantasy stories he still liked to read, a dictionary, a math workbook, a history book he needed to return to the library. No map.
But then, in the darkness at the back of the second shelf, he saw the wavy edge of … something. An old-looking document on wrinkled brown paper. He pulled it out. Yes, that was it. Now to get out of here!
Before he could reach the door, he was stopped cold by the sound of voices downstairs. He edged the door open. The voices were muffled, but there was one he recognized: that soldier with the cold eyes and cautious voice—Sloper’s aide, Bailey.
“Got a cup for me?” he was saying.
An indistinct response.
“Can’t stay,” the first voice continued. “The captain wants me to check if the old lady’s turned up.”
“Not here.”
A grunted reply. Then: “How can you drink this stuff?”
“Hey, nobody’s making you.”
A kitchen drawer banged shut, rattling silverware.
“Who cares about old Birdbrain anyway?”
“The captain. Don’t ask me why.”
“He didn’t care about the farmer we dumped in the creek.”
“Yeah, well.”
There was a scrape of a chair, followed by the bang of the flimsy screen door. Then silence.
So, Daniel thought, Sloper doesn’t know where she is, either. That made him feel better somehow, until he thought about Wayne Eccles, the missing farmer. Dumped in the creek! It made Daniel’s chest go cold to think of the snakes.
And there was the journal. Not one stick left standing.
He had to get out of here! Just then he heard the lieutenant moving around below. He’d left the kitchen for the sitting room. Daniel was stuck. Nothing to do but hope the soldier didn’t suddenly decide to come upstairs.
His heart beating fast, the boy spread the map open. There were words, smudged by age, around the edge, but no place names, just strange symbols here and there, almost like hieroglyphics. He could only guess that the three large patches along the sides of the map were the three neighboring towns, and that the L-shaped section in the center was Everwood.
He looked closer, grateful that his headache was ebbing. In the center of the central area, he saw, lay a smaller patch. Was that the island? There was no indication it was surrounded by water. And what were those symbols? Three little spirals, each a delicate line curling like a snail shell three times in a leftward direction.
The bang of a door made Daniel jump. A decisive voice—Sloper’s!—and then boots on the stairs, getting louder.
There was no time to think. Sloper was coming this way in a hurry.
Suddenly the bedroom door flew open and the captain strode in. He stopped short.
Daniel became a statue of himself: numb, unable to move, the incriminating document in his hand.
Sloper’s look hardened. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
Daniel swallowed.
“You know, I have a firing squad for people who steal my things.”
His things? This didn’t seem the moment to quibble.
“Maybe I should shoot you myself.” He seemed to consider it seriously. “But why mess up the room? Anyway,” he said, growing calmer as he spoke, “what’s so fascinating about that sheet of parchment that you’d risk your life for it?”
“I didn’t think I was risking my life.”
“Oh, you didn’t?”
“I didn’t think you would kill an innocent person.”
“So,” he said, “the thief is innocent.”
Daniel couldn’t answer that.
“What about this map!” said Sloper, grabbing it from the boy’s hands. “What is it? It has to be important.”
Several plausible lies popped into the boy’s head, but he wasn’t able to say them.
“Well?”
“I don’t really know.”
“You’re lying!”
The boy’s initial panic had subsided, and he looked at the captain directly. “I wish I could, believe me.”
Sloper assessed him through narrowed eyes. “All right,” he said, “let’s say you don’t know what it is.” He spread the map out and tapped it with his finger. “What do you think it is?”
“I think it’s about the island.”
“Island. What island? The one with the bird?” He bent over the document. “So you think those are the other towns?”
“Maybe.”
“And this in the middle …”
“Everwood, yes. Well, maybe.”
“And what are these three little marks over here?”
“Symbols of some kind. I don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” he mimicked. “You expect me to believe that?” His eyes narrowed again. “Apparently, you do.”
The captain walked over to the window and stared into the darkness. “You sneak in here, risking your neck for a strange-looking map, and you tell me you don’t know what it is! The crazy part of it is I believe you.” He turned. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think those marks are hiding places. I think the rebels have hidden caches of guns and ammunition.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Wrong, am I?” He examined the map again. “What else would it be? This whole town”—he waved his hand—“a nest of traitors!”
Part of Daniel was very frightened, but he was able to observe his fear, as if it were someone else’s. The separation allowed him to think. His instincts told him Sloper was wrong about the map. But those markers. They had to be important, even sacred. Sacred symbols on an ancient map.
He remembered: The town was “protected.”
Didn’t feel like it now.
Even if Sloper was wrong, his mistake could lead him to find things his eyes weren’t meant to see. Protections could be ripped away. Certainly, he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy the town. He was planning to. He’d already killed a farmer.
“Think about it, sir. This map is very old.”
“It’s counterfeit! I see that now.”
“No, it’s much older than—What are you doing?”
Sloper had pulled out his own map of the region and was comparing coordinates. “I’m figu
ring out exactly where those guns are hidden!”
In a calm part of Daniel’s mind, a place beneath the fear, he knew he couldn’t let Sloper succeed. Better that nobody had the map.
“Let me bring the light over,” Daniel said.
Sloper wasn’t listening. He had a pencil out and was jotting down numbers.
“Here.” The boy set the kerosene lamp on the desk and turned the toothed knob to bring up the wick and make the flame brighter.
Sloper grunted.
Daniel stood just outside the circle of light. He knew this might be the last minute of his life. Can’t be helped, he thought. Picking up The Arabian Nights, a substantial volume, a special favorite, one that had taken him a whole week to read when he was younger, he suddenly smashed it against the lamp, shattering the glass shade and spilling flaming kerosene across the desk.
Even before Sloper could leap away, the map was burning.
The room was an instant commotion of flame, kerosene stink, and howls of terrified rage.
Daniel, still clutching the book, was through the door and into the hallway by the time the lieutenant had started up the stairs, a coffee cup wobbling in his hands.
“Help!” Daniel shouted. “Fire in there!”
The soldier looked at him strangely before racing past.
Daniel caught a glimpse of the captain tearing a blanket off the bed and throwing it over the flames, all the while shouting at the soldier; but Daniel didn’t hear what he said. In fact, he didn’t remember getting downstairs. Only when the warm wind hit him did he realize he was outside dashing across the rutted ground to the barn. That’s when he discovered he was holding a book—a book stinking of kerosene. Tossing it aside, he grabbed his bike and pushed it out to the road.
A glance back: no sign of flames—good—back door opening—bad—and a man running wildly out, a silhouette against the porch light. Daniel jumped on the bike. The man raised his arm as if pointing. There was a brief flash and a thunk as a bullet tore into the maple tree beside the boy’s head. That was the end of thinking for a while. The bike skidded on loose dirt but righted itself as Daniel pedaled madly, the roadside bushes crowding him, whispering Hurry! as he rushed on through the dark.
What have I done?
Sweat blurred his vision, but he could make out something up ahead coming toward him. With his forearm he wiped his eyes.
A bicycle.
“Wes!”
The younger boy skidded to a stop. “Danny! What’s going on?”
“Trouble. They’re coming after me.”
“What? Slow down. Who’s after you?”
Daniel turned his head and saw a vague glimmer behind him, growing brighter. “Quick! Get off the road!”
“Danny …”
Daniel slid off his bike and pulled it into the bushes, his brother right behind him.
“Get down!” Daniel yelled in a whisper, just as the captain’s staff car hove into view. It swerved past, spitting up dirt.
Cautiously the boys stood.
“Danny, what in the world …?”
“I did something stupid.”
“Kind of looks that way.”
“We’ve got to find Emily.”
The two of them started pedaling. Twice, as they approached the Byrdsong place, they had to veer into the bushes when cars roared by.
Finally, they abandoned their bikes in the underbrush and set out on foot through the trees. They made a wide circle around the house, keeping low, till they found the way. The underbrush grew thicker, but dawn was coming, vague light filtering through the foliage. The boys could see occasional broken twigs and scuff marks in the leaf mold.
“This way,” Wesley whispered.
Daniel stopped. “There’s no way Grandma Byrdsong could get through here.”
“I know.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“We’re following Emily.”
“Why would she …?”
His brother was pushing ahead, not listening. Daniel followed.
The thorn trees grew more thickly as the boys got closer to the stream. Finally, they had to go on hands and knees, ignoring as best they could the pricks of brambles and the sharp-edged stones. From the bent thistle stalks, they could see that someone had come this way recently. Not far ahead, the stream was making quiet shuffling sounds, like an old man going through his papers.
A minute later, they broke through the last barrier of thorns. Mist, like a smoke screen, rose from the sluggish water.
“You all right?” Daniel whispered. “Your cheek is bleeding.”
“You’re not so pretty yourself.”
They looked around. Bent grasses.
“Emily?” whispered Wesley.
No answer. They followed the stream.
Thirty feet ahead they saw a dark bundle at the edge of the water. It was Emily, sitting with her legs drawn up.
“Hey,” said Daniel softly.
She didn’t look at him. In her lap, mewing piteously, was a white cat.
Daniel crouched. Wes stood a few feet back.
“That’s her favorite, isn’t it?” Daniel said. “The one called Mallow?”
She turned toward him and nodded, shaking loose a tear from her brimming eyes. “And look.” She pointed to a deep indentation at the water’s brink. A small, square hole. Daniel remembered Bridey’s sturdy, square-heeled shoes.
He looked across the stream. V-shaped ripples slid slowly by, revealing a horrible-headed snake. It continued on past, its body a waving shadow beneath the surface.
The three friends started back. They’d been up all night and were exhausted. It was especially hard going for Emily, who refused to have anyone else carry the cat. The creature was somehow a part of her grandmother, maybe all there was left, and she wasn’t going to let go of it.
“Hey,” she called out.
Daniel turned.
“Did we just go through some poison ivy or something? My shoulder’s itching really fierce.”
“Poison ivy, poison oak, lots of stuff. But you’ve got long sleeves.”
“It feels like my shoulder’s burning up.”
“Let’s get you to the cave,” said Daniel. “We’ve got that first-aid kit.”
“Why not the house?”
He shook his head. “Later.”
They struggled on. The cat was the only one comfortable, secure in the crook of Emily’s arm. Gradually thorn trees were replaced by oaks and beeches, and thistles gave way to rocks and moss. Sunlight was now hitting the tops of the taller trees and beginning to shinny down the trunks, turning the woods golden.
“This way,” said Daniel, cutting east.
They continued in silence. Daniel saw Emily wince, but she didn’t say anything. At last, they reached the hill leading up to the cave.
“Is it bad?” he said.
“Let’s just get up there.”
They started climbing, Wes leading the way, his brother bringing up the rear. They were relieved to see that the campsite hadn’t been disturbed.
“This is supposed to help with itches,” said Daniel, unscrewing a tube of white ointment from the medicine kit. “Let’s take a look.”
She hesitated, but then set the cat down and turned away and undid the top few buttons. Daniel pulled the material away from her shoulders.
He paused.
“Aren’t you going to put it on?” she said.
“Um, this is not poison ivy. And it’s not thorns.”
“Definitely not thorns,” said Wesley.
“Does everybody have to look at me?” said Emily, blushing.
“Seems to me,” said Daniel with a smile, “you’ve got a bad case of freckles.”
“I do not have freckles!” protested Emily. “I’ve never had freckles.”
“Well, you have them now.”
“Freckles don’t burn.”
“Wait.” He examined her shoulder blades closely. Something about the pattern struck him as familiar, the s
pray of brownish dots swirling like a constellation across her back from one shoulder to the other.
“What?” she said, irritated. She wasn’t used to having a boy—two boys!—staring at her bare skin.
“Emily,” he said quietly. “You’re not going to believe this, but these freckles look an awful lot like that map of yours.”
“What?” She pulled the top of her dress tight and buttoned it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It does look like the map. Only … different.”
“Only different.”
“Let me look again.”
“No!”
“It looks like the map, only changed around somehow.”
“Daniel Crowley—”
“I wish I had a mirror. I could show you.”
“I can’t believe you’re being so crazy. God! I just lost my grandmother!”
“I know.” Actually, he hadn’t been able to believe that Bridey might be dead. His mind had put that possibility aside.
“And this,” Emily went on angrily, looking back at her shoulder, “whatever it is—is burning like crazy!”
“Sorry. Look. Let me put the stuff on.”
“No more crazy talk!”
“I promise.” Daniel and Wesley looked at each other.
Grudgingly Emily undid the buttons again, and Daniel carefully smeared on the ointment. “Better?”
She expelled an irritated little sigh. “Maybe.” The cat was sniffing at the stones around the fire pit. “Now,” she said, pulling the cat onto her lap, “anyone want to tell me why we didn’t just go to the house?”
Wes looked at his brother. “You’d better tell her. Actually, I’m not too clear on it, either.”
Daniel sat on a stone and leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. “Captain Sloper …,” he began, and paused. “I got him pretty mad at me.”
“I thought you were his teacher’s pet,” she said, rather meanly. “Telling him everybody’s secrets.”
“Dan’s not kidding!” said Wes. “You should’ve seen those soldiers running around trying to find him.”
“What did you do?” she said tightly.
Daniel rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”
He told the story as simply as possible, making no excuses. Excuses would have felt like lies, and his nervous system wouldn’t have put up with that. When he finished, even the cat was still.
The Door in the Forest Page 8
