Beware the Wild (10 page)

Something pink flashes between the trees ahead, but I don't see it clearly until I stumble into a small grove on the edge of a wide pond. In the center of the clearing, with roots that crawl over the bank and spill into the pond, is a cherry tree in full bloom.

It's so unexpected that I stop.

My heartbeat is furious in my ears, but I can't look away. Gnarled branches reach in all directions, each a flurry of elegant pink blossoms surrounded by muck and mire.
Shine twists through the ground in thick ropes; each of the long tendrils spirals away from the black roots.

Cautiously, I rest one hand on a low branch and listen, but there's no sound of the beast.
Did I lose him or is he simply toying with me? Does it matter?
Dipping beneath the heavy branches, I sit and resist the urge to panic.

I lost Nathan as soon as I'd found him and now I'm lost, too.

Little shining tendrils pull away from the roots of the tree to caress the tarnished silver on my wrist. I let them settle there and with my free hand brush my fingertips over a tendril that has the green-black sheen of mud. It feels delicate, but alive and real. Its edges are sticky and cling to my skin like cricket legs, gripping and releasing, pulling on me as I pull on it.

The air around me cools, and I have the sudden and fierce sensation of being watched. I spin and search the clearing, ready to run.

A figure lounges a few feet away, half hidden in shadows, but enough in the light that I can see it's a boy not much older than me. He rests an arm over the knee propped in front of him. It's an unbearably beautiful and commanding pose that's only accentuated by the strangely old-fashioned shirt he wears. His black hair sweeps away from his face as though pushed by a constant wind. But it's his eyes that pull my gaze: dark as mud and steady as rain. I can see the smile in them without having to find his lips.

“Sterling.” His voice is a murky whisper.

“I know you?” I reach into the foggiest parts of my memory for a name and find none. If he's from Sticks, he's no one I've ever met, but if Lenora May's story was even partially true, there's no telling how many people are trapped in here. His clothes aren't from this century, which means he's probably been here for decades. Another victim the swamp claimed and the world forgot.

“No,” he says. “But I've met your brother. I'm Fisher.”

I spring to my feet and close the distance between us. “Phineas? Where is he? Is he okay? Please, take me to him.”

It's only when he glances down that I realize not only have I tugged him to his feet, but I'm gripping both his hands. With an apology, I drop them and remove myself from his personal space.

“It's all right,” he soothes. “I can understand and sympathize, but I don't think taking you to him is the best idea. He's . . . not quite himself these days.”

“What do you mean?” A hum begins in my ears. Beetles and frogs and night birds provide a background chorus as shadows thicken.

Fisher stands close enough that he can speak low and be heard through the din.
”He's trapped. Someone trapped him in order to free themselves, and his cage, well, it's not a pretty sight.”

I can't tell if I'm furious or terrified. Probably both. “Lenora May. She appeared the day he went in, and everyone in town thinks she's always been there.”

His expression darkens. “Lenora May,” he says with so much knowing behind it that all my questions fall flat. “I
knew
she was up to something. She's always up to something.”

Vindication pushes me forward. “What's she done to Phin? If she's hurt him, I'll—”

Shine snaps around my neck and tightens a split second before Fisher's hand presses against my mouth. The shiver that assaults my spine tacks my feet to the ground. I'm suddenly six years old, hiding beneath my bed, keeping so still, so, so still.

“Don't. Don't threaten her.” He releases me just as quickly, the tendril uncoils, but I can't swallow for the rock in my throat. “Forgive me, Sterling,” he continues. “I don't mean to scare you, but this swamp listens. You must be careful what you say.”

It's another minute before I can speak. He stands so close. I take in his dark hair and eyes, his pale skin, the strange cut of his clothing, the way the swamp seems to lean toward him.
Does it obey him or fear him?
I wonder. Or does he simply know how to protect unwitting souls from it? As my adrenaline wanes, I find I'm practically cozy with his presence.

“What are you?”

His smile is sad when he answers. “Once, I was a boy. Now, the swamp is my home. I'm as much a part of it as it is of me.”

“A ghost?” This is the sort of question that should make me nervous. Any rational girl would be if she encountered a well-dressed, smooth-talking boy in the middle of the swamp. He paces the length of the clearing before answering, holding his hands behind him as though they might prevent him from thinking. The drape of his sleeves does little to hide the strength of his arms. All sorts of words spring to mind and none of them are the usual sort I'd use for boys my age. Like “poised” and “noble.” Mud coats his shoes and the bottom six inches of his dark pants, but it doesn't detract from his bearing.

He comes to a stop by the cherry tree, one hand resting on its branches. “I'm not sure what you'd call me, but I suppose ‘ghost' works well enough. I exist as a part of the swamp's magic. An extension of it, you could say. It keeps me alive, but only so long as I stay here.”

“And that's what Lenora May was, too?”

“Yes,” he says with more longing than I could unpack in a week. “It was not always the case. Long ago, she was a girl, like you, who wanted to be safe from a world that
would decide her fate for her. She escaped by bonding herself to the magic of the swamp. It was a desperate choice.”

I recognize the story. It's the same one Lenora May told in the car, only where she told it with anger, he tells it with something like sorrow. He holds his gaze away as he speaks.

“Over the years, her desperation turned into resentment and jealousy. She wanted to leave, but that was impossible, so she captured anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in the swamp. She was so viciously resentful of anyone who lived a normal life. I can't count the number of souls she's trapped here. I believe you encountered a few tonight.”

My terrifying flight through the swamp from that pale-faced beast is too close for comfort. What could anyone have done to deserve such a fate as that? I search the dark woods behind Fisher, and again I'm struck by the way even the Shine seems passive in his presence. There's no hint of concern about him and that serenity trickles into me until each of my nerves has calmed.

I ask, “One of them was—is—a friend. How can I free him?”

“Only Lenora May can free them, unfortunately.”

His body is so still as he talks. I study the slender line of his nose, the curl of his dark hair. It's a combination I've become reluctantly familiar with.

“You're her brother,” I say.

He nods. “And I love her, but she's become devious. She's been looking for ways to extend her reach beyond the boundaries of this little world. I'm afraid she'll not take kindly to the idea of you having found me.”

He falls quiet, watching me for a long moment. I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but I'm utterly unable to look away. Finally, having reached some conclusion, he shakes his head. “No, she won't like this at all,” he mutters, and plucks a blossom from the tree. Cupping it in his palms, he whispers through the gap in his thumbs. A glow seeps between his fingers, white and red and ochre.

“But I'm her brother and that means this is partly my fault. I will help you.” He moves to my side once again. “If it's in my power, I'll help you free your brother and remove Lenora May from your home. Take this.” He offers a small, perfectly formed cherry. “If you can slip this into her food, she'll be powerless against the pull of the swamp and will return. Once she's here, I should be able to reverse what she's done.”

The cherry looks unremarkable in my hand. Small, red, and perishable. “How?”

“It is of this swamp and anyone who eats it will be irresistibly called to return.” He seems amused at my skepticism and adds, “Where things come from
matters
.”

I roll the fruit from side to side before dropping it into my pocket. It seems so simple, so easy. But it sure didn't seem very difficult for Lenora May to cross the fence in the first place and take what didn't belong to her. If it's true, then I'm one bite away from saving my brother's life and putting my own world back to normal. That's a chance I'll gladly take.

“Thank you.” This could all end over breakfast. By tomorrow, Phin could be home where he belongs, cussing at his hair for being curly instead of straight. But he's been trapped for so long already. “Is he okay? Is he in pain?”

Fisher's smile is understanding and sympathetic. “I give you my word, he's in no pain, only trapped. In his mind, this is like a very strange dream. Confusing and mysterious, but nothing painful. I imagine your experience has been more painful than his.”

It's a comforting thought. For all the frustration I've experienced, it's been bearable. With a solution in my pocket, the burden I've carried for days feels lighter than ever. So long as Phin is safe and not in pain, I can focus on what needs to be done.

“How do I find you again?” I ask, thinking of the pale-faced beast. “For that matter, how do I get home?”

“It seems you have a knack for navigating the swamp already.” Shine sharpens his smile. “Don't fear. Your way home will be clear and as for finding me again, all you need do, my brave girl, is say my name. And I will find you.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

P
RETENDING IS THE SORT OF
lying I learned from my mama when I was six years old. When there's a bear living inside your house and he's got a tendency to get spitting mad, you don't tell anyone about it. You pretend it's normal. You ignore the spitting as best you can and clean up after. And when that bear gets to swinging his big paws, you pretend you're the clumsy one. After all, mishaps are bound to happen when you aren't paying attention. There's always a little piece of truth stuck inside a good pretending.

Wednesday morning I pretend there's nothing wrong inside my house. I roll out of bed and take the first shower, dodging Lenora May on my way out of the bathroom. Mama has a hot breakfast on the table when I come downstairs. Grits, eggs, and sausage all grease-glossed and gleaming under the kitchen lights. I pile a thin layer of eggs on a piece of toast and eat as much as my anxious stomach will allow before declaring that I've got to meet Candy and Abigail for a last-minute cram session. Mama pretends not to notice what's left on my plate, but Darold clears his throat in a significant way.

At school, I try to keep my mind off how to get this little cherry into Lenora May's mouth and focus on exams instead. At lunch, I share the news of my upcoming Heath date with Candy and Abigail, who decide this means we need an after-school prep session. I don't argue and within fifteen minutes of the final bell, we're in my bedroom
with every shirt I own draped around the room. A few are draped over Abigail, who, after plugging her iPod into my player and selecting something that sounds disturbingly like Country/Electronica, immediately climbed into my bed and shut her eyes.

“What's wrong with you, anyway, Beale?” Candy rips away the shirt covering Abigail's face and tosses it in the discard pile. Apparently, I won't be wearing pink. “You're infecting me with your yawns and I think it has a detrimental effect on my brain. If I got anything lower than an A minus on that history exam, it's your fault.”

Abigail's eyelids don't even flutter, but she lifts a choice finger, elegantly telling Candy how little she cares.

“Have you been studying late? Are you worried about your grades?” I ask. It seems unlikely. We all like good grades, and getting them is a condition of staying on the volleyball team in the fall, but Abigail's never been one to stress.

“Or,” Candy says, lowering the tank top she was considering with no love in her eyes, “is everything okay at home?”

Her family—even her twin sister, Valerie—hasn't been the most accepting, but they've never been cruel. Unless you consider private weekly meetings with the pastor cruel. They might be. Abigail never wants to share details.