Dreamwood

by Heather Mackey

  Lucy should not have been surprised by this story, but she didn’t realize how conflicted it would make her feel. Her father would never have done something like that, not without trying to understand the river spirit first.

  Angus continued, pacing in front of them. “It doesn’t matter if I believe or not. All I need to do is disrupt it.” He looked at Lucy. “That’s something your father taught me. The people who lived here used to harvest dreamwood. If they could do it, we can, too. I did a little research of my own before coming here. They used a special ax blade.” With a showman’s flair he went to their supplies and brought out an ax. In the starlight the blade shone like black ice.

  “It’s obsidian,” he said. “Sharper than steel. And this young lady’s father told me something else. What else can obsidian do, Lucy?”

  Lucy knew the answer, of course. “It can cut bonds on both the physical and etheric planes. It’s one of the few substances that can. But—”

  Angus cut her off with a thin smile before she could tell him that her father refused to use obsidian because it was so unreliable. “Thank you, Lucy. I think your father worried perhaps he’d told me too many of his secrets. But we’re lucky he did. And when we find him, he’ll be lucky, too. Because with this ax we’ll cut dreamwood down when we find it and cut the bond that keeps the spirit here.” His heavy brows furrowed in mock consternation. “I don’t know if you can ‘kill’ a spirit, but it doesn’t matter. This ‘nature spirit’ will be broken, we can take as much dreamwood as we like, and that will be the end of Rust. We shall have several birds with one stone as it were, eh?” He stroked the gleaming black edge of the blade before covering it and putting it away.

  He made it sound very simple, but Lucy doubted it would be that easy.

  • • •

  In the morning, a weak sun broke through runny clouds. The feeling of distrust lingered so strongly around the campsite it might as well have been a bad smell.

  Angus thought that they were near one of the star-shaped marks on his map that he believed indicated dreamwood, and so he urged them forward as soon as they had breakfasted. He led the silent and miserable group along a streambed, heading slightly northwest.

  This was not the direction that her vitometer pointed. But Lucy, her thoughts in a jumble, didn’t correct him. The vitometer, when she’d looked at it a few minutes ago, showed a reading of Odic force well into the thousands, an unimaginable amount of energy. No one could hope to stand up to something like that, obsidian ax or no.

  It was a weary trek, and no one spoke for long hours. At last, when it was well into the afternoon, the timber baron began to slow his pace; he clearly expected to find something soon. And even Lucy, tired as she was, began to perk up with excitement.

  They were traveling through a flat stretch of forest where the tall kodoks were spaced far enough apart to let in columns of sunlight. But ahead of them, up a gradual slope, was a dense grove of giant trees, their low-hanging limbs linked together in a way she’d seen once before.

  Lucy ducked behind a tree, pretending she had to relieve herself. But instead she squatted with her vitometer, frowning. The needle pointed away. Whatever this was on the map, it wasn’t a dreamwood.

  She quickly put the vitometer back into its pouch. Angus, at the head of their party, was waving them on. “This is the spot.” Without waiting, he went striding up the slope.

  Silas’s eyes glittered. He’d been worrying his protection stone throughout the day, but now he thrust it back into a pocket of his greasy vest and began to jog ahead. Lucy could see his rooster’s crest bobbing up and down.

  Jank, who would never be called quick, followed like a slowly moving boulder.

  “Wait,” Pete called out. Silas and Jank both turned to look at him.

  “There’s nothing up ahead but a bunch of smelly old mushrooms,” he explained. “And if you go in there, especially this time of day, you’ll see faces in the trees.”

  It was near twilight, and Lucy remembered the way the tree faces had emerged from the wood their first night on the Thumb.

  “He’s right,” Lucy said, coming to stand beside Pete so he would know she was on his side.

  Jank’s small dark eyes considered the clotted shadows in the trees. “Jank,” Pete said seriously, “don’t go. I’ve seen those faces, and they’re really frightening.”

  Now Lucy understood: Pete was looking out for Jank. If the big man saw the devil in normal trees, what would he do inside the grove where the trees actually did have devil faces?

  “Stay with us, Jank,” Lucy urged.

  Silas, who’d been watching them suspiciously, spoke up in his reedy voice. “Well, I’m going. If there’s dreamwood, I’m getting my share.” He started off.

  “It’s not that easy, Silas,” Pete called after him. As Lucy expected, Silas ignored him.

  Jank, meanwhile, was slowly rubbing his hands together. He sniffed the air warily. “The devil is strong here. I feel him.”

  Without any warning he took out his ax and began swinging it in menacing practice circles.

  They jumped back.

  “Listen, Jank,” Pete said, speaking with extreme caution, “you really should put that ax away before you cut something.”

  But Jank merely twisted his head from side to side, black beard wagging. His tiny eyes seemed alight with eagerness—whether to find dreamwood or to face the devil he feared, Lucy couldn’t tell. He grunted once and took off after Silas and Angus, who were now climbing through the latticed branches. She could see Silas in his weathered vest scampering past the branch barriers like a rat disappearing into a thicket.

  “Oh no,” Pete said. He turned to Lucy, his forehead creased with worry.

  “What can we do?” She didn’t dare get near Jank when he had that ax.

  “I don’t know.” Pete began to run up the slope toward the knot of trees. “But I’m worried something bad will happen if we don’t stop him.”

  Lucy followed after him, dread increasing with each step.

  Then they heard a bellowing roar.

  They ran for the edges of the tree circle and climbed into the branches, looking in. The linked trees shut out the late-afternoon light, and Lucy could see the terrible faces in their trunks starting to reveal themselves.

  Angus stood with a stunned expression at the center of the grove. Silas was bent to the ground. “Mushrooms!” he cried in a cheated voice.

  Jank spun in circles, his ax raised. The giant lumberjack was a red-and-white blur.

  For a moment Lucy hoped Jank might simply spin himself dizzy but at last he seemed to focus and stop, standing square in front of one of the trees. He was panting, tiny eyes staring at the tree’s leering face.

  “DEVIL!” Jank cried.

  He ran straight at the tree, ax raised high.

  Lucy’s breath stopped in her chest.

  With a terrible thunk! the shining blade dug deep into the wood. The entire grove shuddered as if it were one being.

  All at once the air exploded with cracks as a flurry of twigs, sticks, branches flew forward with tremendous force—like arrows being loosed at close range.

  Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. She heard a gurgling cry. When she could bear to look she saw Jank lying on the ground. His red-and-white shirt was all red now, and he bristled with twigs and branches like a pincushion.

  He spasmed once and was still.

  They left Jank where he’d fallen. It hadn’t felt right to Lucy to leave him without some kind of tribute. But what could they do? She didn’t even dare pick a flower to lay beside him. They’d left the grove and walked a short distance farther when they stopped and took antimorpheus together. Lucy’s bottle was nearly empty, but Angus had plenty in his—he would have, considering there were drops enough for five dead men in it.

  Then Silas could no longer contain himself.
“Each day we stay here another one of us dies,” he told the timber baron angrily. His long, weaselly face looked thinner than ever, and he’d chewed raw a spot on his lip. “Who will it be tomorrow?”

  Angus ran his hand through his hair and sighed, facing Silas. “You’re right,” he said wearily. “The longer we stay in this forest, the more dangerous it is for all of us.” He turned to face Lucy and Pete. “Our lives depend on getting to the dreamwood as quickly as we can. We’re in a desperate situation.” Angus looked pointedly at Lucy.

  For a moment Lucy thought he was angry. But then he said more gently, “Your father is one of the greatest ghost clearers in history. Perhaps he gave you something that could help.”

  Pete cleared his throat. “Lucy has a machine that can clear ghosts,” he announced to everyone’s surprise, including Lucy’s. “I’ll show you.”

  He marched over to her pack and brought out the sweeper, which wriggled in Pete’s stocking. It looked like a fat angry sausage.

  As he held it up he shot her a warning glance. Now she understood. Pete still didn’t want her to show them the vitometer, so he was going to parade the sweeper around instead.

  “Don’t, Pete.” Lucy could already imagine how the men would react to the sweeper. There weren’t any ghosts here; it would just march up and down looking silly.

  But Silas thought she was trying to keep secrets from them. His eyes glittering, he held out his arm to stop her. “No, let the boy show us.”

  “All right,” Pete said, “prepare to be amazed.” He untied the knot in the stocking and shook the sweeper onto the ground.

  The egg shook with excitement at being freed. As soon as he put it down, the sweeper marched forward issuing earsplitting blasts of steam. For a few moments it looked formidable. Even Angus seemed to regard it with respect.

  But there was a downed log in its path, and instead of going around, the sweeper simply collided with it. This obstacle seemed to enrage the egg; it butted heads with the log again and again. Finally, it hit the log so hard it ricocheted backward and fell on the ground, legs waving in the air.

  Silas let out a long hiss of breath and then spat.

  Angus’s face was a thundercloud.

  Lucy knew what they were thinking—William Darrington was a crackpot, a failure. An image of the Wickham newspaper with the picture of her father wearing his thought interferometer rose before her eyes: Ghost Clearer Gone Mad.

  “Maybe I put too much stock in William Darrington,” the timber baron said, staring into the twilight. He put his knuckles to his mouth as if trying to temper his disappointment. “I certainly expected more than this.”

  “I told you the girl wouldn’t be any help to us,” Silas said to his master. “The ghost clearer was a fool and his daughter is no better.”

  Wounded pride built inside Lucy. Her father was a brilliant man. Angus, with his precious map, was leading them in circles. None of them would have gotten this far without her father’s discoveries. She was tired of people making fun of him, she was tired of being underestimated. You should show him some respect.

  Lucy stepped forward, her chin quivering. “I have something that will lead us straight to it,” she said. She drew out the soft deerskin pouch she’d kept hidden inside Niwa’s tunic. It was a relief not to have to keep it secret any longer. “This will save all our lives.”

  Pete sighed heavily and hung his head. “There you go,” he said. “She’s got the answers.”

  “What is this?” The timber baron’s eyes were bright with interest. He and Silas crowded around her to see better. It was getting dark, and Angus brought out his phos globe. Their attention bolstered Lucy and made her confident once again.

  “A compass of sorts. I wasn’t sure it was working correctly,” she lied. She needed to give some reason for not revealing it before now. “But I did some tests this morning and it’s accurate. This needle points to dreamwood.”

  “Let me see,” Angus demanded.

  Lucy lifted the brass lid, revealing the needle and compass points inside.

  Angus scrutinized it before saying under his breath, “So the ghost clearer was telling the truth about this, at least.”

  His shoulders relaxed in relief. Then he clapped Silas on the back. “This is the first good news we’ve had since we got here.”

  “Indeed,” Silas replied sourly. “Lucky it came to light now.” He squinted at Lucy, and his nose twitched. “I’m on to you, girl,” he came close and whispered. Lucy jumped as if she’d been pinched.

  But the timber baron was in a celebratory mood. “Extra food for everyone tonight.”

  “Course there’s extra food,” Silas muttered under his breath. “And the more of us that die, the more leftovers there’s going to be.”

  Still, Lucy noticed, he took his extra portion when it was time to eat. She took her meal of salmon jerky and oat cakes and went to sit by Pete, who had found a soft, mossy spot near a clump of wild rhododendrons. They sat cross-legged with the food on a tin plate between them.

  “Looks like wood, goes down like wood, too,” he observed, chewing the tough dried fish. At least Pete was speaking to her again.

  After they’d eaten, Angus squatted down beside her. “Do you mind if I study your device?”

  By this time it was black night. Lucy supposed he might look at it by the light of his phos globe. But he wouldn’t be able to see much.

  Pete stopped chewing, his cheeks full of jerky as he waited to see how she would answer. He’d been so suspicious, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for letting the timber baron see it. It’s my vitometer, she reminded herself. Pete doesn’t tell me what to do. She took out the vitometer once more and held it out to Angus. But she felt bare without it; she’d grown used to its comforting purr against her chest, and almost immediately she reached out her hand to take it again.

  “You can’t see anything good now,” she explained. “Better wait till it’s light.”

  If Angus was disappointed, he covered it well. “Of course,” he said genially. On a sudden impulse he reached out and tousled her hair. “I’ll look at it in the morning.”

  “Sure,” Lucy said, feeling honored by this new mark of his affection. She reached up and smoothed her unruly braid.

  Pete had been watching the two of them with a funny look on his face. “Happy now?” he asked her once Angus left.

  Even a day ago she might have stuck out her tongue at him. But Jank’s death had taken away any wish she had to snap at Pete. Now she just wanted them to be friends.

  “No,” she said. She threw her bedroll to the ground and climbed inside, staring stonily at the tree branches above.

  • • •

  A fog came in that night, one of the thick coastal fogs that settles like a blanket, and come morning is so thick and veiling that the whole world is gray.

  Lucy was asleep when a rough hand yanked at her neck. “Who’s there?” she cried. “What are you doing?” The fog had closed off the stars; no light peeked through the darkness.

  She fought like a wild thing and heard a gratifying oof! of pain as her heels connected with the man’s shins. At least then she knew she was dealing with a person and not some beast of the Thumb.

  But he wasn’t trying to hurt her—merely snatch the deerskin pouch from around her neck. The slender cord broke and suddenly the vitometer’s weight was gone.

  Panic surged through her as she whirled about in the fog. Muffled footsteps ran away.

  “Pete!” she cried. “Help!”

  A dark shape loomed before her. This time she was ready.

  “Ow!” came a boy’s voice after her punch landed. “It’s me, darn it.”

  She’d hit Pete.

  “I’m sorry.” She could see him now, doubled over and gasping.

  “It’s all right, who needs ribs?” He stood up and winced. L
ucy’s hand went to her throat, feeling again a burn where the cord had pulled against her skin. “Mr. Murrain,” she cried. “Silas took my vitometer!” She turned this way and that—but the soft, protected glen where they’d stopped for the night was empty. Beyond it the night was a gray shadow.

  Beside her, Pete was still bent with pain. A disturbing noise—it sounded like snorgle—came from him.

  “Are you laughing?”

  Lucy wheeled about. She faced Pete, who was holding out his hands to defend himself.

  “Oh, Mr. Murrain!” he parroted, then snorgled again as he gasped for breath. “They’re gone. Both of them.”

  She could hear the truth of it in the silence of the forest, broken only by Pete’s rough breathing.

  Pete eased himself to the ground, cradling his sore ribs. “Once he had your compass he didn’t need us. We’d just slow him down. And you heard Silas last night. The longer we stay here, the more people die.”

  “But . . .” She still had the timber baron’s handkerchief. You’re quick witted, he’d told her, brave. How could he have said such things, then left her behind? She touched her hair—he’d patted her head last night, but perhaps even as he did that he’d had his plan in mind.

  We’ll find dreamwood together, he’d said.

  Now she saw everything that had happened in the light of his betrayal. She slid to the ground beside Pete. “I was getting in his way.” Just like she was with her father.

  “Don’t say that,” Pete said, grimacing as he shifted position. “I think if anything, he was getting sick of me.”

  It was awfully nice of Pete to say that. She wished she could laugh. But everything inside her felt broken, as if she were filled with shards of glass.

  “No, it was me. And I know. I’ve been left so many times I feel like a piece of old luggage.” She turned to Pete, feeling her heart brim. “My father was never going to send for me at Miss Bentley’s School,” she said desperately. “He was going to leave me there until I grew up and he didn’t have to bother about me anymore. He wanted me to become one of them.”