“The real world?”
“The world outside Hart House.” She squints at me. “Do you know what pretension means?”
A black-and-white grid flashes before my eyes, and I hear Dad’s voice mumbling over the Sunday New York Times crossword. Thinking of his voice feels like someone has reached inside me and twisted.
Pretension. Ten-letter-word for “snobbery, a claim to importance.”
It can also mean “false.”
“It’s like when you’re snobby about something,” I explain.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I get that.” Gretchen puts her hands on her hips and faces the woods. “So you’re just out here looking at everything?”
“Yeah, I guess.” My mouth feels like a machine that isn’t quite working. “It’s pretty out here.”
“Huh. I never really thought about it.”
Gretchen plops down onto the riverbank. I sit beside her, prepared to run if need be. She did kick me under the table last night, after all.
“I can’t believe you came out here by yourself,” Gretchen says.
“You never go out to the woods?”
“Grandma’s never forbidden it, exactly, but she doesn’t like us being out here where she can’t really see us. Mostly when we come over, we help her clean the house.”
“That doesn’t sound very fun.”
“It’s not. But Grandma likes things to look nice. So it’s like we all come over, and the aunts sit in the kitchen and drink, and Grandma puts us kids to work. She’s all ‘you must learn to respect what you have’ and ‘people expect us to look a certain way.’ ”
I giggle. She does a pretty good Grandma voice.
“So what do you like about it?” she asks. Our feet swing over the water. Gretchen wears red galoshes over her pajamas.
“The woods?”
“Yeah.”
“Well . . . it’s complicated.”
“Finley, we’re Harts. We share blood, you know. You can tell me.”
What does that even mean, being a Hart? It has to be about something more than blood; otherwise Hart House wouldn’t feel like it is the wrong size for me. Maybe I should start a new list: What It Means to Be a Hart. If I can figure that out, maybe I’ll be able to survive the summer.
We share blood. Kind of creepy, really.
I take a deep breath. “I like it because . . . it’s the Everwood.”
Gretchen frowns. “What’s that? Like Narnia?”
“It’s a real place,” I clarify, “not imaginary, and not in another world. It’s in our world, but you can only find it if it wants you to find it. I’ve been writing about it forever. Since I was seven.”
“And you think this place is it?”
“Maybe,” I say. “It looks like it always has in my head, but even better. I had some of it right, but I also got a lot of things wrong. Now I see how it all really looks.”
“Like what?”
“Well . . . that’s the Green.” I point up the hill of the pit, toward the bright green lawn. “You know, for festivals and things. And that’s the Great Castle.” Now I point to Hart House. “It sits right at the edge of the Everwood, guarding against trespassers.”
“Is there a king and queen?”
I think for a second. “No. The Everwood has never had a king or queen. It’s really old, and it’s been hidden away for a long time. Only one who is truly worthy can be ruler of the Everwood, and no one has ever been worthy enough.”
“What makes a person worthy?”
“Only the Everwood knows that.”
Gretchen nods, leans back on her elbows. “So does anyone live at the castle?”
“Of course. Someone has to, until the king or queen arrives. The two ancient guardians live there, all alone.”
“That’s sad.”
“Not really. It’s their solemn duty.”
“So how old are they?”
“Think of the oldest thing you can imagine, and that’s them. Their duty is to watch over the Everwood and guard its secrets until the rightful ruler is found.”
These words spill out of my mouth as if they have always been there, waiting to become themselves. I have written dozens of Everwood stories, but now everything is different.
Now I am actually here.
“Are they the only people who live in the Everwood?” asks Gretchen.
“Oh, no, lots of other people live there. There are witches, and barrows—these digging creatures with huge mouths like shovels. They live underground, and you have to be careful where you step, because they can reach up and grab you. And there are fire-breathing salamanders with poisonous drool, and fairies that will play tricks on you if they decide they don’t like you, and sometimes there are knights, if one gets lost during a quest—”
“Oh!” Gretchen shoots upright, her hand in the air. “Me! I want to be a knight. Can I?”
“What?”
“A knight! I’d be a great knight. Would I get a horse? Would I fight dragons?”
My thoughts spin out of control.
What does Gretchen mean, can she be a knight? The Everwood is not a game. It is not a thing you play at; it is a thing that already exists. You can’t simply become a part of something that doesn’t belong to you, something you’ve only just learned about.
I find myself wishing Gretchen had never come out here. Then she would never have found out about the Everwood, and it would still be safely mine.
Now that she knows, who else might soon know? And what will they think of me? The Everwood has only ever belonged to me. We understand each other.
If I swear Gretchen to secrecy, will she agree?
I wonder if Harts are good at keeping secrets. I am good at that, but then, I don’t feel like a real Hart.
Maybe blood doesn’t matter at all.
“Please? Pleeeease?” Gretchen clasps her hands under her chin and pouts.
She looks so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. It feels strange, and wonderful, like jumping out of deep water to breathe. I have not laughed for days.
“Okay,” I say. “You can be a knight.”
Gretchen pumps her fist into the air.
“But be warned: As a knight, it will be your duty to help the ancient guardians protect the Everwood from evil.”
“What kind of evil?”
“Invaders. Highwaymen.” I look around, and then whisper, “Pirates.”
Gretchen scoffs. “Please. I could take on a whole ship of pirates with one hand tied behind my back. Without armor, even. Blindfolded.”
“Not even the most valiant heart, good lady, can know every wonder the Everwood holds. Both gentle . . . and dangerous.”
What has come over me? I don’t normally talk to people like this. The only time I use my Everwood voice is around Mom or Dad, and they’re only halfway listening anyway.
Gretchen jumps to her feet. “Okay, so if I’m a knight, what does that make you?”
“I’m . . .” I pause, flushing. “I’m an orphan.”
That is who I have always been, in all my stories. Dad used to read to me before bed every night, and we read about a lot of orphans. They were often strange in some way—they had unusual powers or ugly scars, or carried terrible secrets inside them. But they always turned out to be heroes in the end.
I like that idea, of the strange, lonely character being the most powerful.
Gretchen makes a face. “Being an orphan doesn’t sound fun at all.”
“It isn’t about fun. It’s how the story goes.”
“Okay, if you say so. It’s your game.”
“It’s not a game!” The words explode before I can stop them.
Gretchen blinks at me, and I wonder if she will laugh at me and leave, or get mad, or think I’m a freak, or . . . what? Do I care?
Maybe it would be for the best.
But Gretchen simply kneels. “Forgive me, oh fair orphan child! As a knight I have awful manners and do not always think before I speak.”
War
mth rushes through me; maybe I will start laughing again. Gretchen is not making fun of me or running away. She’s . . . staying. She’s smiling. She has a decent English accent.
What now?
“You are forgiven,” I declare. “After all, I am but a humble orphan child, and you are a great knight.”
“Well, not yet,” she says, in her normal voice. “I have to prove myself first. So should we go?”
“Go where?”
She throws out her arm toward the woods on the other side of the river. “Exploring! Questing! Not sure how we’ll cross over, though.”
I search for a moment and then point down the river at a tree trunk–sized pipe that stretches across the water, its ends buried in the riverbanks. “We’ll cross over the First Bridge.”
“Well . . . technically, we’re not allowed to go near that pipe. Grandma doesn’t think it’s safe. . . .” Gretchen trails off, watching me closely.
I hesitate. Breaking Grandma Hart’s rules on my second day here doesn’t seem like a good idea. But the call of the Everwood is not something I can ignore, and now that Gretchen is beside me, waiting, I don’t want her to leave.
I think I want her to understand.
I certainly don’t want her to think I’m afraid of crossing a pipe.
Maybe it is important for me to impress Gretchen. If I do, I will have passed some sort of test, and my cousins will accept me.
“If we explore fast and get back before breakfast,” I say slowly, “maybe no one will ever know?”
Gretchen grins. “And a knight wouldn’t care about breaking rules, would she?”
“Not if it was for a noble cause.”
“I’m in. Let’s do it.” Gretchen runs toward the pipe, her galoshes kicking up clumps of mud.
For a moment I imagine Grandma Hart peeking out a window, and I freeze with fear. But it’s too late; I have a responsibility to accompany Gretchen. No one should enter the Everwood alone, especially not a knight who thinks she can fight pirates blindfolded.
“Orphan girl!” Gretchen whisper-shouts, ready to cross the bridge. “Hurry up! I need a guide!”
A guide. Because no one knows the Everwood like I do.
Because the Everwood wanted me to find it.
I grin, and run to catch up.
NE DAY THE ORPHAN GIRL was walking through the Everwood alone, when she came upon a lady knight polishing her armor.
The orphan girl was careful around any stranger, for in strangers lay the possibility of pain. But the knight greeted her warmly and proposed that they travel together.
And so they did, exploring an area of the Everwood that was new to them both. The trees stretched into a high world of green; neither the orphan girl nor the knight could see the sky above.
The farther they walked, the quieter the woods became. The world took on an eerie feeling, as if the air had been disturbed by something malicious and slow-moving.
“Something terrible has happened here,” whispered the orphan girl.
“How can you be sure?” asked her friend.
“Can’t you feel it? The air is heavy with secrets.”
Then the orphan girl saw a shape in the shadows beneath a thin white tree. The shape gave off a quivering power—weak, but once strong.
“Be careful,” said the knight. “I don’t know this part of the forest. Perhaps we should turn around.”
But the orphan girl was too curious. She reached into the briars and pulled out a fine bridle laced with gold. It hummed with power, rattling her teeth and leaving her breathless.
“Put it away,” urged the knight. “There is something evil about this place.”
“I cannot,” said the orphan girl. “I must find to whom it belongs.” She tucked the bridle into her pack.
Not long after this, they found another object, half buried in the dirt.
“A boot?” mused the orphan girl.
“A fine one,” added the knight. “The leather is like velvet.”
“ ’Tis a shame to misplace something so valuable,” the orphan girl observed.
“Misplaced, perhaps. Or stolen. Or worse.”
The orphan girl shivered at her friend’s dark words. The boot’s power was even stronger than the bridle’s, making her bones ache as if with fever.
“Do you think it has been enspelled by a witch?” whispered the knight. “Enchanted by a fairy?”
“It has certainly known pain,” said the orphan girl soberly, “for when I touch it, I feel it too.” She tucked the boot into a pouch on her pack.
Deeper in the Everwood, where the light was as dim as evening, a wave of power washed over the orphan girl and her knight. They staggered, gasping.
The orphan girl caught a glint of metal.
“A dagger,” she said, lifting the weapon from the tangled forest floor.
“It is a fine blade,” said the knight. “But what has happened to it? I feel ill to look at it.”
“Something cruel,” concluded the orphan girl. “Something that left much pain behind.”
“Wait a moment. Look!”
The orphan girl raised her head and saw a strange light shifting through the Everwood leaves. Following it, she emerged into a gray field. Few trees stood here, and no birds sang.
In the middle of the field stood a small castle of crumbling stone. Wind whistled through the dry grass, and a torn flag hung from a crooked tower.
“It is a wasteland,” whispered the orphan girl, for she could think of no other way to describe it. Determined to explore, the orphan girl wrapped the dagger in cloth and tucked it into her pack with the boot and the bridle.
No sooner had she done this than three figures tumbled out of the castle door. Their laughter was high and sharp, their voices vicious. They wore filthy rags tied around their heads, and their coats were black with mud.
The lady knight unsheathed her sword.
“Who are they?” asked the orphan girl.
“Rotters!” shouted the lady knight. “Come, my brave friend! We cannot let them catch us!”
“You would run from a fight?” asked the orphan girl.
For answer the knight raced back into the trees, away from the castle and its gray field, and the orphan girl had no choice but to follow.
6
I SPRINT AFTER GRETCHEN, DODGING trees and jumping logs. I do not want to leave the house we found without seeing what is inside it, but these boys are definitely chasing us, and they are fast.
“Wait, the who?” I shout.
“Come on, Finley!”
“But who are the Baileys?”
Even in galoshes Gretchen is lightning fast. “They’re these kids from next door,” she yells back at me. “Well, across the river, I mean!”
As we run, my mind races.
The Baileys. In the Everwood they would not be neighbors across the river; they would be pirates. The Rotters, to be specific: an infamous trio of rogue pirates hailing from the Bitter Sea, who befoul and besmirch everything they touch, and who have come to the Everwood to plunder it of its riches.
Thinking about the Everwood turns my chest light and my legs powerful. I dodge trees and jump over logs, passing Gretchen. A creeper vine whips past my face, and I almost drop the tiny shoe I found.
Behind us the Bailey boys holler at us:
“Trespassers!”
“You’d better run faster!”
“No Harts allowed!”
I look back and see one of the boys grinning at me. He darts through the trees and disappears, but I still hear him laughing.
Back at the river Gretchen and I scoot across the pipe bridge as fast as we can. Once we get to the other side, there is no sign of the Bailey boys.
“Where’d they go?” I ask, panting.
Gretchen points across the river, and I see it now: a house, hidden in a mess of trees. It is as grand as Hart House, with a massive porch and too many windows to count, but this house is brown with dirt. The roof sags, and the paint is peeling.<
br />
“Are you friends with them?”
Gretchen clutches her side. “Are you kidding? No way.”
I stick my hand into my pocket. I wonder what Mom would think if she knew I was running away from boys, through a forest, with a wrapped knife in my jeans.
The Bailey boys climb up the hill to their house. It’s so steep on that side that they have to pull themselves up tree roots, like climbing the rungs of a ladder.
One of them, the one who smiled at me, turns around at the top of the hill. He makes a gesture that would no doubt make my issue with the dinner forks seem like nothing to Grandma.
Gretchen flings sticks across the river. They plop into the water. “Stay out of our woods!”
“I don’t think they’re our woods,” I point out, once I have gotten my breath back. “Right? I don’t think where we were is Grandma and Grandpa’s land.”
“Whatever. God.” Gretchen’s face is red and splotchy, but on her it is somehow appealing. How does she do that?
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A HART
• You look pretty even after sprinting across a forest.
I am not sure how to talk to Gretchen right now. “Are you . . . mad?”
“Yes, I’m mad! The Bailey boys are such trash. I can’t believe they chased us. They know they’re not supposed to come near any of us. Grandma says so. She told them so.”
“Well, we were the ones messing around by their . . . whatever that was. That house.”
“Nah, that’s not the Baileys’. It’s just some house that’s been abandoned forever. We’re definitely not allowed to go there. I tried to stop you, but you wouldn’t listen.” Gretchen grins a little. “I didn’t think you’d be such a rebel.”
I have to write a story about this house, and the pirates, and everything. The words racing through my head aren’t big enough to describe what has happened.
Before today I didn’t know there was an abandoned old castle in a gray field, deep in the Everwood, but now it seems obvious it has always been there, hidden and waiting. For me.
I have to sit down with my notebook and think. I have to write it just the right way, pick my words carefully. The Everwood deserves to be written about like it is important.
My fingers itch for a pencil.
Some Kind of Happiness Page 3
