Beware the Wild (17 page)

“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

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

W
HILE 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 superstitious 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
M
s 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.

“Eaten anything? No. I just need her to remember.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, shug, I don't give charms to anyone that wants them. Only folks that
need
them. Like this boy did. Anyone foolish enough to swallow a piece of the swamp risks going mad unless they got a charm to keep their brains clear. But if she don't need one, it's safer that she don't have one—if she don't already remember those that've gone, she'll be happier remaining that way.”

Without meaning to, she's filled in more gaps than I could've hoped for. Why Heath started to go mad, why he stopped, why we are the ones to remember. It's all there.

“I know how to work the Shine. So, please, ma'am, sell me a charm or tell me what words you use to make them and I'll do it myself.”

Her eyebrows shoot up at that. “It's not a good idea to go messing in that business, and I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be helping you to do it.”

She folds her arms across her chest and fixes us with an impassive look.
How does this woman manage to infuriate me so?
I shouldn't have bluffed. I've got no idea how to make a charm. And I don't even want to think about how many things could go wrong if I pick the wrong words.

“Mrs. Clary, ma'am.” Heath leans forward with his arms on the counter. It makes his shoulders look broad and sturdy—authoritative. “With all due respect, you might be right and we should stay away from the swamp, but if we don't get help from you, we'll get it from someone, some
where
else. It's up to you, really, how we go about it.”

He puts words together so easily. I can hear exactly how he's plucking at her adult sensibilities to get the answer we want. I couldn't have done it, but Heath makes it all sound so easy and logical. Then, before my very eyes, Old Lady Clary transforms from stubborn old woman into something more austere. Still, her mouth is a tight, unbending line.

“You know I've been over the fence already,” I say, pushing Heath's groundwork a little further. “I saw him, Mrs. Clary. I saw my brother and what he's become. . . . I can't leave him there. No matter what you say, I'm going to try to save him, and I need all the help I can get.”

“Every bit as stubborn as your granddaddy,” she mutters before taking a long drink of her water. “All right, I'll give you one, but you'd better be sure. Not everyone can hang on to multiple realities if you know what I mean, and this town's got all the Featherhead Fred it can take.”

If there's anyone capable of dealing with this sort of confusion, it's Candy. “Yes, ma'am, I'm sure.”

At that, she ducks beneath the counter and rummages around in hidden drawers, muttering to herself the whole time. It's enough to capture Candy's attention. She makes big, baffled eyes at me, but I shrug. The good thing about being old is that you can get away with a lot of crazy without people making too big a fuss. Candy only rolls her eyes to let me know her patience has worn thin and joins us at the register.

Finally, Old Lady Clary reappears and presses a woven leather circle into my hand. It's not the prettiest thing, but it'll have to do. I reach for my money, but she clucks her tongue.

“Not this time, shug. You hold on to your money and promise me you kids'll be careful.”

“Yes, ma'am, we promise,” I say hurriedly. “C'mon, Candy.”

Before I can step away from the counter, the same wave of nausea I felt when Fisher bound Shine into my wounds crashes over me, and my vision clouds. I lean forward—I
can see how firmly my hand presses against the counter, but can't feel it—and then it's gone.

A rushing ocean fills my ears and there's a tickle in my nose. Behind the waves are voices, cresting and falling, reaching for me, trying to tease me from the surge. It seems a long time til they punch through, but I'm content to stay in this fuzzy place, this cotton ball space where I'm not hot or cold, just quiet.

“I think she's waking up.” The voice is suddenly clear and very close.

I open my eyes. The world is a smear, and something pinches my waist.

“Pull it together, Saucier. C'mon, wake up!”

“I think I should give her mother a call,” says another voice.