Beware the Wild

by Natalie C. Parker

  Lenora May said she knew the things Phineas did, that Shine worked by using what was already there. It hadn’t created her history, it had given her Phin’s. People didn’t forget Phin so much as they remembered someone else. And just now, it hadn’t erased my wound, it had bridged a gap, leaving a scar behind.

  It all makes sense except for one thing.

  “Why do most people forget?” I turn again to Fisher, who stands near. Watching. It’s startling to find his attention so squarely on me, but I won’t be deterred so close to the truth. “When people go missing why do we forget them? And how?”

  “I’m afraid that is more than I can answer; however, I assume it is a matter of self-preservation. When the swamp pulls someone inside, it pulls in all of them, even the pieces others carry. Like memories. That way, no one starts looking at it sideways.”

  It seems to me that’s the only way people look at the swamp, but I get what he means. If anyone suspected the swamp had a mind of its own, they’d try to fill it or drain it or otherwise destroy it. As much as I hate that my brother is trapped here, I somehow can’t wish the swamp away.

  “Likewise,” he continues, “when Lenora May broke away from the swamp, she did it with great force. In a sense, she exploded through a barrier and sent her life flying into the town.”

  “Like a dirty bomb,” I say. “Like shrapnel.”

  “Precisely. And just as damaging.”

  “Has it always been like this?” I study the way Shine courses through the ground, a chaotic, dense system of roots. If my grandpa knew about it, then it’s been here at least as long as I’ve been alive: a secret wrapped inside a secret.

  “Since before Lenora May and I were born.” Fisher caresses a low branch of the everblooming cherry tree. “And that was a long time ago.”

  The implications are staggering. The Wasting Shine might have been here for hundreds of years, quietly growing in the center of the swamp. It’s been here since before Grandpa Harlan built his fence, before the Clary women started telling stories, before Lenora May and Fisher became a part of it. How many lives might this swamp have touched and changed? How many others might be trapped inside it?

  “Is it evil?” I ask, remembering the pale-faced beast.

  It takes a moment for Fisher to answer. “No, it’s not in its nature to be good or evil. It is a living thing. A plant capable of taking on the shape, the qualities, that you give it.”

  “What do you mean ‘the qualities you give it’? How can anyone give a plant its qualities? It’s either poisonous or it’s not.”

  I can’t tell if his hesitation is reluctance or frustration. There’s a little of both in the way he presses his palms together. Finally, he says, “In the same way some plants seek the sunlight, this magic will bend itself to your words so long as your intention is clear.”

  I consider how the Shine moved away from Candy, unwilling to be touched, and how it always seems to reach for me, for the bracelet I wear. Bending like flowers, but the metaphor doesn’t work beyond that. “How about magnets? Shine is like any old piece of iron. It has potential, but it’s not a magnet until you force all the electrons to move in the same direction. We’re the ones aligning those electrons by telling it what to do?”

  He smiles. “You’re a surprising creature, Sterling. Electrons are beyond me, but it sounds correct. Every time we speak, we influence the world around us. The magic of the everblooming cherry is more susceptible to your will.”

  Rolling the little ball of Shine between my fingers, I think of clear water, running my hands beneath a faucet. “Clean,” I say, and the little ball melts over my skin, clearing all the blood and muck away.

  “I—” Fisher stops, his face goes blank. “That was quick.”

  “I’ve always been a fast learner,” I say, feeling all over pleased with Fisher’s shock. “Especially when something makes sense.”

  “Indeed,” he answers.

  It feels so easy. Pluck a piece of Shine like a berry and give it purpose. Easy and dangerous. And right in the center of Sticks. Maybe it’s a good thing folks pretend not to notice. Maybe they’re right to keep up the fence. Surely, if people knew there was power here, they’d come for it.

  Phineas is only a distant bump in the water now. His blue eyes float on top, dull and wet as a gator’s. From this distance, he could be anybody or anything, but I know what I saw in his face. I don’t doubt that creature is Phineas.

  I say, “He’s not human anymore.”

  “He is and he isn’t,” Fisher answers, standing at the edge of the pond, eyes trained on Phin’s shape. Cherry blossoms are dazzling behind his dark hair, glowing in a pink-and-ochre halo. Somehow, the pink is a perfect highlight to his restrained and defiant beauty. “I’ve seen it happen to many lost souls. So desperate to escape their human lives, they transform.”

  I ignore how closely that resembles Lenora May’s claim that Phin was running away. “But everyone doesn’t change. I saw Nathan Payola the night I met you. He went missing more than a year ago, and he looked like always.”

  “That is true. She didn’t change all of her victims. Only when it suited her. If it amused her to leave someone locked in the moment they became lost in the swamp, she’d let them roam. If she wanted to keep them close, to tie them to her will, she changed them into something more primal.”

  I try to make this vicious image of Lenora May match the one I know, try to imagine her laughing at poor lost Nathan or gleefully transforming my brother into the twisted creature I just saw. It’s a rough fit. The closest I come is this: a memory of the Lenora May wearing the grimmest smile I’ve ever seen as Deputy Darold cuffed our dad and hauled him away. That’s as evil as my mind lets her be.

  Phin’s not visible anymore. Only a ghost of a trail remains through sticky duckweed. “Can it be reversed?”

  “Without Lenora May to take his place the way he took hers, there is only one way.” His tone keeps my hopes in check. “We would have to physically break his connection to the swamp, and that would kill him. I wish it weren’t the case, but without Lenora May, I’m—I’m helpless.”

  Even with all that’s happened, he loves her.

  “The cherry didn’t work,” I admit. “And she knows I tried.”

  The change in him is subtle, but something falls through his face and shoulders, down to his toes. For a moment, I can’t distinguish his feet from the muddy ground. It lasts only a second, here and gone so fast that I’m not sure if it was real.

  “That is unfortunate,” he says, each word precise.

  “There must be another way. Maybe a way to free you both and Phineas and Nathan and anyone else trapped here.”

  His response is immediate, vicious in its passion. “No. There’s no other way, Sterling, believe me. It’s a waste of your time to even consider it. Lenora May and I belong here. It’s the fate we chose together. Anything else is unacceptable.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I take an involuntary step back.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just—I’m worried for you and your brother, and for anyone else Lenora May might harm. I’m afraid she’s become a monster.”

  The trails Phin left in the algae have closed over themselves, erasing the evidence of his passing. Once again, the pond is a dish of sunlight and scum. Nothing moves here. Nothing changes.

  “You think she’s dangerous?”

  “I think she’s capable of anything,” Fisher says, stooping to pull a coil of Shine into his hands. “We’ll try it again, but this time, I’ll show you how to make certain she eats the cherry.”

  Fisher picks another blossom, cups it between his palms, and speaks softly over it. A small flash of light escapes his fingers, and when he opens his hands, a new, perfect cherry rests on his palm.

  “I won’t be able to fool her again. She’ll be expecting this.” I try not to sound as hopeless as I feel, but I doubt Lenora May will take anything from me she didn’t watch me harvest. We’ve lost the element of s
urprise, and that was all we had in the first place.

  Worst of all, I’m not sure I want to trick her into doing something she very clearly doesn’t want to do.

  “Then you’ll have to make her.” It’s his tone that gets my guts to grumbling. It’s the sort of tone Candy might use when she’s about to ask me to do something I probably shouldn’t, like break curfew or bleach my hair.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  Fisher pulls Shine into his hands and begins to shape it. “Magic cannot be removed from the swamp unless it has been bound to a physical object. Anything from a cherry to a piece of clothing. Her comb perhaps. Or a bracelet like yours. It’s tricky, but I suspect not for you.”

  His attempt at flattery does nothing to dislodge this sense of dread. Whatever he’s about to tell me to do, I’m sure I won’t like it.

  Oblivious or indifferent, he continues, “When you infuse the object, simply give it a command as you did to clean your hands. And when Lenora May touches whatever it is, she will be compelled to follow that command: listen, eat, obey.”

  I flinch. There are words that have power. This is something every Southerner knows: words used carelessly can get you run out of town or worse. Harmful, threatening, historically loaded words we all know and precious few of us say. Obey isn’t one of the top five, but it scores high with families like mine, and if my hackles hadn’t already been halfway to heaven before, they are now.

  “So,” Fisher continues, resigned and possibly amused. “Perhaps tonight, you might charm her fork, her spoon, her hairbrush, anything you feel sure she will touch. Whatever it is, be very clear with your intentions. Her desire to resist will be as strong as your desire to save your brother. Be forceful.”

  The thought of forcing my will on anyone is repugnant as a cup of chaw spit. But I nod. “Okay.”

  As if sensing my growing discomfort, he slides his hands down my arms. My skin warms and relaxes beneath his touch. Not a natural touch, I realize now, but one that’s blended with Shine.

  And then I suddenly jump. How many times has he touched me? If controlling someone is as easy as commanding Shine, who’s to say he hasn’t directed my thoughts? Has he been manipulating me the entire time? I scrub at my forearm.

  “Sterling,” he soothes, “remember she is a jealous and vengeful creature. This is the only way to save your brother.”

  I search the flat water for any sign of Phineas, but the swamp denies me even that small comfort. I nod, and sense more than see Fisher’s smile. It’s not one I can return. I take the cherry when he offers it again, and follow the shining path home.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  WHILE I WAS IN THE swamp, the heat of the day rolled in beneath tall thunderclouds. They moved slowly, looking for a place to rest, and sat on top of Sticks like tired, fat dogs. Beneath them, the air is still and thick and smells like rain.

  My yard isn’t empty when I reach it. Heath stands three feet from the fence, hands on his hips, eyes studying Mama’s collection of Mardi Gras beads and Christmas lights.

  “Jezuz,” he says when he spots me. “I had a feeling. You have a helluva time trusting people, don’t you?”

  “What does that mean?” I climb the fence, careful to keep from dripping mud on the top planks where Mama or Darold might spot it.

  “I—I would’ve gone with you. That’s what that means.”

  If the stutter weren’t enough to give away his fear, the way he studiously avoids looking at the swamp for too long does. He’s terrified of what’s beyond the fence. It makes his offer a brave one, but not one I can accept. He sees the reason in my face and heaves a defeated sigh.

  “What’d you find this time?”

  “Phin,” I say, and before he can react, “or what he’s become. He’s more gator than boy anymore. Fisher says it’s Lenora May’s doing.”

  We cross the yard, and Heath helps me balance as I carefully remove my filthy boots. It’s a delicate process involving the edge of the brick steps and precisely applied pressure. The first one falls with a thud right into Mama’s iris bed.

  “You don’t sound like you believe him.” He switches hands so I can attack the next boot.

  “I’m not sure anymore. He thinks I should try again except he wants me to be more aggressive this time. He wants me to force her.” It sounds as distasteful as I thought it might.

  The second boot leaves a thick smear on my calf, but doesn’t break any flowers when it falls. I hold the cherry for him to see. It gleams red in the afternoon sun and just thinking of trying to trick Lenora May into eating it gives me pause.

  All my memories are telling me Lenora May is a far cry from evil. I know they’re not real, but knowing and believing aren’t always the same and some part of me believes them. She’s here and Phin’s not. That should be the end of it, but I keep hearing the gravity in her voice when she begged me to let her stay.

  I assumed Fisher was a victim, but he doesn’t seem concerned with his own freedom. I thought that was his sense of responsibility and honor, but now I’m not so sure. Would an honorable person ask me to force someone to do something against her will? I don’t know who to trust and my gut’s all twisted.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Heath, but we need help.”

  “No argument here, but where do we get it?”

  “From the one girl in Sticks who’s had all the swamp stories memorized since she was old enough to tell them.”

  As requested, candy meets us on the porch of Clary General after school. She’s dressed for the occasion, everything she’s not allowed to wear during the regular year: too-short shorts, low-cut tank top, and cowboy boots. Even I can admit it’s hot. Judging by the way Heath becomes suddenly fascinated with a couple of fighting mockingbirds in the yard, I’d say he agrees.

  “Look at you delinquents,” she says with a sly grin. “I convinced Mr. Tatum to give me your yearbook. You can thank me in Pixy Stix. Now, let’s get inside. I don’t want to burn unless I’m in a bikini.”

  “You’re pretty close as is,” I say.

  “I know, right? Mrs. Gwaltney just about had kittens in front of everyone when she saw me. Which you’d know if you’d bothered to show for our very last day as underclasswomen.”

  Heath falls into step behind me as we stomp up the front steps and into the cooler air of Clary General. As usual, it smells like pinewood and coffee with a hint of the scent I’ve only ever associated with camouflage hunting gear.

  Candy snatches an armadillo purse from the shelves and models it saying, “I can’t believe no one’s ever bought me one of these. What girl doesn’t want a purse made from the husk of an armadillo?” The one she’s picked has red beads in place of eyes and a brass lock protruding from its chest.

  “That’s obscene,” I say. “Put it down.”

  “Where’s your pride, Saucier? That’s fine Sticks’ craftsmanship you’re hating on. You won’t find better in any other bayou town. What’re we doing here anyway?”

  “I’ve got some questions for Mrs. Clary and then I’ve got some questions for you, okay?”

  With a shrug, she replaces the armadillo purse on the shelf next to a collection of gator feet then follows me through the store. We have to go out back to find Old Lady Clary where she and five other women are in the shade of pine trees.

  Using a grill lighter, Old Lady Clary lights sticks of incense for Mrs. Tatum, who’s looking unusually strained. The other four women are dotted along the fence line, praying or whatever it is people do here with their candles and incense and plates full of pie. Mama’s always said it’s best to call it prayer and not think too hard on it. Before a few days ago, I would have done just that. Now, though, I think it’s one more way in which Sticks buries the truth.

  “Everyone’s freaked about the fence,” Candy informs us. “There was all sorts of supers
titious chatter about it at school today.”

  We wait until Old Lady Clary is done, her long lighter tucked away in the pocket of her red-and-white-striped apron. She peers from beneath the wide brim of her floppy hat, considering us the way a cat might consider three baby mice. It’s the sort of look that makes me regret needing to deal with her, but there’s no other way to get Candy’s brain on straight. With a small shake of her head, Old Lady Clary shuffles our way, her steps hindered by the presence of hungry chickens in the yard.

  “My, my, my,” she says, humming her Ms like they’re too tasty to relinquish. “Don’t you three look as serious as heart attacks. Don’t tell me, I can guess. Mm-hmm, my dears, I can see you’ve been getting involved with the swamp. Clear as the sun at noon. Well, let’s go inside. Come on.”

  Already, I’m relieved. She brought it up first, which means we won’t have to convince her to talk about the thing no one wants to talk about. Not that I anticipate getting much from her, but there’s only one thing I need.

  We follow her to the register, where she perches on her wooden stool and busies herself with her ledger.

  “I need another charm,” I say, pressing my hands flat on the counter the way teachers do when they really mean something. “Like the one you gave Heath.”

  “Ma’am,” Heath says in greeting.

  Now, she looks up from her book and pulls the bifocals from her nose. “But dear, you already have one. And better than any I could make, I promise you. Yours has got more power than I’ve ever had access to. One of mine’d be a waste.”

  Her openness is a small victory; one that fills me with hope. She’s confirmed it: these bracelets have power.

  “It’s not for me.” I glance in Candy’s direction. She’s not paying a whit of attention. It seems the seven-day candle collection was messy enough to demand her expertise. By the time she’s done, they’ll be alphabetized and arranged by color.

  “What does she need one for?” She leans in to speak more softly. “Has she been in the swamp? Eaten something like this fool boy here?” She gives Heath a meaningful look.