Otherwood

by Pete Hautman

“Mostly invisible, but he’s gray sometimes too.”

  Stuey and Elly ate their hamburgers and potato salad at the kids’ table, a smaller version of the long picnic table where the adults were gathered. Stuey’s mom was talking about how the Westdale Preservation Society was trying to save the woods from developers.

  “We don’t need another gigantic shopping mall full of trashy gift shops and fast-food joints,” his mom was saying.

  Stan Kimball spoke up. “Anne, I agree with you that nature is important. That’s why Forest Hills Development is promising to preserve part of Westdale Wood as a public park.”

  “I’ve seen their proposal,” Elly’s dad said. He was on the preservation society too. “They’re promising to turn ten acres into a glorified picnic area. That means they’ll flatten the other five hundred ninety acres! Do you really want to look out your window and see the back end of a megamall?”

  Mr. Kimball shrugged. “People have to shop somewhere. I’m sure Forest Hills can come up with a plan that will make everybody happy.”

  “Or nobody happy,” Stuey’s mom said.

  “What are they talking about?” Elly asked.

  “The preservation society,” Stuey said.

  “Borrrrring!”

  “I guess they don’t want the woods to turn into a shopping center.”

  “That won’t happen,” Elly said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I am the Queen of the Wood, and I won’t let them.” She leaned closer to Stuey and whispered, “I have magical powers.”

  Elly’s intensity was irresistible. He liked that she was the magical Queen of the Wood, and that she said things out loud that he only let himself imagine.

  “I know where there’s a fairy circle in the woods,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll show you sometime.”

  “I found a turkey nest with eighteen eggs in it.”

  “Do you go in the woods a lot?”

  “All the time,” Elly said.

  “Me too. I saw a fox once.”

  “Foxes are my loyal subjects.”

  “What about raccoons?”

  “I don’t like them. They tip over our garbage.”

  The adults were getting louder — especially Stan Kimball.

  “I think it’s great that you want to save the trees and stuff, but this development could lower property taxes for every one of us, not to mention all the jobs it’ll create.”

  “Doesn’t your firm handle real estate and property law, Stan?” said Mr. Frankel.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Your firm would pick up a lot of clients, right, Stan?” Mr. Frankel said.

  “Everyone would benefit! You have to look at the big picture — you can’t stop progress!”

  “You call tearing down a six-hundred-acre forest progress? I call it a travesty.”

  “Look, Hiram, you can hug all the trees you want, but you have to face reality. What you call a forest I call an overgrown derelict golf course full of mosquitoes and ticks and poison ivy and Lord knows what else. Would you let your kid play out there?” He gestured toward the gate leading into the woods.

  “As a matter of fact, Stan, I do,” said Elly’s dad.

  “He lets me go in the woods,” Elly whispered to Stuey, “but my mom doesn’t like it.”

  “My son plays out there all the time,” Stuey’s mom said. “Better than having him staring at a screen all day long like some kids.” She looked pointedly at Teresa Kimball, who was texting on her cell phone.

  Stan Kimball’s face and neck had turned red.

  “I suppose you’d as soon forage for berries and roots to feed your family, but most people want more. Civilization is happening whether you like it or not!”

  “I think his eyeballs might explode,” Elly whispered.

  Stuey didn’t laugh. Stan Kimball scared him, and he didn’t like him yelling at his mom.

  “Calm down, Stan,” said Mr. Frankel. “We’re trying to have a meaningful conversation here!”

  “Why are they all talking so loud?” Elly said. Stan Kimball was going on about taxes and jobs again.

  “I think whoever yells the loudest wins,” Stuey said.

  Elly Rose said, “Do you want to see my magic swing?”

  No one noticed them slip away. As soon as Elly closed the back gate behind them, the strident adult voices were replaced by the sounds of birds and wind and shivering leaves. Before them was a broad, descending slope studded with thick-trunked oaks and almost no underbrush. Acorns crunched beneath their feet.

  “Sometimes I eat acorns,” Elly said. “Like the turkeys and squirrels.”

  “Don’t acorns make you sick?”

  “Not if you just eat one. They’re kind of bitter though.”

  “The woods are different on this side,” Stuey said. “The trees are bigger.”

  “I know. That’s why my side is better.”

  “My side has the fairy circle.”

  “Do you ever see them? The fairies?”

  “No, but you can tell they’re there.”

  “What about the bears? I heard there are lots of bears over there.”

  “I’ve never seen any bears.”

  “You don’t see them. They just jump out at you. But don’t worry — as long as you’re with me you’re safe.”

  Stuey didn’t believe her about the bears, but he pretended he did. With Elly Rose, pretending was fun.

  “Do you come out here a lot?” he asked.

  “I told you. I’m the Queen of the Wood.”

  “Well, on the other side, I’m King of the Wood.”

  “No you’re not,” Elly said with utter conviction. “You are my Knight of the Wood.” She picked up a stick and tapped him on the shoulder. “I so dub thee.”

  They walked across the slope and soon came to the edge of a ravine about twenty feet across and ten feet deep. The bottom was a tumble of mossy rocks and broken branches. From the overhanging limb of an oak hung a grapevine as thick as Stuey’s wrist. The end of the vine dangled over the center of the ravine.

  “That’s my swing,” Elly said. “You have to go get it and bring it up here.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because you are my knight-in-waiting.”

  Stuey had never heard of a knight-in-waiting, but he climbed down into the ravine, grabbed the end of the vine, and dragged it up to the lip.

  “Thank you, noble sir,” said Elly, taking the vine.

  Stuey looked up the vine to the limb where it was attached. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “It’s an unbreakable magic vine. Watch.” She gripped the vine, took a few steps back, ran forward, and threw herself off the edge of the ravine. She swung down, her feet almost touching the bottom, then up the far side to land lightly with such grace that Stuey could almost believe the magic was real and she really was Queen of the Wood.

  “Here I come!” she yelled, and swung back across the abyss. She handed the vine to Stuey. “Your turn.”

  Stuey gripped the vine in both hands, backed up as far as it would let him, ran at the ravine, and leaped.

  There was a moment of lightness and freedom, the vine went taut — then tore loose.

  Bright-green mossy rocks rushed up at him.

  The first thing Stuey saw when he came to was Mr. Frankel’s bristly chin, and beyond that the tops of trees, and his ears were filled with the sound of adults talking excitedly. They were moving. He was being carried through the woods, and everything hurt.

  The doctor told him he had a concussion. Stuey had heard of concussions. It was when your brain got rattled around in your head.

  “A mild concussion,” the doctor said as he shone a light in Stuey’s eye. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your skull.”

  “It feels like I did,” Stuey said. His head was throbbing.

  “I’m not surprised,” said the doctor. “That’s quite a bump you have.”

 
Stuey reached up and gingerly touched the lump on his head. His mom was leaning forward in her chair with an anxious expression.

  The doctor held up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Twelve,” Stuey said.

  The doctor chuckled.

  “Just three,” Stuey said. “But they’re a little blurry.”

  The doctor looked at Stuey’s mom. “He’ll be fine, but he’ll have to take it easy for a while.” He looked at Stuey. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “I guess.”

  “That means no TV, no computer, no reading —”

  “No reading?” Stuey’s mom said.

  “Total brain rest,” said the doctor. “Keep him inside and quiet as much as possible. No loud music, no games, no visitors.”

  “For how long?”

  “Just for the next few days. He might sleep a lot. Sleep is good. Other than the bump on the head, he has a sprained wrist and numerous contusions. He’s a very lucky boy.”

  Stuey did not feel lucky. But he did feel tired, as if he was about to doze off right there in the emergency room. They put his wrist in a purple plastic splint with Velcro straps. He fell asleep in the car on the way home.

  The day after he cracked his head, Stuey was resting his brain in bed and having the most boring birthday of his entire life. His mom had bought him a set of Nature DVDs — Stuey loved animal shows — but she wouldn’t let him watch them. The doctor had said no TV, no reading, no anything. The boredom cure.

  He was lying on his back staring at the cracks in the ceiling when the doorbell rang. He heard his mom answer it, then voices, then footsteps.

  “Just five minutes,” his mother said. “He’s really not supposed to have visitors.”

  A moment later Elly Rose was standing next to his bed, peering down at him.

  “You look the same,” she said.

  “You can’t see a concussion,” Stuey informed her. The bump on his head had gone down. “But I have this.” He showed her his plastic splint. “I sprained my wrist.”

  “Well, at least you got something,” she said.

  “Did you come through the woods to get here?”

  “I rode my bike. It’s two miles.”

  “Your parents let you ride that far?”

  “My mom says I’m a free-range kid. I get to go wherever I want as long as I wear my helmet and tell her where I’m going. Only I didn’t tell her I was coming here because she’d say it’s too far.”

  “What’s the farthest you ever went?”

  Elly thought for a moment. “This is the farthest. You live in a weird neighborhood. There’s hardly any houses over here. Are there any other kids?”

  “Not really. Just Teresa Kimball and the Charleston twins.”

  “You don’t have any friends here?”

  “I used to be friends with Jack Kopishke, but he moved. I have friends at school, but they don’t live around here so I don’t see them much in the summer.”

  Elly nodded seriously. “Me too. I mean, we just moved here so I don’t really know anybody yet. Except you and Jenny Garner. Jenny’s my friend who lives on my block. But you’re my soul mate. Anyway, I came to say I’m sorry you got hurt.” She took a breath and said, “It was dangerous and irresponsible of me to make you swing on the vine, and I apologize profusely for my negligence.”

  Stuey stared at her, surprised by all the big words coming out of her mouth.

  “My dad told me to say that part,” Elly said.

  “That’s okay. I’m sorry I broke your swing. I guess the magic didn’t work so good.”

  “You must have different magic,” Elly said.

  I have magic? Stuey thought. He remembered the deadfall, and the voices. Was that his magic?

  “I brought you a get-well present.” She handed him a metal-and-glass disk with a needle in the middle, like a watch with one hand. The needle wiggled when he moved it.

  “It’s a compass,” Elly said. “So you always know where I am. My house is straight east of here. With a compass you can always find me.”

  “Is it magic?”

  “It might be a magical cure for concussions. It used to be my grandpa’s, I think. Anyway, I found it in some of his stuff. It’s really old. You can put a string through the hole and wear it.”

  “Thank you.” Stuey hoped the magic compass worked better than her magic vine.

  “It’s also a birthday present.”

  Stuey had forgotten it was her birthday too.

  “I didn’t get you anything,” he said.

  “That’s okay. You can owe me.”

  Stuey’s mom poked her head in the door. “Time to go, Elly. Stuey has to rest now.”

  Some time later, Stuey’s mom brought him a glass of apple juice.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Pretty good. Mom, what’s a soul mate?”

  “A soul mate is like a close friend, someone who completely understands you.”

  “Like a best friend?”

  “Yes, but more like someone who makes you whole. Like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.”

  “Can soul mates have secrets?”

  She laughed. “Everybody has secrets, Stuey. But don’t think about it too hard — you’re supposed to be resting your brain. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  After she left, Stuey got out of bed and took a shoelace from some sneakers that didn’t fit him anymore. He strung the lace through the hole in the compass and put it around his neck and went back to bed, the compass needle quivering just above his heart.

  He drifted into something like sleep, but not sleep. Eyes closed, he felt himself floating, the same way he had felt when he was lying on the stone slab, only now he felt his new best friend’s small, warm hand on his chest.

  On the second day of Stuey’s brain rest, he wasn’t as sleepy. His mom let him read a comic book. On the third day, she let him watch one of the Nature DVDs. It was about foxes. On the fourth day, he went outside and helped his mom pick beetles off her rose bushes. On the sixth day, she took him back to the doctor.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” the doctor asked.

  “Three.”

  “Exactly right.” The doctor looked in Stuey’s eyes, examined the tender spot where he’d hit his head, and checked his wrist. “The swelling is down. How does it feel?”

  “Good.”

  “Let’s leave this brace on your wrist for a couple more days. Other than that, you’re good to go.”

  “I’m unconcussed?”

  “I don’t remember that term from medical school, but yes, you are unconcussed, or nearly so. TV, reading, light exercise — that’s all fine. But take it easy, okay? No more Tarzan stunts. And be sure to wear a helmet when you ride your bike.”

  The next day, without telling his mother, Stuey set off into the woods with his new compass and his backpack to visit Elly Rose. Elly would be impressed that he had walked all the way through the woods. He had a birthday present for her — a picture of a fox that he drew on his mom’s good sketchbook paper. He knew Elly liked foxes, and it was one of his best pictures.

  Stuey followed the compass east. Usually he stayed on the deer trails, but the compass took him through unfamiliar areas. He pushed through buckthorn and nettles, stopping every few minutes to check his bearings. At one point — he was about halfway across the woods — he looked up from his compass and found himself facing the deadfall.

  The tree trunks seemed to have rearranged themselves slightly. He circled the deadfall until he found the opening. He took off his backpack and crawled inside. Everything was the same, except for a pile of acorns in the smallest nook. Probably a squirrel’s cache. He stood on the stone slab and looked at his compass. The slab was pointing east and west. He grabbed the lever branch and pushed it up. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes and tried again.

  The deadfall creaked and moaned, and he felt his stomach move, like when an elevator
goes down. Startled, he let go of the lever and opened his eyes. Everything looked the same. He went back outside. Nothing had moved. It must have been his imagination.

  He opened his backpack, took out an apple, and ducked back inside. He set the apple in the nook beside the acorns. A present for the squirrel. Or the ghosts.

  The deadfall creaked and sighed, as if saying thank you.

  “You’re welcome,” Stuey said. His words were absorbed by the dead branches. A moment later he heard what sounded like distant laughter, and a cough.

  Back outside, Stuey checked his compass and continued on his way. The earth became spongy, and shortly he came upon a cattail-fringed pond. Dozens of blue dragonflies hovered over the still surface. He found a stick and threw it as hard as he could; it splashed down halfway across. Dragonflies scattered.

  He continued around the edge of the pond, through a marshy area, stepping from hummock to hummock to avoid the many small sinkholes. Several times he sank up to his ankles and had to back up and search for a new way across.

  By the time he made it to the other side of the marsh his feet were soaked and his head felt as if it was floating. Maybe he hadn’t completely recovered from his concussion.

  He sat down on a rotting log and drank a juice box to revive himself. Looking down at his sodden, mud-caked jeans and sneakers, he thought that maybe Elly wouldn’t be so impressed after all. But he had come this far. He continued his journey. His legs felt heavy. The land rose, and he was soon at the base of the slope leading up to Elly’s neighborhood. He followed the edge of a ravine up the hill until he saw the broken grapevine tangled among the boulders at the bottom. One of those rocks had tried to split open his skull.

  “Stupid rock,” he said.

  A wave of dizziness almost sent him over the edge. Stuey backed away and continued up the hill. Minutes later he let himself through the gate into the Frankels’ backyard, so tired he could barely stand. He sat down on the chaise longue to rest and closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

  Something was tickling his nose. Stuey pawed at it, then opened his eyes.

  Elly Rose was standing over him holding a long black feather, staring at him intently.