Dreamwood

by Heather Mackey

  “The gold was a trap,” she said, working it out in her head. “Able Dodd told me something just before we left: Take nothing that is not given. But my father already knew His-sey-ak set challenges in the forest, so he wouldn’t have been fooled by any gold.”

  “No, of course your father would have been too smart to fall for that.” Pete’s voice had an edge. He stopped walking, a bullish expression on his face.

  But who else would be here? Lucy circled around him, unable to stay still.

  “What if it was Niwa?” she said. “What if Niwa made it here after all and she found my father and now they’re both dead?!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Pete said. His reply was like a shove.

  But Lucy’s thoughts ran on in panic. For a moment she truly believed the bodies were those of Niwa and her father. This was more than reasonable, it was inevitable. “They’re dead because of me.” She turned to Pete, feeling her eyes brim with tears.

  “They wouldn’t be dead because of you,” he shot back. There were hollows under Pete’s cheeks she hadn’t noticed before, and he stood with his chest collapsed, like someone who’d lost hope. “It was my fault the river flooded. Because I was greedy. Is that what you want to tell me? Do you want to make me feel even worse?”

  “No.” She shrank back, surprised and a little afraid. She didn’t think of it like that at all. She watched him walking ahead: stoop-shouldered with guilt. With a sudden ache she thought of what he must be feeling.

  She ran after him. “Let’s stop,” she said. “It’s been an awful day. We should eat something and rest.”

  Pete didn’t answer. He slid down the trunk of a tree and sat with his head thrown back.

  “The river took my pack,” he said hopelessly.

  It took a moment until she understood; when she did it was like a punch in the gut. Pete had been carrying their food.

  “We’re surrounded by game. I could catch something easy.” He spread out his hands. “But . . . I don’t think it would be safe.”

  “So, there’s an easy solution,” Lucy said, determined to find a way out of their predicament. What they had was a set of conditions and constraints—a puzzle. All she had to do was figure out the answer. “We don’t eat anything we didn’t bring. What do we have left?”

  Pete held out a frayed piece of dried meat, sandy with pocket lint. “This.”

  One piece of jerky.

  An irritating voice in her head was saying they had failed and should go home now. They were doomed.

  We are not doomed, Lucy told the voice sternly.

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll see what I have in my pack.” She slung it to the ground and bent to look inside.

  She already knew she had very little. But she felt like crying when all she discovered was one hard little biscuit.

  Tightness gripped her chest. She looked up and saw two fat squirrels scamper up and down a kodok tree. They flicked their tails in her direction and one even threw a nut to the ground in front of her. She and Pete were going to starve in the middle of plenty.

  She plunged her hand into her pack again, rooting past Obwe’s flare and her ghost sweeper. And then her fingers closed over something rough and bristly.

  The thunderbird feather.

  Feeling drained out of her as if she’d sprung a leak. Turning her back so Pete couldn’t see, she took the feather out, running her fingers over the stubby quill.

  When she’d picked it up the only thing she’d thought about was how amazing it would be to bring back proof of what she’d seen. She’d thought of the interviews she might give and imagined meeting famous researchers: how grateful they’d be to her for this gift to science. All she’d wanted was a little attention.

  And all Pete had wanted was gold to save his family.

  She threw the hateful thing away from her, then covered her face.

  “What’s the matter?” Pete asked. He’d heard her gasp.

  Lucy turned around and sat down beside him. A tiny part of her had been proud she hadn’t succumbed to gold lust at the river. But she hadn’t passed the test after all.

  And now she had to admit it to Pete. “I picked up a thunderbird feather and put it in my pack to take back with me.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I made that river flood just as much as you.”

  Pete’s face softened and he let out his breath.

  His eyes lost their haunted look, and he gave her a soft, slow punch to the shoulder, something almost like a hug.

  “Aw, you’re just a little bit guilty,” he said. “You really think a ratty old feather—even if it is from an extinct bird—counts as much as a pack of gold?”

  “I don’t know.” It was funny, she’d never realized that it could feel good sometimes not to know the answer.

  “That’s right, you don’t know.” He grinned as if this were the best possible outcome. “So don’t go blaming yourself.”

  She nodded gratefully. For some reason, she felt tears pricking in the corners of her eyes.

  “We’ll be all right,” he said softly. Pete’s long legs were stretched out beside her shorter ones. The sun-warmed bark of the tree at their backs felt reassuring.

  Somehow, the feather made things right between them.

  “Thanks.” She sniffled just a bit and then recovered herself. “A person can go a long time without food,” she told him. “I read it in a book somewhere.”

  Pete had found new energy. He no longer slumped like he’d been beaten. “Weeks, I think. That’s what Pancake Walapush told me anyway. His granddad was some kind of medicine man who used to fast for a week and no harm done.”

  She looked at the biscuit she’d found. “Then this has got to last a while.”

  • • •

  They ate the biscuit. At first Lucy intended to eat just a few crumbs and save the rest of her half. But one tiny morsel was torture. Two weren’t much better. And soon she’d wolfed down the entire thing.

  Pete had done the same with his.

  So now they were down to one piece of jerky. Lucy wondered if stories she’d heard about pioneers eating their shoes were true. If so her moccasins would probably be a good deal tastier (and easier to chew) than Pete’s boots.

  Pete stood up and began to gather kodok needles together to make himself a bed; his bedroll had been swept away, too.

  They took their anti-dreaming drops as soon as the sky darkened. Pete lay down on the ground and heaped needles over himself. He looked like he was disappearing into the forest floor. As the moon rose, Lucy fought a nagging fear she’d wake up in the morning to find he’d been swallowed up whole. She kept looking at him, checking to make sure his head was still uncovered.

  Soon Pete’s breathing was deep and regular. He was asleep.

  But the moon kept Lucy awake. Something about its fat, self-satisfied face was infuriating. Why did it have to look so smug, just when things were going so wrong?

  She sat up in her bedroll and shivered against the cool night air. As she stared out at the inky forest, a light flickered in the distance. She held her breath and stared. It was the orange light—the same one they’d seen their first night after leaving Pentland.

  Her neck tingled. What was it doing here?

  Someone was following them. For a moment she had a wild hope it was her father. But that didn’t make sense—how could he be behind them?

  Whoever it was, they’d passed through the forest’s traps thus far. That meant they’d brought food. Lucy’s stomach gurgled, reminding her of their most pressing problem.

  Pete slept peacefully. In the moonlight his face was relaxed and innocent.

  “Pete,” she whispered.

  He didn’t wake up, though the nighttime stillness made her feel like she’d shouted.

  “Pete. Wake up!”

  His breath came in contented
rumbles. Lucy crawled over and pushed his shoulder. It was like trying to push a log. She shoved; he heaved and flopped, then snuggled farther down into his bed of kodok needles.

  This was getting annoying. She found Pete’s ear, hidden beneath a sheaf of hair. For a moment she felt strange touching him, but the feeling quickly passed and turned to satisfaction as she grabbed hold of his ear and twisted . . . hard.

  “Ow!”

  He sat up, rubbing the side of his head and looking hurt. “What’d you do that for?”

  Lucy’s knees were damp from kneeling on the forest floor. She stood up, brushing kodok needles from her legs. A few ragged patches of mist hung low to the ground like a trail of floating islands making a path between her and the mysterious orange glow.

  “The orange light is here.”

  “What?” Pete said groggily. He lumbered to his feet in a way that suggested a sleepwalking bear.

  Lucy took a few steps, stopping under a towering kodok. “The light we saw before. It’s here.”

  He stood beside her, smelling of mulch. “Jiminy,” he whispered.

  “We’ve got to find out who it is.”

  “Oh no we don’t.”

  “They could have food.”

  “Or they could take ours.”

  “Our one piece of jerky,” she scoffed.

  “That one piece is what’s going to keep us alive.” Pete was fully awake now; the sleepiness on his face had been replaced by suspicion.

  “Well, I’m going.” She knew Pete was probably right; they should be more cautious. But she was tired of questioning herself, of being uncertain. She wanted to go back to being the old Lucy, before the Thumb. That girl simply did things, without worrying about the consequences.

  “Lucy . . . ” Pete pleaded.

  She put on her moccasins, then started off into the woods in the direction of the twinkling orange light. The moon lit her way well enough, and she was careful to walk silently. Niwa would have been proud of her.

  Behind her she heard a dramatic sigh and then Pete’s footsteps, following her.

  • • •

  The orange light came from a phos globe. Lucy could see the glass orb—it was about the size of a grapefruit—as a man held it on his palm. Flames danced inside it.

  Once in her life she’d seen such a thing, in the grand mansion of a St. Louis steel magnate. A maid had slapped her hand when she’d tried to touch it. Only a few hundred existed, and the inventor who created them died without passing on his secrets. The flame in a phos globe never went out, nor did it transmit heat. You could carry one in your pocket and never worry about it burning you. Or you could toss it in the air—as the man was doing now, as if this very rare and expensive thing were nothing more than a toy.

  Pete crouched beside her, tense and wary. They had crept to the edge of a campsite. On the ground, sitting next to their bedrolls, were three more men.

  They were settlers, burly men with short hair and beards and flannel shirts rolled up over meaty arms. Why would they be following her and Pete?

  “It was the devil rigged that river to flood,” one of them said suddenly, as if reviving an argument from before. He was boulder-size with a blocky head and seemingly no neck. “It was the devil what killed them.”

  “Anyone you ask says this forest is cursed, yessir.” This man was anxious. In the faint light provided by the phos globe she could see someone small and wiry with a coxcomb of hair springing up from his scalp.

  “Bull pucky,” said a cantankerous country voice, punctuated by the wet sound of spitting. “It was their own fault. If Rambles and Charley had left the gold alone and run they’d be alive right now.”

  So that was one mystery solved. It was Rambles and Charley—whoever those poor men were—whose bodies they’d seen. Lucy turned to Pete. He was listening so intently it was as if he’d forgotten she was there. But as she planted her knees on the ground to get comfortable, he gave her a quick nod. They should stay and listen and find out just who these men were. For the men hadn’t figured out the river trap, but neither were they going mad from dreams—which meant they’d discovered at least some of the Thumb’s secrets.

  “No, it’s the devil,” the man without a neck said. He talked in a thick, stubborn way, and Lucy didn’t have to see his face to know he was as big and dumb as an ox. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and then it floods. That is the work of a Lupine devil. There’s only one thing to do with devils and that is burn them out. Burn them out completely.”

  “Can’t we have a fire?” said the anxious voice. “Your light is pretty enough but it doesn’t warm a body, and I’m sick of cold food.”

  “A fire,” said the cantankerous spitting man. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard. If we’re burning things up, let’s start right now, right here. I’d like a good bonfire myself.”

  “No fire,” the man with the globe said, knifing through the men’s grumbling. She’d heard that voice somewhere. Beside her, Pete stiffened—he knew the voice, too.

  It was Angus Murrain, she was sure of it. She got to her feet, ready to rush forward. But Pete grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. He raised a finger to his lips.

  Lucy didn’t understand why they should listen instead of announcing themselves, but she humored Pete and settled back into a crouch.

  “So you think there’s truth to the old tales?” asked the man with the reedy, fearful voice. “The forest here hates fire.”

  Angus answered wearily, “This forest is like any other. It’s just trees, Silas. And trees do not feel. I’ve cut down enough to know.”

  “But first Donner runs off mad in the night, then Rambles and Charley don’t even notice the water coming. That’s three men dead already,” said the fearful Silas. “It wouldn’t have happened in an ordinary forest.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s not ordinary—going without fire,” said the spitter. His was a grumbly voice, and Lucy thought if they did have a fire he’d complain of smoke or too much heat.

  “I won’t have a fire, Cranbull, and that’s that.” The timber baron was losing patience.

  “Because of what the girl told him,” Cranbull said in an aside, hocking spit again. “She told him about the hoodoo here, and part of it was no fire. So guess what, fellas, we’re taking orders from a girl.”

  “Her advice has kept us alive so far,” Angus said coolly. “I only hope we can find her in time.”

  Lucy held her breath. The girl. They had to be talking about her. And he was trying to find her . . . save her.

  She scrambled to her feet, no longer caring what Pete thought.

  The men startled at the sound and the timber baron called out, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Lucy,” she cried. “We’re here!” She ran forward, stumbling into the circle of men, who looked at her in surprise.

  And there stood Angus Murrain—his size and strength were comforting; he’d shelter her against this horrid forest.

  “Thank goodness we found you,” he said, crouching down to her level. Even in the dark, she felt reassured by his strong, handsome face. “You’re not hurt? Are you hungry?”

  She nodded emphatically. “I’m starving.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’re here,’” said Cranbull; the spitter was gruff and broad chested. “Who’s we?”

  That’s when Lucy realized Pete was still hiding in the shadows. Why was he hanging back? Lucy pulled away from the timber baron. “Pete,” she called. “Pete, come on.”

  She stared into the blackness of the woods, feeling a tickle of anxiety. Since the first night on the Thumb she could not escape the fear that the forest would swallow them.

  But after a moment Pete did come, kicking the tree roots, a sullen, closed look on his face. Lucy stared at him in confusion.

  For some reason he didn’t want to be rescue
d.

  • • •

  In the morning Lucy was thrilled to find corn cakes with jam for breakfast.

  She’d slept well and woke early. Pete was still not up; he lay in the abandon of heavy sleep. The blanket he’d been given last night was all bunched, one bare foot outstretched. A foot that was just asking to be tickled by a feather or leaf.

  But since last night—when she’d stepped forward and Pete lagged behind—something changed between them. She wondered if he would laugh if she tickled him, or if he would just give her the betrayed look she’d seen in his eyes when he’d watched her take a blanket from Angus. Now she left him and went to join the men.

  Anxious Silas had a weaselly face that went with his sharp, nervous voice. He wore a greasy leather vest, and his rooster’s crest of spiky red hair made him seem naturally combative. The man who’d talked of the devil was Jank, broad and slow, small-eyed, with a deep black beard that covered his curious lack of neck. He wore a red-and-white-checked shirt that gave him the appearance of a giant picnic cloth. Both watched her eat as if they thought she might steal from them.

  “No coffee,” Cranbull griped to her as she reached for another corn cake. He had been the one in favor of fire last night. In daylight, gray showed in his fuzzy muttonchop whiskers, which clung to a jowly bulldog face. He was stout, and his suspenders curved around his chest like stays on a barrel. “Because he says we can’t have a fire.” He glanced darkly over to where Angus sat, eating his breakfast and studying a piece of paper.

  When the timber baron saw them looking at him, he smiled at Lucy and waved her over. He cut a dashing figure, with his dark glossy curls spilling over the collar of his chambray shirt. He wore soft moleskin trousers and fine leather boots. A column of morning light fell on him just so, as if to underscore how lucky they were to have found him.

  “I realized as soon as you were gone that I never should have let you go by yourself,” he said, making room for her beside him. Lucy sat down, sitting cross-legged in her Lupine tunic and leggings. “I was beside myself. So I got a few men together to come find you.”