The boy tip-toed onto dry ground. He looked about ten, and he wore loose, grass-stained overalls. His face reminded Juniper of a pale full-moon, and his hair was dark and rich like forest soil. He slipped in easily with his surroundings, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to settle in among the trees. Before leaning his back against a younger cottonwood, he craned his neck and glanced around as if he was looking for someone.
Juniper smiled as an instrument appeared in his hands. It was made of wood and shaped like a tear, with a long neck and strings. It was worn well beyond his own years, and he held it with as much care as if it had been a delicate shiny beetle or lost puppy; things that were much more likely to be treasured by a young boy. He began to pluck the strings, weaving a lively tune that told the story of laughing children running alongside traveling caravans. The leaves shivered like the zils of tambourines as the notes danced among them. Then the song slowed. It became a haunting, sad melody that made Juniper’s heart feel swollen. She closed her eyes, drinking it in. When the music stopped, she sighed, forgetting herself.
The boy stirred, and Juniper jerked her eyes open. He’d heard her. What if he disappeared, and she never got to talk to him, or hear his music again?
He’d stood up, and was backing toward the water, his eyes darting as if searching for the hidden eavesdropper.
“Wait,” Juniper said.
He looked up.
Juniper raised up so she was sitting on the branch. The boy stared at her, his large eyes full of curiosity. But he didn’t disappear.
“Hi,” Juniper said.
“Hello.”
“What’s your name?” she felt more confident every second he didn’t dash away.
“Bo.”
“That’s all right for a name, isn’t it?” Juniper asked, smiling.
“Means settler. My mother gave it to me because we stayed. Who’re you?”
Juniper tightened her long brown pony tail then slowly clambered down the branches to the ground.
“I’m Juniper.” She stuck her hand out but the boy didn’t seem to notice, tucking his into his pockets instead as he looked around with suddenly troubled eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
He scratched his head. “I keep finding myself here. I like it, the water and all the trees. But every once in a while it hits me, the thing I came here to do. Then it just drifts away like smoke.” He squinted at her, raising his jaw sharply. “You think I’m crazy?”
She shook her head, fighting off the urge to laugh. That would make him mad for sure. It was just, who was she to call anyone crazy when she was talking to a ghost?
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
His face softened, as if he was relieved she wasn’t there to challenge him. “I’m looking for something.”
“What?”
He stiffened again. “It’s a—” He shook his head, looking frustrated before waving her off. “I have to go.”
“I’ll see you later,” she called hopefully.
He splashed into the pond, then paused to look back at her and nod before sinking below the water.
She stood motionless on the bank, her toes and fingertips tingling. She’d just spoken to a ghost. She couldn’t hold back the smile that stretched across her face. She knew she was breaking her dad’s biggest rule by being here, but she was beginning to feel like the pond was “her” place. True, she shivered when the heavy air carried the scent of Old Spice or Cinnamon. Whispers caressed the leaves at times, and occasionally a young boy emerged from the depths of the pond. She certainly wasn’t the only one laying claim to it, but she could make do with sharing the space. It was just as well. It wasn’t like she fit in all that well among the living.
The Stranger's Obituary Page 18
