The timber baron frowned. He’d caught his breath, but showed no signs of wanting to move on from where they stood on the steep slope. “Not that I know. He was worried about how he would pay the next year.”
Lucy stared fixedly at the bracken on the ground. The letter she’d kept in her pocket, his promise to send for her—that was all a lie?
“He talked about you,” Angus told her, while she grappled silently with her feelings. “Said you had a fine mind, were quick witted, and brave—all things I can see quite easily for myself.”
These were exactly the things Lucy had always wanted to hear about herself. But she didn’t want to hear them with the rest of what Angus was saying.
“He also said you were getting to the age when a young lady’s reputation mattered. How did he put it?” Angus searched the trees as if hoping they might remind him of the exact phrasing her father had used. “He wanted to protect you from the ‘taint of his association.’ He was sure that in time you would come to see that it was for the best.”
Lucy didn’t know what to say. He’d wanted her to stay at Miss Bentley’s, a place she’d despised. That’s what he’d wanted her to turn into? And he thought she’d think it was for the best? There was a lump in her throat as big as an egg, and her eyes stung with tears.
Angus sighed. “Of course he only did that because he cared for you.”
That wasn’t true at all, Lucy thought bitterly. If he’d cared for her he would have kept her with him. She thought of Governor Arekwoy sending his raven men after Niwa, unable to let her go. Niwa’s father intended to have her take over for him one day. Whereas her own father had simply cast her away—caring more about spirits than his own flesh and blood.
She was biting the inside of her cheek so hard the copper salt on her tongue made her realize she was bleeding.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” the timber baron said. He squatted down to be closer to her level. His deep brown eyes stared into hers with concern. She tried to turn her face away, but he tsk’d and cupped her face in his hand.
“There, there, Lucy.” He brought out a fine cotton handkerchief, monogrammed with an M. “Maybe your father did you a favor. Have you thought of that?”
A favor helped somebody, so she shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“You’re free to make new friends.” He smiled gently at her. “Friends who care about you and see your qualities. Who appreciate you and think you’re special.”
If she spoke she would cry, and she wasn’t going to blubber in front of Angus. She had thought her father did think of her that way. He’d praised her for knowing the answers to the questions he asked; he quizzed her about matter and physics and ghosts. And she’d misinterpreted it all, thinking that because she knew the right answers she was part of what he did. But, no, he simply wanted to pack her off somewhere out of sight while he continued his work—not their work, as she’d once thought. Just his.
How she wanted to go home. But she had no home. There was no place for her.
Angus stood watching her, waiting for her to speak. She sniffed once and handed back his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, making sure her voice didn’t tremble.
“Keep it,” he told her as if he were made of pocket handkerchiefs. “I think you’ll do better now. We’re partners, aren’t we, Lucy?”
She nodded. She remembered how excited she’d felt when they’d shaken hands in Gordon’s study. The memory seemed like something from a long-ago, uncomplicated time.
“And we’ll find the dreamwood together, yes?”
“Yes,” she said woodenly.
“I do need your help,” he said. “You see how Cranbull and the others are practically useless. They don’t have the head for this sort of thing. I can’t imagine what your father was thinking not bringing you when you’ve got all the training, and you know how to use the tools.”
Lucy scuffed the ground. “I guess he just wanted me to stay behind and be normal. Though I don’t see how I would become a scientist if I stayed back there.”
Angus put his hands in his back pockets. “There are other ways of being what you want to be,” he said knowledgeably. “You can still be a scientist, for instance, but why muck around with ghosts? You’re a smart girl. Why not be scientific and successful? You can be successful, you know—it does not mean you have to be dull. You could never be that.”
She pressed her lips together; it was not a smile, but the grimace of someone trying to convince themselves they were not about to cry.
“Goodness, your eyes are so big, you look like a hungry kitten.” Angus patted the pockets of his moleskin trousers. He bent down and confided to her, “I do have some toffees I’ve been keeping to myself. Here’s one for you, but don’t tell your surly friend. Can you keep it a secret from the others?”
Lucy nodded and clasped the candy in her hand. She supposed it was better to know the truth. And though she was not glad Angus had told her these things, the truth made her feel somehow older and more grown up. For the best, her father had said. It’s for the best.
And this must be another part of growing up; for the first time in her life she did not feel like eating candy. But she popped the toffee into her mouth anyway and felt the sugar crackle against her teeth without tasting any sweetness.
• • •
They reached a lookout point, but Lucy didn’t even notice the view. She felt like a sleepwalker, cut off from the world and trapped in some private despair. She raised her eyes only when she heard Angus swear.
“What are those idiots doing? I’ve told them, no fires.”
Lucy felt her heart stumble as she saw what he was looking at: a thin plume of gray smoke rising into the sky. Without a word she started running back the way they’d come.
Please don’t let it be Pete, she thought as she careened down the hillside. Any minute she expected to hear a tree fall or see a boulder smashing by.
But the woods were quiet—frighteningly so. A feeling of watchful menace grew so intense that by the time she’d made it back to where she’d last seen the others she was no longer running, but creeping stealthily.
And then she saw that things were much worse than a fire.
For there was Cranbull, squatting on his haunches by the small blaze, turning a small animal on a spit. He had killed something.
They were going to die—that was her thought as she flew in front of him screeching, “Put it out. Put it out now!”
“Hold on.” Cranbull grabbed her hands, so she tried to kick dirt onto the flames. “What are you thinking?” he said angrily. “You’re getting dirt on my supper!”
He caught her and lifted her off the ground, so she could only hammer at his shins with her moccasins. For the first time she wished she still had her boots on; maybe then he’d have let her go.
And where was Pete? Was he all right? She twisted against Cranbull’s thick, crushing arms.
Angus came striding toward the fire. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Cranbull, put her down.”
Cranbull dropped her as if she were a sack and Lucy struggled to her feet.
“He caught something.” Lucy trembled as she pointed a finger at him. “You were cooking it.”
“I got tired of the provisions,” Cranbull said, narrowing his puffy eyes. “And the rabbits here will walk right up and put their head in the noose for you.”
Lucy kicked dirt on the fire again. “You could get us all killed!”
“Now stop that,” Cranbull said petulantly. “You’re ruining a good rabbit.”
“Go ahead, eat it,” Lucy shot at him. “You’ll be sorry.”
The timber baron crossed his arms. “Where are the others?” he asked Cranbull.
Lucy scanned the forest, feeling she would burst out of her skin. “Where’s Pete?”
“I don’t know,” Cranbull grumbled, pulling on his suspenders. “The kid said something about looking for higher ground while you two confabulated. They went that way. Should have been back by now, unless something happened to them.” He sounded almost hopeful.
“Jank! Silas,” Angus called. “Get back here!” His voice fell as if he’d tried to shout through a padded wall. To Lucy it felt like the whole forest were watching them.
Cranbull bent to his rabbit and tried to clean the dirt off it. Lucy watched him in amazement. Surely he felt it, too? Any minute now he was going to die.
“Quit staring at me,” he growled at her. “Or I’ll take a switch to you.”
There was rustling in the undergrowth behind her and Lucy jumped.
But it was only Pete and the others coming back. “What’s going on?” Pete asked as he and Silas and Jank came into view. “Everything’s gone dead quiet and we smelled smoke.” He saw Cranbull and the fire and he stiffened. “Now we’re done for.”
“Be quiet, boy,” Cranbull said. “You and the girl are starting to get on my nerves.”
But he didn’t need to warn them to be quiet. No one felt like talking.
“We should move on,” Angus said. He gazed around at the trees as if they displeased him. “I don’t like the feel of this place.”
Cranbull took a last, defiant mouthful of his meal and then fell in behind the others.
For Lucy, the next few hours were torture. Her conversation with Angus Murrain left her feeling broken. She did not want to walk with him; even the sight of him was enough to bring back every painful revelation about her father. Pete was still angry with her. And Cranbull was a dead man. She couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been punished yet—perhaps His-sey-ak was toying with him first. The forest had never felt so watchful or malevolent.
Lucy fell farther and farther behind until finally she was behind even Jank, who preferred being last so he could guard their backs from devils. She could see his picnic-cloth shirt through the trees.
They were moving through a stretch of forest thick with dreary hemlocks when it happened. The light had turned, evening was still hours away, but she felt it waiting in the wings. Her nerves were frayed to nothing, her shoulders tight around her neck like a cowl.
She heard a sudden burst of birdsong, loud and jeering, and she stopped abruptly, staring wildly into the bracken.
But nothing appeared. And after a moment she started walking again, afraid of being left behind. Jank’s broad back was already yards ahead.
They kept walking.
The sun, which had been hovering above the treetops, began to descend, urging on shadows. A nameless dread settled over Lucy.
Even Cranbull appeared to sense it. He took on the hunched, nervous look of a marked man, and he no longer had the confidence to spit.
Shadows reached out toward them like grasping fingers, and the feeling of being watched became excruciating. But no matter where she turned, she could see no sign that they were being followed. She felt it, though.
Angus had slowed his pace. They were barely walking, each of them trying to make as little noise as possible. The air had turned thick as molasses. It took effort to keep going forward and not simply stop and give herself over to fear.
They reached a streambed where the ground was soft and loamy. Even the water seemed to make no noise. The banks on the other side were a temple of wood and darkness. Angus crossed first, then the others in single file, disappearing through the trees.
Lucy had just leapt across the stream when the ferns ahead of her waved and shuddered.
She heard a soft rumble of breath. Lucy turned, feeling time slow down. A giant mountain lion emerged, padding on silent feet, its golden eyes glowing like a demon’s in the gathering twilight. This was what had been hunting Cranbull all afternoon, the presence they’d felt but hadn’t seen. It passed her by with a silent snarl of warning, long teeth shining like blades. Its whiskers bristled like wires.
And then suddenly time sped up. Lucy had a sense of fur, muscle, blinding speed.
She screamed to alert the others but it was too late. The beast was already in midair.
“Help!” Cranbull managed to say once, before he was seized in the big cat’s jaws.
Lucy clapped her hands over her mouth in horror as she watched Cranbull being shaken like a rag doll. Then the cat bounded away, still carrying him.
They could hear Cranbull’s screams echoing through the woods, and then, abruptly, they stopped.
That evening, after they’d made camp, Angus gave them what Lucy supposed was meant to be a cheering-up speech. Only no one was particularly cheered.
“We can’t panic,” Angus told them. “Yes, we’ve had some bad luck, but we knew that coming here would be risky. Let’s all remain calm.”
“Four men dead now,” Silas said. He paced back and forth as if electricity ran through him. “Four men gone and we’re supposed to remain calm. How can we do that when we’re all wondering who’s next?”
Lucy looked over at Pete. He’d laid out his blanket on the other side of the circle, as far away from her as possible. More than anything she wanted to bury her face in his shoulder, as if his rumpled shirt could muffle the screams she still heard in her head. But he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her.
Jank, sunk into a slow-burning anger, leaned against a tree and watched the other two men without joining in. His dark beard spread like an ink blot over his face. He made Lucy think of the coals at the bottom of a fire. Every now and then he would send up some spark of outrage—“We’re doomed!” he would announce, or, “There’s evil in the forest. Can you feel it? I can.”—then sputter out, glowering silently by himself.
“The devil killed him,” said Jank, sparking now. “Killed him for spitting that rabbit and making a fire.”
“Oh, shut up,” Silas said, running a hand through his rooster’s hair. “That makes no sense. You saw it was a mountain lion.”
“A devil,” Jank insisted, crossing his arms. His red-and-white shirt bulged with muscles.
“If there was a devil here, why, he would have loved Cranbull’s fire,” argued Silas. “Joined in, in fact, and we would have had a good blaze.”
“Not all devils love fire,” said Jank sullenly, making it clear he had some insight into the matter.
“I suppose you’ve made a study of it,” Silas retorted, bouncing near and away from Jank like a bantamweight boxer.
Jank, bull-like, turned slowly to face him. “That’s right.”
“Stop this!” Angus’s voice was like a slap, and they fell silent. “Spirit, devil, lion—it doesn’t matter. We take nothing, eat nothing, burn nothing. Is that clear?”
Jank glowered as if he’d had his knuckles rapped. “Yes,” he said sullenly.
Silas nodded and with an angry glance at Jank started to walk away. His narrow eyes glinted in the moonlight. He’d never looked so much like a weasel.
“Let’s all get some sleep,” the timber baron said.
And that would have been it, but then Pete spoke up.
“That’s fine, except why don’t you tell them the kicker?” Pete said, his voice crackling with tension. He stood up and faced Angus.
Lucy stared at him with an open mouth. What was he going on about? She’d never seen him look so angry, like a spring wound tight. As if the day hadn’t been bad enough already, now he was going to pick a fight?
“And what’s that?” Angus asked, cool and composed.
“I guess I’ve got to spell it out.” Next to the timber baron, Pete looked small and scrawny.
“Please do, Master Knightly.” Angus waved his hand, extending Pete an invitation.
“Well, here it is.” Pete’s voice was loud in comparison. “How are we supposed to take dreamwood out of here if the forest won’t let us have an
ything?”
Lucy felt like she’d gotten the air knocked out of her. Of course. She hadn’t thought of this at all. If they couldn’t take gold from the river, if they couldn’t eat a rabbit when they were hungry, how could they expect to walk away with the Thumb’s most precious treasure? You think I’m just a dumb country boy, she heard him saying. She felt like the dumb one now.
How stupid she’d been, pleased to know every little thing they should do or not do. But she’d missed the bigger puzzle, something she should have realized from the day they first set out when Able Dodd had made his cryptic warning.
A strange look of respect came over Angus’s handsome face. He bowed his head slightly to Pete. “You are right, Master Knightly. Bravo.”
Pete, evidently not expecting this, looked over his shoulder as if to say, who, me?
“There better be a way around this,” Silas said, nearly bursting out of his greasy vest with indignation. “I came here to get my fortune.”
Jank’s tiny eyes looked like two dark holes in his bulky head. “If we can’t get the wood what are we doing here?”
“You’ll get your fortune, don’t worry.” Angus flicked some invisible speck from his shirt. He sounded almost bored.
“But this forest is cursed,” Pete said, turning to address Silas and Jank. “There’s a spirit here”—he looked at Lucy— “a nature spirit. And it’s not going to let us take anything.”
“Nature spirit,” the timber baron scoffed. “Let me tell you a story. When I first came to Pentland we couldn’t float logs downriver half the year. Why? Because supposedly there was a spirit in the river that wouldn’t let us. Do you think I got to be the richest man in the territory by letting that stop me?”
No one said anything. Of course Angus couldn’t be stopped.
“We dammed part of the river for six months. After that we never had any trouble.”
Silas hung his head and Jank nodded silently.
Dreamwood Page 19
