The House in Poplar Wood

by K. E. Ormsbee

  With watering eyes, Gretchen watched as the petals curled in the liquid. Then nothing remained of the flower, and the liquid memory turned from clear to electric blue. An image flashed in Gretchen’s mind—a birthday cake slathered in pink-whipped frosting, a bunch of gold balloons tied to a chair. Gretchen felt a twinge of remorse, uttered a silent sorry to whoever’s memory she’d taken, never to return. Then the image passed, and all that remained was the blue liquid before her. It was congealing, despite the flame Felix held beneath it.

  And again, Gretchen knew: It was time.

  She grabbed the Book of Rites from the window ledge, where Lee had placed it. The poem there was only three lines long. Gretchen spoke the words aloud: “Now convene, oh mighty Shades, whether day or night. Stand witness two against the one, for errant deeds must be set right, till summoning work is done.”

  All was silent.

  The Rite settled upon the room.

  Gretchen closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she toppled back in shock.

  Three figures stood before her. On the left was a woman dressed in a white lace dress. She had flowing light hair, and a circlet of diamonds ran across her throat. Memory.

  On the right stood a figure dressed in a scarlet robe, with a sharp jaw and short, curly hair. A smirk switched up Passion’s face, as though he or she—Gretchen couldn’t say which—had just heard an excellent joke.

  And there, in the middle, stood Death, looming over Gretchen like a weather-bent tree. He wore a fine black suit, and his cuff links winked in the red candle’s light. In one hand, he held a silver pocket watch. His gaze resembled a dark and yawning cave.

  I did it, Gretchen thought. Me, a secondborn. I really did it. It really worked.

  Then, Memory spoke. “Why have you brought us here, summoner?” Her voice rang out like clinking crystal. “Who has trespassed against the humans of Boone Ridge?”

  Gretchen worked hard to force sound from her mouth. “D-Death. He’s the one who’s on trial.”

  “Very young to be summoning,” said a playful coo that belonged to Passion. “Very young.”

  “Maybe,” said Gretchen, straightening. “But I know what I’m doing, and I know how this works. You and Memory have to stand in judgment of Death for what he’s done.”

  Another voice filled the room, as gentle as a tap upon the shoulder. “Pray tell, what am I supposed to have done?”

  Steeling herself, Gretchen faced Death.

  “You murdered Essie Hasting,” she said. “She and Asa asked for the Wishing Stone to be free of you all. To stop being apprentice and summoner. So you killed Essie. And you liked it, too. Because she was Passion’s apprentice, and you wanted revenge.”

  Passion no longer smirked. Fire crackled in their eyes. “Excuse me?”

  Death adjusted one of his cuff links, looking magnificently bored. “It’s nothing worse than what you did to me, dear Passion. Forcing me to be bound here like a dog with Memory for a companion. We’re even, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You.” Passion said like it was a poisonous word.

  “Me,” Death echoed calmly. “And if you’re going to banish me, so be it. It was worth it, to watch your precious apprentice die.”

  An inhuman scream filled the room, so loud that Gretchen put her hands to her ears. She looked on in horror as Passion raised their fists in the air, mouth gaping in rage. And terrifying as the spectacle was, Gretchen began to hope. It was working. The Trial Rite was working.

  At the very moment Passion’s scream became unbearable, it ceased, replaced by words: “We must banish him. He must pay.”

  Memory fluttered her long lashes and spoke. “Death, the charges laid against you are that you acted beyond the bounds of your station. You took the life of Essie Hasting, Passion’s apprentice, out of vengeance and before her allotted time.”

  “These are the charges,” said Passion, rage-filled eyes fixed on Death. “Memory, how do you find the defendant, Death?”

  “Guilty,” Memory said, with no hesitation. “Passion, how do you find the defendant, Death?”

  “Guilty,” said Passion, uttering the word like a curse.

  All three Shades of Boone Ridge then turned their eyes upon Gretchen. They were, it seemed, waiting for her to act.

  “I—I—” she stammered.

  Over the past few days, Gretchen had been convincing herself that she could do the Trial Rite. That her birth order didn’t matter, and neither did the fact that she had not been trained. Her mind and determination—that’s what would get her through in the end. And they had. But Gretchen hadn’t thought through what to do if everything went according to plan. What was she supposed to do now? How did she banish Death? She looked desperately to Lee, who looked at the Book of Rites and back at Gretchen, shaking his head to say There’s nothing here.

  Gretchen took a steadying breath. She replanted her feet and lifted her chin toward the Shades. If she had summoned them, then she was a summoner. It was time to act like one, even if that meant making things up. She thought of what she knew about normal, human trials. The jury or judge declared the defendant innocent or guilty. And if guilty . . . then came the sentencing.

  “Death,” she said, resolved. “By the . . . um, power vested in me by your fellow Shades, I hereby sentence you to be banished from Boone Ridge, never to return again. And when you leave, all your deals will be null and void . . . and . . . stuff.” She winced but kept her chin held high.

  Death regarded Gretchen coolly, as though she had merely stepped on his toes.

  “Very well, young Whipple,” he said. “But your brother’s life is still forfeit.”

  “No, it isn’t!” cried Gretchen. “Not if you’re banished. Any agreements you had—”

  “Oh, but Asa didn’t have an agreement. He had a desire, born deep from his heart of hearts. You can banish me to the ends of the earth, but I am not the Wishing Stone. Its work cannot be undone. That matter’s quite out of my hands. I must merely take the life it’s already claimed.”

  “But—!” Gretchen looked desperately to where Asa lay, prone and damp with blood.

  Death drew closer. “Would you like to know an agreement that will be broken, though? A little arrangement I made with your father.”

  He asked to live forever.

  Gretchen recalled Asa’s words, and as though he could hear them, Death smiled. “You understand, don’t you, that if I am banished, Mayor Whipple will eventually die? Would you like to be responsible for killing your own father?”

  Gretchen opened her mouth, and shut it. Her father’s agreement. She had not thought of that. It was such a new revelation, and there had been no time.

  “Don’t listen to him!” said a voice behind Death. Felix. “He’s trying to trick you. Your father didn’t have a right to make that deal, Gretchen. It’s natural that everyone dies. You wouldn’t be killing him, it’s only natural.”

  “SILENCE, BOY.” Death turned upon Felix in a furious whirl. “You are a servant. A voiceless set of hands and feet, made to do my bidding. You have no say here!”

  It was enough to shake Gretchen from her speechlessness.

  “No, you shut up!” she shouted at Death. “Leave him alone, you—you bully! That’s what you are. You might have power, and you might make deals, but at the end of the day you’re no better than stupid Emma or Dylan. You’re nothing but a bully, and you’ve bullied long enough. So my dad will die the way he would’ve without a deal. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You don’t get to threaten him, or me. You don’t get to threaten anyone again. We’ve banished you, Death. You’re no longer welcome here. So leave.”

  Death’s rage had vanished. His eyes shone with something Gretchen could not describe.

  “I cannot disobey,” he said. “But I’ve one last matter to attend to on my way out: your brother’s wish.”

  He reached into his suit coat and removed a pair of metal pincers.

  Gretchen tried to move but found
her feet were frozen in place. In horror, she watched as Death opened the pincers and lunged toward Asa’s body.

  Lee slammed his hands against the sides of the open window, as though the air there were made of glass. “Gretchen!” he shouted.

  “ASA!” Gretchen screamed.

  There was a flurry of light. Gretchen stumbled as two figures, red and white, pushed past her. Passion gripped Death’s left shoulder, Memory his right.

  “You’ve done enough damage here,” said Passion. “We will see to the rest.”

  “No!” shouted Death. “It’s my right. It’s—”

  “You have no rights,” said Memory. “We banish you.”

  A sound ripped through the room, loud and thundering. Gretchen dropped to her knees and clutched her ears, trying to block out the noise. She heard shouts from the others, the rattling of furniture, the clanging of dishes.

  Then, silence.

  Pain burst in Felix’s right eye.

  He screamed. His eye was burning, burning. A hand touched his shoulder, but Felix shrugged it away. He sank to the floor, and realized he was no longer screaming but crying.

  The pain faded.

  Then came the silence.

  Felix opened his unseeing eye, and with it he saw—nothing. Nothing at all.

  Death was no longer in the examination room.

  And Felix knew: Death would not be in this room ever again.

  Gretchen pressed her palms against the floorboards and opened her eyes. Asa lay dead still upon the examination table. Passion was leaning over him, brushing hair from his forehead as though he were a child in need of tending. Memory stood close by, looking on in a blinkless gaze.

  Then, Asa began to sputter and cough.

  “Asa!” Gretchen tore to her feet and raced to his side.

  “Huh,” he wheezed. “Guess you can do a Rite after all.”

  “Shut up,” Gretchen said happily. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  She pulled away the bloodied cloths from his chest, but there she stopped short. The bleeding had not ceased. Thick red liquid still oozed from Asa’s skin.

  “What’s happening?” Gretchen cried. “Why hasn’t it stopped?”

  “Death spoke true to you,” said Passion, in a gentle drawl. “The work of a Wishing Stone cannot be undone.”

  “What?” Gretchen looked frantically to Asa’s blood-drained face. “No. That can’t be right. We did the Rite; we banished Death. It can’t work this way. That’s not . . . that’s not fair!”

  “My dear,” said Passion, “if your brother’s deepest desire was for death, then that is what the Wishing Stone will grant him. That wish cannot be un-granted. Your brother’s life will linger until a new Death arrives. Then, it will be taken for good.”

  “NO!” Gretchen slammed her hand on the table. “There must be something you can do! You’re Shades. You’re the keepers of the Wishing Stone. If anyone can make this better, you can. So do it. Make it better. Make it right!”

  Memory raised her eyes to Passion’s. Over Gretchen’s head, they seemed to speak in silent conversation. They turned to Gretchen and, in time with each other, shook their heads.

  Gretchen turned to the two Vickery brothers—Lee at the window and Felix on the ground. They looked just as helpless and answerless as she was. “But,” she said to the Shades, “he’s my brother. He’s a summoner! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Memory looked over Asa’s body, her face wrinkled in distaste. “We do not much care for Whipple summoners. Death acted beyond his bounds, but so did your father. Perhaps it would be best to let the Whipple line fade away. Allow a new family of summoners to take their place.”

  “My desire . . . my desire . . . wasn’t for death.”

  Asa was pale, his breaths shuddering out, shallow and frail, but with effort, he was speaking. He coughed weakly into his fist, staining his knuckles with blood. “What I desired—what I wanted all along . . . I wanted to be free of the Whipple name.” Asa pointed a shaking finger to Felix and Lee. “Look at them. They’re practically hermits, freaks. But their lives aren’t part of a political scheme. Dad got it all wrong. It’s the apprentices here who work for our town, not for themselves. Apprentices like—like Essie, who only did what she was asked. Who only wanted to be free. That’s what we wanted: just to be free of our histories.”

  “Asa,” said Gretchen. “You never told me that. I never knew.”

  “Enough of human matters,” said Memory, sounding impatient. “Passion, there is no business left for us here.”

  Gretchen’s mind turned over frantically. She gripped the table, her eyes alight with a sudden, searing idea. “Asa!” she cried. “If that’s what you most desired, then there’s another way. You don’t have to die to be rid of the Whipple name.” She turned toward the Shades. “Don’t you see? He doesn’t have to die. He could stop being a Whipple. He could be a Hasting instead.”

  Memory pressed a pale hand to her temple, surprised, it seemed, by the sudden suggestion. Passion, however, kept steady eyes on Gretchen. “What are you proposing, young Whipple?”

  Gretchen pointed to Passion. “You need a new apprentice now that Essie is gone. But we Whipples already know about you Shades. Asa would be easy to train.”

  Passion’s lips parted, a very slight O. “Are you suggesting that this boy would replace my darling apprentice?”

  “But he wouldn’t be a Whipple anymore, don’t you see? Not if he took on the Hasting name. That is”—Gretchen turned to Asa, her eyes wide and pleading—“if . . . if he wanted to.”

  Asa continued to cough, weak and wheezing, into his hand.

  “I know,” said Gretchen. “I know it’s not what you wanted. You said yourself: The Wishing Stone has its own way of doing things. That things don’t always turn out the way you want, that people die. But you don’t have to die. Not if your deepest desire is to be a Hasting.”

  She clutched his free hand, prying its bloodied fingers loose to reveal the Wishing Stone. “Wish for that, Asa,” she whispered. “Make that your deepest desire. Please.”

  Asa shut his eyes. He folded the Wishing Stone back into his palm, drawing in rattling breaths.

  Gretchen looked up at Passion. “It can work that way, can’t it?”

  Asa had grown very still. Gretchen watched his chest rise and fall, holding in her own breath. Then, to her surprise, Passion reached out and placed a hand across Asa’s worn face.

  “What!” Gretchen shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “Claiming the boy,” Passion said.

  Gretchen watched as, slowly, Asa’s face filled back up with color, turning the same scarlet hue of Passion’s robe. Then Passion stepped away. Though the examination table and Gretchen herself were a terrible mess of blood, the mysterious outpouring had stopped. Asa was whole again. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sit. He looked as much alive now as when he’d fought with her on the staircase. In fact, Gretchen thought, he looked more alive than she had ever seen him before.

  Gretchen cried out, flinging her arms around him. His body stiffened at her touch, but after a moment, relaxed.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Gretchen whispered. “About what happened with Essie? It wasn’t your fault.”

  Asa stiffened once more. “No one would have believed that. No one would have believed me. Not even Dad. I think . . . I think he suspected. I think I’m another reason why he covered the whole thing up.”

  Gretchen wanted to argue, but she wondered if Asa wasn’t right after all. The people of Boone Ridge only saw what they wanted to see. How would they understand that Essie Hasting’s death had to do with a thirteen-year grudge among Shades, or a terrible deal their mayor had made long ago? How would they understand that Asa—who smiled all wrong and picked fights for fun—had cared for a girl with all his heart?

  Gretchen understood her brother, though—maybe not completely, maybe only in very small part. But she knew him better now than she had before. Now, when
he was fated to leave her. The full weight of Gretchen’s proposal fell upon her: She’d saved Asa’s life, but only by bargaining that life away. She’d asked for him to be an apprentice, of all things. Panicked, Gretchen pulled away, looking to Passion.

  “You claimed him?”

  Nodding, Passion said, “His life will do as a substitute. I will train him in the way I once trained Essie under the supervision of her mother, Mrs. Hortense Hasting.”

  “But . . . you’re not taking him right away, are you?”

  Gretchen knew but dreaded the answer: Asa would not be picking her up from school again, on his noisy motorbike or in noisier Whipplesnapper. She would never again catch him smoking in the backyard, or hear his stupid rock music blasting through her bedroom wall.

  “Gretch.” Asa touched her arm. “It’s better this way.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “But I—I didn’t think about—”

  “You suggested it, but the Wishing Stone wouldn’t have changed its course if I didn’t change my own mind. And . . . this is for the best. It’s the one way I can stay close to Essie. I can honor her memory.”

  Gretchen’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Asa. I didn’t know. . . . I . . . didn’t know.”

  “And I didn’t know my kid sister was so smart.” Asa smirked, then turned his eyes to Passion. “I’m ready. Do what you want.”

  And, for the first time in a long time, one of the Vickery boys spoke.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” said Felix, getting to his feet. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Asa. It’s your whole life—forever.”

  “I don’t really have a choice, kid. That was the deal.”

  “But!” Felix turned to Memory and Passion, who regarded him impassively. “I know what it’s like, to be an apprentice. No one should have to live that way. Not even a Whipple.”

  “That’s touching, kid,” said Asa, “but it seems like you had a worse time of it than most. Wasn’t that your boss that just got banished?”

  Felix said nothing to that.