Shadow nudges my neck gently. Everything will be okay.
But how does he know?
We stay there motionless. All is silent, but I know it’s not over. Sure enough, a second later there is some snapping of sticks, a shuffle of leaves. Shadow’s hackles rise, and suddenly he runs off.
The next thing I hear is barking. Ferocious snarls and growls. It is Shadow, but he is fiercer than I could ever imagine. He is out for blood.
“Oh, crap,” says one of the bulls. His voice is close, too close.
“Shoot the thing,” another one says. “It’s gone mad.”
Everything in my brain sends out a screaming No!, but words are not able to leave my body.
And then a hard craaaack splits the night. The shot reverberates all around the trees, turns to a loud ringing, and then slowly fades until there is nothing.
My heart stops. Everything is silent. There is no more barking.
A gruff voice breaks the quiet. “What happened?”
It is followed by a low growl. Shadow’s growl!
Relief swoops through me.
Another rail bull says, “My hand … It slipped. It was a clear shot and I missed.”
“Try again.”
“No way. That dog’s possessed. It’s bad luck to kill something possessed. I got it to back off.”
“But you didn’t even scare it—it’s standing right there. Look at its eyes. It’s not a dog, it’s a monster.”
“Exactly. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“But the stowaway?”
“We got her off the train. She’s probably just a runaway from that hippie place.” Slowly the rail bulls start to walk away, but I can still hear them. “It’s been there for years, got a name and everything. Hobo Town. Isn’t that a gas? That’s where all the hoppers come from.”
“Why don’t we get rid of it, then?”
“How?”
Their voices are barely audible now. But I think I hear one of them say, “A can of gasoline, a couple of matches. And poof. They’re gone. No more Hobo Town.”
I keep my breath shut tight inside my lungs until I hear the train squeal away. Only then do I allow myself to breathe and to register what they said, but it can’t be true. I am hearing things. I close my eyes. All I feel is pain. Nothing else seems real. I want to take my arm off, rise up out of my body, and leave it all there.
“Shadow,” I manage. He comes to me, licks my nose gingerly. I exhale into his fur. “Shadow.” I’m not sure if I’m saying this out loud or only in my head. “Help.”
Shadow barks but I can’t understand what he’s trying to say. He turns and walks off into the woods. I watch him until he is nothing more than a ghostly shape.
I am alone in the silent night.
I go in and out of awareness. Shadow has left. I must be dying. Seventeen years old—I should be in the prime of my life, surrounded by family and friends, smiling and laughing every day, playing sports, singing in the school choir, studying for SATs, and dreaming about getting into a good college. Was I ever like that? I let everything pass me by, just waiting for something else. Never living.
And now I am lost in the woods, my body in pain. Alone. Alone. Alone.
If a tree falls in the woods when no one is there, does it still make a noise? If a girl dies in the woods when no one is there, does anyone care? If no one knows I am here, do I even exist?
All dead. All dead. All dead. Including me, once and for all.
Time passes but I don’t know how much. Is it minutes, hours, days?
Then from somewhere I hear Shadow’s single bark. And another. Maybe I am not dead yet. Feet crunch through the pine needles. Not just Shadow’s but another set following. A human. Are the rail bulls still out there? Did they find Shadow again?
Shadow reaches me, touches me with his snout. I brought help, he says.
A woman crouches next to me, and silver silk hair wisps across my cheek. I stare into a face creased with wrinkles. Is she a witch? Good or bad? She must be good if Shadow brought her.
“Can you sit?” the woman asks. She helps prop me up on my good arm. “I’m here to help,” she says calmly. She takes my sore arm in both hands.
I wince with pain.
She rubs my palm and forearm. “You’ve dislocated your shoulder. I can fix it.” She lifts my hand, tucks it under her arm, and shifts closer. “This will hurt, but it will be over before you know it. Try to distract yourself,” she says. “Tell me about something good.”
I don’t say anything. There is nothing good.
“Tell me about your dog. What’s his name?” she asks.
“Shadow,” I whisper.
“Do you know what kind he is?”
I shake my head.
“He looks like he could be part wolf,” she answers for me.
“I guess,” I say.
“Or part ghost. How long have you had him?”
Before I can respond, she grabs my arm in one swift move and yanks it toward her. I hear a popping sound, then the eruption of my own voice howling through the trees.
“That’s it,” she says. “Breathe. Scream.” She keeps pulling.
I howl louder.
She eases my arm down to my side, and all of a sudden it’s over. My arm is no longer foreign. It is back to being my arm again.
I shake it out and use it to wipe my face. “What did you do?” I ask the woman.
“Your humerus separated from your scapula,” she says. “I rotated it back into place. Best to keep it still; it’ll be sore for a few hours. But you should be back to normal in no time.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I live nearby,” the woman explains. “I heard barking and your dog was outside. He led me here.”
I look at Shadow. Here I thought he’d gone and abandoned me, but it was just the opposite—he’d gone and saved me. I feel guilty for even thinking he’d leave me there to die. I scratch his chin.
I would never leave you.
“My name is Eudora,” the woman says, helping me to stand. “You should rest. I’ll take you to my cabin and fix you a cup of tea.”
We follow a narrow path through the woods. The woods are not so menacing now as the sun begins to rise. Everything looks better in the daylight.
Eudora’s cabin sits by itself nestled in the trees. There is a dirt road behind it with a truck parked. The building is small but sturdy—it looks like it’s been there for years. There are stacks of books on every surface, books covering the couch, books scattered across the floor. There’s a small alcove with a bed, and that, too, is oozing with books.
Shadow’s tail perks straight with excitement as he sniffs the air. Oh, she’s got cats! He chases two cats across the room and under the bed.
“Shadow,” I say sternly. “Stop that.”
He eyes me. But they’re cats.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eudora says. “They’re tough. He just wants to play.”
The cats peer from their hiding place. One of them steps out and pokes Shadow with its paw. Shadow sniffs it, decides it’s not going to play, and lumbers off to drink some water from the bowl Eudora has filled for him.
Eudora points to the couch and tells me to sit. I don’t know if I should move the books or sit on top of them, so I remain standing.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, and picks up an armload from the couch. She turns around looking for a place to put them and finally sets them on the floor next to some others. “Too many books,” she says, “but they are one thing I can’t get rid of. Everything else was easy— useless knickknacks, fancy dishes, even photographs. But books … well, I couldn’t do it. When I’m dead and gone someone can donate them to a library or use them for kindling.” She laughs.
I sit in the cleared spot on the couch while she puts on a kettle. I pick up a book from the pile and flip through. It’s poetry—all about nature.
Eudora comes over with a thick candle and a little bottle of liquid and sets it on the ta
ble. “‘I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars.’” She points to the book. “That’s Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass. One of my favorites.”
She pours a few drops of the liquid onto the candle and lights it. The room fills with the aroma of lavender. “This will put healing energy in the air,” she says. The kettle whistles and she goes to the stove. Shadow rests his head in my lap and sighs. I stroke his nose.
“You’ve got a special dog there,” Eudora says, handing me a mug of peppermint tea. “He saved your life.”
I take a sip. The sweet peppermint, the lavender incense, the coziness of all her books—it relaxes me. Makes me want to close my eyes, drift into a warm, safe sleep.
But Eudora is watching. It seems like she is waiting for me to say something. So I ask, “How did you know how to fix my shoulder?”
“I was a nurse,” she says. “But I never fit into society. So I built this place. I have everything I need here. I have my books and my writings. And it’s quiet.” She pats my good shoulder. “Now tell me what you’re doing out here wandering around in the night with a dislocated shoulder.”
What do I say? I don’t know if I have any more lies left, but then I’m not certain of the truth either. “I don’t remember everything,” I finally admit, “but I’m going home. I’m almost there.”
“Do you remember your name?” she asks.
“I’m Blue,” I say. “At least, I am now.”
“Do you remember where you live?”
“On the ocean. In a yellow house with green shutters.” The second I say this I wish I hadn’t.
“Are your parents waiting for you?”
“I … I don’t know. I have to tell them I’m sorry.” I start to feel sick.
The woman tips her head and her eyebrows rise, as though she suddenly recalls something. Then she inhales quickly and her face softens. “You’re … you’re that girl, aren’t you?”
“What girl?” I ask. My body tenses. My shoulder begins to throb.
“The one in the news. I read about you. You used to live on the coast, then you moved.”
How does she know this? What does she mean, used to? What does she mean, moved?
She goes on. “People are looking for you. They know you didn’t die.” Her voice fades. Her mouth continues to move in the shape of words, but the sound is muffled and I can no longer hear. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see her mouth. I wait for the chant to take over. I wait for the nausea. I wait for panic, but it doesn’t come. Shadow noses me. I open my eyes and pet him. Then I can hear again, and she is saying something else.
“Never mind. I’m wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She puts her hand on my back.
I look at her. “I have to go,” I say, even though my mind is all fuzzy.
“No,” Eudora says, as though leaving on my own is not an option. “You’re in no condition. You’ll stay here and rest.”
I start to protest.
She holds up her hand. “I’m going to say something, Blue, and you tell me if you think it’s true. This is what I think. I think something happened and it was so awful that you have shut it out. You’ve lost parts of your memory.” She pauses. “Does that make any sense?”
“You mean I have amnesia?” I ask. “Like I hit my head and forgot everything?”
“Could be, but there are other ways people lose memory. Sometimes it’s caused by a blow to the head, or sometimes it’s a traumatic event that the brain erases in order to survive. Sometimes it’s all memory that is lost, sometimes just bits and pieces.”
I let this information sink in, then ask, “Will I ever remember everything?” I’m not sure I want to.
Eudora studies me carefully. “‘All truths wait in all things. They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it.’” She pauses. “Whitman, again. You can’t push the mind to remember things it’s not ready to remember. It’ll come back when you’re ready. You must not be ready yet. Do you remember what just happened—out in the woods before I came?”
“Yes,” I say. “I got a train, I almost got caught.” I start to tell her about the rail bulls chasing me, but then stop as I suddenly recall their conversation in the woods. I thought it had been my imagination, but I now hear their voices loud and clear: “A can of gasoline, a couple of matches. And poof. No more town.” It dawns on me—they are going to burn down Hobo Town!
I have to warn Dumpling and Onion, and everyone! The whole town, everything in their lives will be destroyed; they could die. I’m so close to my own home, but I can’t let theirs burn down.
Eudora is still talking but I tune her out again. All I can think about is getting to Hobo Town in time. I can’t up and flee. Eudora means well, but she will call someone for sure—she will try to stop me.
“Okay, I’ll stay here,” I tell her.
“Good. That’s good. Tomorrow your arm will be much better, you’ll see. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”
But I know that won’t happen. I will sneak out as soon as I can and head backwards.
Finally Eudora falls asleep. I sneak out of her wonderfully warm home, full of lavender, peppermint, and poetry. Instead of heading home, I am retracing my steps. I am going in the wrong direction.
I have no choice. I remember little Cracker Jack holding up his fingers and calling himself wild boy. They can’t burn his home down. They can’t. I only hope I’m not too late.
Shadow leads the way back through the woods to the train tracks, and we follow them west. The bulls found me on the second stop, so Hobo Town can’t be more than fifteen or twenty miles. Still, it will take me all day to get there.
I run for a bit, then slow to a fast walk. It’s so much easier in the boots. I imagine the boots themselves are giving me the encouragement I need. Go, go, go. We’ve got you covered. This time I watch the ground in front of me. I won’t fall.
The sun rises to its full height and gleams down on me. I hear a train whistle, and I turn into the woods well before the train passes. If the bulls catch me a second time, they’ll kill Shadow for sure and probably me, too. The train whizzes by heading east. I watch until it is out of sight.
I run. I walk. I rest. I run again. I drink water. I eat some of the food Dumpling gave me. The hours go by. I stay steady. I stay focused. I can’t be too late, I just can’t.
By the time the sun has crossed to the other side of the sky and started to set, I know I am close. I recognize the spot where I hid out waiting to catch the train.
In the approaching darkness I make out the shape of a small person crouched on the track. Shadow reaches the person first. He’s not growling or barking, so it must be all right.
As I get closer I see that it is a child, a boy. The boy hugs Shadow around the neck and sings, “Doggie-do, doggie-do, doggie-do” over and over.
“Cracker Jack!” I yell. When I reach him I squeeze him tight.
“Ow.” He wriggles out of my grip. It takes him a second to register me. “Yello, Boo,” he says.
“Cracker Jack.” I keep my hand on his shoulder, afraid he might disappear if I don’t hold on to him. “What are you doing here? Where is everyone else?”
His eyes open wide. He looks scared. It’s the look of something bad. I am too late. The bulls came. They burned down everything.
All dead. All dead. All dead.
I hug Cracker Jack tight. I will hold him forever if I have to. But he won’t let me. He squirms away and points to himself. “Wild boy.”
“I know, I know you’re a wild boy.”
“Wild boy bad.”
“No, you’re not bad,” I say. “Cracker Jack? Did something bad happen? What happened?”
“Mommy mad. I broke book.” He takes some crumpled pages from his pocket. They are pages from the picture book Dumpling was reading to him.
“Where is your mommy?” I ask. “Is she here? Is she okay?”
“Mommy mad. Wild boy run away.”
“There’s no
fire?” I ask. “No one is dead?” Maybe I’m not too late. Maybe I can still get to them.
Cracker Jack scrunches his face. He looks confused. He repeats the word dead.
“Do you want to go home now?” I hold out my hand. Cracker Jack puts all five of his fingers in it. I clasp them.
Shadow leads us to the stake marker with the red dot, and through the woods to Hobo Town. It is just like I left it. Nothing destroyed. Nothing burned. Nothing smoldering. No ash. No death.
We get to Onion and Dumpling’s tent. Dumpling is pacing and crying. She runs to Cracker Jack the second she sees us and engulfs him in her arms. “Darling, darling. I was so worried.”
“Mommy mad,” Cracker Jack says.
“No,” Dumpling says. “Well, I was mad, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you more than the sunshine, Cracker Jack.” She kisses the top of his head. “It’s just a book. We’ll tape it back together. Okay, honey? Just don’t run away like that. You scared us so much.”
Onion appears and his haggard face instantly turns to joy at the sight of Cracker Jack. He kneels down and the three of them make a family huddle.
Finally they break apart. Cracker Jack’s legs wrap around his mother’s waist. He reaches his arms around his father’s neck, so they are all still connected. Dumpling notices me standing there.
“You found him,” she says.
“He was at the tracks,” I explain.
Onion comes over and embraces me, whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over.
“What happened?” Dumpling asks. “We thought you’d made it onto the train for sure. We thought you’d be home by now.”
“You have to leave,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Onion asks, frowning.
I tell them about being chased by the rail bulls; about falling and thinking they’d killed Shadow, and what I’d overheard about their plan to burn down Hobo Town. “They would have killed me. It’s serious. You have to leave.”
Onion mutters under his breath, “I knew it. Newbies.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I know if they hadn’t found me, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault.”
Nothing But Blue Page 15
