Wilde's Fire

by Krystal Wade

  “This way,” Brit calls. She leads us off the trail to one of her favorite spots in the forest: a patch of ground where no trees grow.

  A group of gray boulders rests in the middle of the opening. The sun beams down upon them, making the perfect spot for Brit to tan while listening to her iPod. I used to bring along some of my favorite books. Many times, we’d spend an entire day here.

  “We found this place when we were searching for you ten years ago. Now, it’s our favorite hideaway,” I explain to Brad.

  “Didn’t your parents worry about you?”

  “It’s not like we were going to get lost,” Brit says, her voice a little too harsh.

  I shoot her a look.

  She puts her hands in front of her. “Sorry.”

  After sharing some granola bars on the rocks, we walk back to the trail to continue our descent. As the day progresses, the air becomes hot. The heat lingers on my skin, making my thoughts dwell on the river and how refreshing crossing it will be.

  The dry air flowing in and out of my mouth makes me long for a drink. I pause to take a sip of water.

  A bright, yellow light darts between the trees.

  I point into the woods. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” they ask in unison.

  “Nothing. It must have been my imagination.” I am speaking more to myself than to them, but as soon as I say the words, the light darts through the trees again. Having had enough weirdness for one trip, I keep walking and ignore whatever trick my mind is playing.

  We proceed down the trail for a few more miles. The farther we travel, the louder the sounds of water flowing over rocks become.

  Brit and I exchange glances.

  “Keep up,” I yell over my shoulder to Brad.

  Our feet pound the earth as we run down the trail. Twigs and rocks crunch under our shoes. We reach the river; it’s not anything spectacular this high up, but it’s still exciting to have reached it. The water trickles over the stones. Little pools have formed, creating a home in which tiny mosquitofish swim.

  Brit wanders off into the woods, while Brad and I take a break. We are alone, sitting on a huge river rock.

  He dunks a stick in the small pool below his feet, attempting to drown an evasive water strider. “Are you glad we came yet?”

  “No,” I say, grinning from ear to ear. I am of course having fun, even though I’m concerned about the strange events.

  Brad pulls me into his shoulder. “I am.”

  It’s unusual for him to be touchy-feely. Something is definitely bothering him. I’ve suspected it since we were in the Jeep yesterday.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “I’m great.” Brad’s voice is nervous, shaky.

  I lift my head from his shoulder and look him straight in the eyes, begging him to tell me the truth. His baby blues look like they are dying to share some deep, inner secret with me, but he laughs and pulls me back into him. My ear rests over his heart; the rapid beating indicates he’s lying.

  Brad’s always been able to share things with me, but I decide not to push him. Whatever he’s hiding, he will tell me in his own time. I’m uneasy that he and Brit each have things they want to tell me, but for some reason, not in front of each other.

  “I found it!” Brit yells. She trips and falls over the dense undergrowth along the tree line, but remains smiling when she stands back up.

  “What?” I ask, lifting my head from Brad’s chest, waiting for Brit to come over to us.

  He continues stabbing his stick at the bug.

  “You remember that time we brought Uncle John and his girlfriend Cindy out here with us?” Brit asks.

  I nod.

  She pulls a dirt-encrusted bottle from behind her back. “Well, I stole this bottle of rum from them and buried it … with a little help from a stick.” She’s proud of herself—I haven’t seen her look this giddy in months.

  “You didn’t?” They were such alcoholics. Gary was furious with how much they drank around us.

  “It was Gary’s idea for me to steal it and bury it. Well, actually, he told me to pour it out and hide the bottle, but I thought it might come in handy one day. And here we are … in need of something fun to do!” Her huge grin makes her look so young, too young to be holding up a bottle of rum. Of course, we are too young.

  We’ve had our fair share of beers throughout our teenage years. At college, Brad and I are more exposed to alcohol, but I’ve never liked the way it makes me feel. I’ve seen people do way too many stupid things to ever become a drunk myself.

  Appalled, I eye the nasty bottle. “You aren’t honestly going to drink that, are you?”

  “Not just me. You, me, and Brad!” Brit says, pointing to each of us.

  I sigh. “Let’s get to the next campsite before we do anything illegal.”

  Brad stands up. He leaps across the rocks to the other side of the riverbank, looking excited at the prospect of getting wasted. At parties, usually Brad convinced me to lighten up and have a beer or two. I’m not used to seeing him this enthusiastic about drinking, though.

  Brit leads our trio of future alcoholics to our next stop, following the river the entire way. The trail is a constant up- and downhill battle. In the heat of the full afternoon sun, I’m sure we’re all ready to get into the water.

  She turns right, off the main trail. The last obstacle before our “reserved” campsite is right in front of us: Moormans River. The sun sparkles on the surface, begging us to get in the river, but the waters are deeper and rush much faster here than where we crossed upstream. We have to be careful, or we’re liable to go for a crash ride into some rocks.

  I’m in awe of the river’s beauty. Watching the water, I try to gauge how hard a crossing we’ll have. “I’ll go first.”

  No one protests; they both know I’m the strongest swimmer.

  Sliding my pack from my back, then holding it over my head, I walk in, taking each step with caution. The water is up to my calves, and so refreshing to my hot, sticky skin I want to jump in and soak the rest of my body, but I know better and move forward at a slow pace. At its deepest point, the water reaches my upper thighs. The rapids can still knock us down, but they aren’t overpowering.

  I wave my hand, indicating to the others they can follow me.

  Brit enters first, then Brad.

  While waiting for them on the other side, I see someone, who looks like he’s in a ranger uniform, step off the trail. I motion for Brit and Brad to hurry across.

  Brit looks behind her. When she sees the person, she grabs Brad’s hand and urges him to wade faster.

  They make their way out as quietly as possible; then, we duck behind some bushes along the bank. We can get in trouble if a ranger finds us out here, especially if he finds us with a bottle of liquor we’re all still too young to buy. Someone other than a ranger walking along the trail wouldn’t know we’re doing anything wrong, but we don’t want anyone to find our secret spot, either.

  On the last half-mile stint before we reach our campsite, we laugh about being on the wrong side of the law. I lace my arms with Brit’s and Brad’s; my qualms from yesterday—about coming without Mom and Gary—all wash away.

  “We’re here,” Brit says in a singsong voice.

  Brad’s eyes widen. “This isn’t what I was expecting at all.”

  “What was it you were expecting?” she asks.

  He spins around, arms out. “Nothing this amazing.”

  Brad must be thrilled he made it passed Goat Ridge without getting lost.

  After all the years of listening to our stories, he can see for himself how magical our spot is. The lush, green grasses are so soft that we take our shoes off and walk around barefoot. Sprinkled all throughout the meadow are little white and purple wildflowers. Twelve wickedly shaped chestnut trees encircle the grassy area, creating an overhang so thick, the temperature must drop by five or ten degrees once we enter.

  Brad picks two purple flowers and g
ives one to each of us.

  “Thank you for escorting me out here, m’ladies,” he says, with a formal bow.

  Brit and I laugh and tuck the flowers behind our ears.

  “You’re quite welcome, sir,” I say.

  By the time we set up the tent and have a small fire built, the sun is saying its final farewell for the day, painting the clouds with magenta and lavender tones. We take the time to eat more of Mom’s sandwiches before we set our sights on drinking the rum.

  Brit pulls three sodas from her pack with a devilish smile. I shake my head. I love my sister. She planned to dig up this old bottle from the minute Mom and Gary said they weren’t coming.

  Brit hands us each a soda can that has bounced around in her pack all day. We crack open the sodas all at once; warm spray shoots in our faces. I pour a little out, then add a tiny bit of rum before passing it to Brad.

  He leans over and adds more to mine, then doubles the amount in his own.

  “You aren’t getting off that easy,” Brad says.

  Brit laughs while pouring rum in her can, then takes a swig from the bottle before she replaces the cap.

  My mouth hangs open in mock horror at what she’s doing.

  “That’s it … I’m transferring closer to home. You need a baby-sitter. What on earth happened to you this year?” My sarcastic sister and our late night video chats about school and boys are what got me through my first year at Virginia Tech, but this side of her I don’t recognize.

  Brit rolls her eyes. “Don’t be crazy. I’m just messing with you. Besides, I’ll be with you next year.”

  “Thank God.”

  We sip our tainted sodas, the rum burning my throat on its way down to my stomach. I set the can aside after a few gulps and watch the sky as the stars begin to shine on the other side of the river. Brit babbles on about how excited she is to join us at Tech in the fall, while Brad and I nod and agree with her at the right times.

  The rum makes me tired; not tipsy … just tired. I lie on my back, staring up at the trees, while Brad and Brit share drinking stories. The firelight dances off the leaves with colors so amazing, I must be hallucinating. Maybe the alcohol is affecting me.

  The yellow light I saw earlier in the woods flashes again. It doesn’t shock me, but I don’t dare mention anything to the others. They’ll surely laugh and tell me I’m drunk. Instead, I watch the peaceful light. It makes me feel happy, although there’s no explanation as to why.

  Brad plops down next to me on the sleeping bag.

  The light darts off toward the river.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?” he slurs. Obviously, Brad’s finished his drink, and then some.

  “Just the trees.” I sit up.

  Brit is missing.

  The fire has died down; only a few embers remain.

  “Where’s Brit?”

  “She went to the tent a while ago.” His words come out in one long string.

  I didn’t even notice, weird. How long have I been lying here? “Are you ready to go to bed, too?”

  Brad nods.

  He gets up on his own, but I have to help him walk back to the tent. To support his drunken weight, Brad keeps his arm draped around my shoulders.

  “I love you,” he says, like an alley cat crying in the rain.

  “Of course you do. You’re drunk.” I laugh at him, but he looks at me with confusion written all over his face. “You’ll be okay once you sleep it off.”

  Brad slides from my shoulder, lands on his sleeping bag, and falls right to sleep.

  I curl into a ball and stare at the top of the tent, pondering his words. There’s no way he means he loves me, does he? The thought is so ridiculous. Sure, we’ve talked a thousand times about how we’re happy to be each other’s friend—without having to worry about relationship ups and down—but he’s never shown an interest in me. In all honesty, I’ve always thought he might be a good match for Brit. The two of them can talk and laugh for hours about some of the most mundane things, but I cannot imagine he likes me romantically.

  Determining his words are nothing more than the ramblings of a drunken guy, I fall asleep.

  Chapter Three

  My mind races through dreams, not pausing on any long enough for me to understand the scenes playing out, but none of them are nightmares. What wakes me now is the weight of two arms slung over my back. I feel smothered.

  Struggling to turn over, I give up. My eyes pop open. I slide Brad and Brit’s arms from me, then sneak out of the tent.

  Outside, everything is dark and still. Other than the sound of the river flowing, there are no noticeable noises. Looking for a place to sit alone, I walk toward the water. A fallen pine tree resting along the bank makes a perfect seat.

  There’s a wet chill to the night. Wrapping my arms around my knees to keep myself warm, I close my eyes, take a deep breath of the fresh air, and clear my thoughts, allowing the tranquil mountains to refresh my soul. When I open them again, the yellow light dances over the water. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going crazy. Passing out, seeing yellow lights, Brad telling me he loves me—none of these things are really happening. Maybe I hit my head yesterday and gave myself a concussion?

  The longer I think about my level of sanity, the closer the light draws to me, until I’m surrounded. Pulsing more intensely, the brightness entices me to get to my feet. I’m ready to go back to the tent, but something deep inside says I should follow the yellow nuisance.

  Ignoring the danger of walking away from camp, in the dark and by myself, I do exactly that.

  The light remains ahead of me as I walk through a familiar part of the forest. Every now and then, I turn, prepared to give up and head back, thinking I have gone too far, but the curious part of me wills my feet to continue following the light.

  After floating along the trail for quite some time, the light stops at my favorite swimming spot: Snake Hole. A few years ago, one of the harmless serpents bit Brit. The creepy thing must have slithered into her shorts on the bank while we swam. When she picked them up to get dressed, the snake bit her hand. Brit dropped her clothes and went screaming back to camp, bleeding like a stuck pig the entire way. I gathered her things and brought them back to her. The bite hasn’t stopped my sister from returning. The water is too perfect and calm to stay away on hot summer days. But, now, she always pokes her clothes with a long stick before picking them up.

  The light pulsates with energy, drawing me back from my memories of Brit.

  “What is it you brought me out here for?” I ask, confirming I have gone crazy.

  As if in direct response to my question, the light swirls around me faster and faster, then dives straight down into the water. Fish and turtles scatter away in frenzy, avoiding the light as it plunges to the bottom.

  “Oh, no! I might be crazy for following a light into the darkness, but I am not jumping into the water at night and by myself!” I turn on my toes and march straight back to camp.

  What was I thinking? I followed a yellow light through the forest at night with no flashlight. The path was bright before, but walking back, I cannot see anything.

  My thoughts turn to Brad as a little boy, alone and scared, lost out here in the woods. At least he’d had enough sense to get lost in the middle of the day; but here I am, in the black night, knowing the exact place I stand, but even I feel cut off from civilization.

  The river guides me; my knowledge of the trail steers my feet clear of anything that might make me fall. The return hike is painstaking in the dark. Turning off the path, I arrive back at camp almost an hour later. I half expect to see Brit waiting for me with her hands on her hips—furious I wandered off without her—but everything is as dark and still as before I left. I crawl into the tent, praying I’m undetected, and close my eyes, prepared to sleep away the nagging curiosity of what the yellow light is.

  “Where were you?” Brit whispers.

  So much for my future as a spy.

  “I just went for a walk.” Th
e walk part is true; I leave out the minor detail about the strange light.

  “I thought you saw something outside the tent, the way you were shining your flashlight around.”

  “I wasn’t shining my flashlight near the tent.” I’d smack my forehead, but that would draw more attention to my stupidity. How am I going to explain this to her?

  Sitting up, Brit brings the sleeping bag around her head, like I told her there was a murderer standing just beyond the tent, waiting to kill us the second we realized he was here.

  “Relax. There’s some logical explanation for what you saw. It’s either the rum, some random hikers walking by, or—” Or what? She must have seen the same light that’s harassed me all afternoon. I know my next question will raise a lot more if the answer is not what I expect, but I am compelled to ask. “What color was the light?”

  “Yellow,” Brit says, still hiding under the sleeping bag.

  “Yellow?” I hear the caution in my voice; I hope she can’t.

  “Yeah, just like the color of the light you took with you down the swimming hole trail.”

  A shiver runs through me, my heart pounds, and my hands turn clammy, but I try to maintain a calm façade for my sister. She saw the light!

  Maybe I’m not crazy, after all, but what does all of this mean? Should I tell her about the light, and how it coerced me to follow the trail? Tell her how the light dove into the water? Will she go check out the swimming hole with me? All these thoughts speed through my mind in an instant.

  Brit nudges my shoulder. “Kate?”

  “Sorry,” I say, giving myself a mental shake. “Come outside with me?”

  I grab an actual flashlight, and we step outside the tent. Leading Brit over to the bank, I sit her down on the pine tree by the river, then take a seat next to her. “You can’t tell Brad.”

  Brad would never believe us. If we tell him, he’ll think we’re playing a joke on him. He doesn’t believe in the supernatural stuff—and before tonight, I might have sided with him. Unless he sees something himself, it didn’t happen.