“I think so,” he said.
They looked at each other.
“Is he turning into a giant?” said Firefly.
“I don’t know,” said Cricket. “Maybe.”
When the sun set that night, Vole lit a fire in the hearth, and Firefly and Cricket huddled next to it. The evening was crisp, and the leaves on the trees were turning to flame.
“Well?” said Vole.
“Well what?” said Firefly. “He went to school. If that’s what you mean.”
Vole leaned against the wooden table in the living room.
“He promised us he’d be back,” said Firefly.
“He didn’t, Firefly,” said Cricket. “Not really.”
The little creatures hunched sadly by the hearth. The firelight reflected off the hard shell of Cricket’s carapace and glinted off Firefly’s translucent wings. Vole looked over his furry shoulder at the paper boat on the wooden table.
“Vole, what’s a kindred spirit?” said Firefly.
Vole tied a figure eight—the last knot on the list of sailor’s knots—untied it, and tied it again before he spoke.
“A kindred spirit,” said Vole, “is someone who understands the deepest dream of your heart.”
Firefly floated along the ancient, brittle paper boat, brushing it lightly with one wing. Her deepest dream had been to fly to outer space, and Peter and Cricket and Vole understood this about her, didn’t they? Even if they thought her dream was a little crazy, they understood her.
Cricket munched on tubers and fried fish. A kindred spirit, he thought. His deepest dream had been to be the first cricket Yogi Berra. Peter and Firefly and Vole understood this about him. Even if they thought his dream was a little crazy, they understood him.
“I have three kindred spirits,” said Firefly.
“So do I,” said Cricket.
“You’re lucky, then,” said Vole. “Kindred spirits are hard to come by.”
“What about you, Vole?” said Cricket. “What’s the deepest dream of your heart?”
Vole sat back in his chair, his paws moving automatically on his sailor knots. Firefly floated back and forth above the paper boat. Hungry, Cricket hunched over a leaf full of diced cattail tubers, his jaws grinding up and down. Look at them, these two little creatures. Look at how they had left behind their nations, ventured forth in search of their dreams.
“My deepest dream,” said Vole, “is to carry out the destiny of the river vole. To sail down the river, to where the river meets the sea.”
He looked down at the length of rope in his lap. Square knot. Figure eight. Bowline. Anchor hitch. Clove hitch. Rolling hitch. There were no other knots left to learn, no other sailing diagrams or star constellations left to decipher. He’d memorized the River Vole’s Guide.
“But that’s an easy dream,” said Firefly. “Isn’t it?”
Was it? Vole looked around his living room and his tiny galley. The shining knives, the scrubbed cutting board, the gleaming windows that looked out onto the dark, tumbling water of the river and the far side of the woods, invisible now. Firefly hovered just above Cricket, who leaned against the paper boat on Vole’s dining table. If he left—if he actually did sail down the river, around the bend—he would miss these little creatures terribly.
He thought of the last night before last, when for the first time ever, he had cut the rope that bound the boat to the white birch and ventured away from the shore. Only to the middle of the river, where he dropped anchor, but still. He had felt the irresistible lure of the current beneath the boat, tugging him away from Firefly Hollow and everything he knew. Tugging him toward new places, places he had never seen. Tugging him toward adventure, and the life his ancestors had lived.
But his ancestors had not been alone. They had had one another. They had been an entire nation unto themselves. Vole looked at Firefly and Cricket, waiting for him to answer, and suddenly he spoke without thinking.
“You wouldn’t want to come with me, would you?”
Then he looked down, afraid of what they would say. In his lap was the figure eight, perfectly tied.
“I would,” said Firefly, and she did a flip.
“Me too,” said Cricket, and he leaped right over the paper boat. Then he leaped back over again. Vole’s heart filled with happiness.
“It’s far from here,” he cautioned them. “And I don’t know the way, exactly.”
“Neither do we,” said Firefly.
“It’ll be an adventure,” said Cricket.
Firefly hoisted herself into the air and darted back and forth in front of the fireplace. She zoomed out the deck door and hovered in the air by the clump of tiger lilies. Cricket leaped out onto the deck too. Together they looked toward the giants’ house. Peter was in there, asleep in his room. Were his blankets flung off? Were his hands clasped under his pillow?
“What do you think he’s dreaming about?” said Cricket.
Firefly zigged back and forth, trailing light. Maybe Peter was dreaming of the getaway raft. Maybe he was dreaming of school.
“Maybe he’s dreaming about us,” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WHERE THE RIVER MEETS THE SEA
In the living room, the paper boat glimmered in the firelight. Vole looked at it and made up his mind.
“Cricket and Firefly, I need your help,” he said. “Before we leave, I’m going to leave the boat at the giants’ house.”
“But why?” said Cricket. “It’s your treasure.”
“It was. But I don’t need it anymore.”
He untied the rope bridge and tossed it expertly into the darkness. He had done it so many times that he knew exactly where the broken-off branch of the white birch was. The last rung of the bridge landed over it with a soft whoosh. Vole nudged the paper boat off the table and over to the bridge and watched as it tumbled awkwardly down to the ground.
Cricket and Firefly’s dark eyes glowed in the night. Vole was bigger than the boat, but not by much. Firefly trailed along in the air just above him and Cricket leaped behind, both of them calling encouragement. It took all of Vole’s considerable river vole strength to keep the boat moving, but he rolled and nudged it along with his paws.
In the darkness they made their way, by fits and starts and with breaks so that Vole could catch his breath, to the front porch of the giants’ house.
“Step one,” counted Cricket, as Vole heaved the heavy boat up the first step.
Firefly, her wings flapping, put her head underneath the bow and pushed as hard as she could, for moral support as much as anything else. Cricket braced all six legs and pushed up with his carapace.
“Step two,” he panted.
Vole placed both paws on the boat and exerted all his strength for the last step.
“And . . . three!” said Cricket. “Done!”
They all stopped to catch their breath. Then Vole maneuvered the boat across the wide planks of the porch—a much easier task than shoving it up the steps—and set it on the welcome mat.
“A little more that way,” said Cricket, “so that the door doesn’t hit it when it opens.”
When the boat was in just the right place, Vole brushed off his paws and leaned against the porch post.
“Vole?” said Firefly. “Tell us the truth. Will Peter really forget about us someday?”
“Boys grow into giants,” said Vole.
That was all he said. But it was the same thing that the elders had been saying all along, and Cricket and Firefly heard something in his voice, something true.
Cricket looked at the paper boat. There was something else he needed to know.
“Vole,” he said. “Who was the boy who gave you the paper boat?”
“David,” said Vole. “His name was David.”
At that, Firefly slowed until she was a flicker of light in the dark air.
“But that’s the father giant’s name,” said Firefly.
“I know,” said Vole.
Cricket
and Firefly were silent. This was a lot to think about, and when Vole turned back to the shore, they followed him. Then there came a sound from the giants’ house, the sound of a window being pushed up. Peter’s voice was faint but clear across the stretch of shore and path that separated his room from the little creatures on the beach.
“Firefly! Cricket! What are you doing?”
At the sound of his voice, Firefly and Cricket were off, leaping and flying back to the giants’ house. Then Peter was at the kitchen window, the window where they had spent so many mornings waiting for him to emerge. He pushed up the screen and leaned out.
“What are you doing?” he said again.
Then, “Are you going away?”
They didn’t say anything at first. Then Firefly nodded.
“We’re going on an adventure,” she said.
“Down the river,” said Cricket.
“With Vole?” said the boy. “On the boat?”
“Yes.”
Peter leaned out, looking at them. Wonder and confusion passed across his face.
“But I—I wouldn’t fit,” he said. “I can’t go with you.”
“We know,” said Cricket.
“You can go to school, though,” said Firefly. “And we can’t.”
“And you can play catch with Jack,” said Cricket. “Real catch. Giant catch. And I can’t.”
“But what will I do without you?”
Cricket and Firefly didn’t know what to say. The boy would be safe and warm inside his house, and inside the walls of his school. He would be with his new friend, the boy named Jack.
“Can’t you wait for me?” said the boy. “Please?”
Again they said nothing. Then Firefly began to sing.
“Take me out to the river
Take me out to the sea.
Build me a raft and a mast and a sail
I don’t care if I never get back.”
She floated back and forth in the air, singing. Vole, who was down at the boat rolling up the twig bridge in preparation for cast-off, stood still and listened.
“I wish we could wait,” said Cricket.
“But it’s getting too cold,” said Firefly, “and we have to go.”
Vole leaned out over the rushing water.
“Ready?” he called.
He untied the mooring rope and half hauled up the anchor with a mighty heave. The boat bobbed out from the safety of the overhanging tiger lilies, anxious to join the current flowing south. Peter pressed his hands against the wire mesh of the window screen. Firefly brushed her wings against one hand. Cricket leaped up, one last time, and touched a wing to Peter’s other hand.
Then they turned and made their way back to the shore, where Vole was waiting for them on the boat. The sun was just beginning to rise above the pine woods.
Maybe there would be crickets all along the journey, thought Cricket. Maybe the music of the southern crickets would be different, and beautiful. And before he lost his courage, he made a mighty leap onto the deck of the boat next to Vole.
Firefly flipped on her back and swept her gaze over the high heavens. Somewhere up there, invisible in the day, was Elder. I’ll be watching over you, he had said. A wave of love poured through her. She swooped out over the river, and then she swooped back and hovered above Cricket on the deck.
The boat swayed into the middle of the river, as if it were dancing with the water. When in doubt, use a bowline, Vole recited to himself, his paws on the rudder. He needed to remember all the river vole lore in order to keep them safe.
“Cricket! Firefly!”
The little creatures both turned to the giants’ house, where Peter now stood on the porch, the paper boat cradled in his hands, watching them. He cupped both hands around his mouth.
“Don’t forget me,” he called.
“We won’t,” called Firefly and Cricket together.
The sails puffed out white and full, and the boat began to pick up speed. Vole tugged the brim of his fishing cap lower against the breeze, and Cricket settled himself on a pile of rope and held on tight. Firefly let the wind blow her back and forth. Maybe, in the warm air currents of the south, she could learn some new aerial maneuvers, astonishing formations to teach the fireflies when they woke from their long sleep next spring. Maybe the great waters beyond, where the river met the sea, would sparkle with new fish, beautiful fish unfamiliar to Vole.
Maybe, thought Cricket, I could find some treasure downstream to bring back for Gloria.
The current was swift out in the middle of the river. From far upstream, the wind carried Peter’s voice to them.
“Please,” he called. “Please don’t forget me.”
“Never,” called Firefly.
“Ever,” echoed Cricket.
But they were too far away now, and their voices too small, for Peter to hear them. So Firefly did a loop-de-loop, and Cricket raised a wing, and then they waved and waved to the boy—to their boy—until the boat, with Vole at the helm, sailed around the bend and out of sight.
ALISON McGHEE is the New York Times bestselling author of Someday, Little Boy, and So Many Days. She is also the award-winning novelist of the adult novels Was It Beautiful?, Rainlight, and Shadow Baby. She divides her time between Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Vermont. Visit her at alisonmcghee.com.
CHRISTOPHER DENISE is an award-winning children’s book illustrator and visual development artist. He lives with his family in Rhode Island. Visit him at christopherdenise.com.
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ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS • An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division • 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 • www.SimonandSchuster.com • This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. • Text copyright © 2015 by Alison McGhee • Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Christopher Denise • All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. • ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • Atheneum logo is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected]. • The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. • Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian • The text for this book is set in Horley Old Style and Aged. • 0615 SCP • First Edition • Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data • McGhee, Alison, 1960– • Firefly hollow / Alison McGhee ; illustrated by Christopher Denise.—1st ed. • p. cm. • Summary: Because their dreams of daring adventures go against the cautious teachings of their nations, Firefly and Cricket set out on their own, find a home with kindly Vole, and together help a grieving “miniature giant” named Peter. • ISBN 978-1-4424-2336-7 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-4424-9812-9 (eBook) • [1. Fireflies—Fiction. 2. Crickets—Fiction. 3. Voles—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Adv
enture and adventurers—Fiction. 6. Grief—Fiction.] I. Denise, Christopher, ill. II. Title. • PZ7.M4784675Fir 2014 • [Fic]—dc23 • 2013004705
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