Deadwood (6 page)

An ear-splitting noise tore through the silence. Part of the canopy crashed toward them with startling speed. Hannah and Martin dove out of the way of a thick branch.

“Holy crap,” Martin said, splayed out on the ground. This was the second time the tree had knocked him down in as many days. That tree was cursed, all right.

He straightened himself up and reached out a hand to Hannah. She seemed dazed and oblivious to the mud soaking into the back of her jeans. The branch had driven itself into the wet ground right where they had been standing. It could have killed them. Martin looked up—was it an accident? A message? Was the bad one playing games with them?

“That branch could have taken our heads off,” said Hannah. She stood and brushed off her muddy butt with one hand, still gently holding the green twig with the other. “You don't think the Spirit Tree meant to hurt us, do you?”

“I don't think so. It's the tree that's hurt,” Martin said. Had the tree felt pain when the limb tore off? He hoped not.

“It looks pretty bad today—like it's dying,” Hannah said. She tucked the twig into her bag.

“The curse is getting worse. Once the tree's dead, it's dead,” Martin said, a familiar disquiet creeping through his body. There was no trace of light in the tree. He thought of his grandmother's body, waxy in its coffin, cold to his last kiss. His mom had held him by the shoulders while he cried—back home on a bereavement leave that was way too short. His grandmother was gone. His mother was gone again, and he was stuck here with Aunt Michelle. Dead was dead.

“It's not dead yet,” Hannah said, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Maybe we can heal it before it's too late. That's why we're here.”

Martin eyed the tree up and down, from its gnarled roots to the yellowing leaves. It didn't look good, but it was the same tree he had tried to save yesterday. Maybe the Spirit Tree wasn't quite a friend, but it was his ally. His wild sylvan, even if it had almost dropped a branch on his head. Accidents happened.

“Right. So, let's get started,” he said at last.

“Okay,” Hannah said. “I'll take notes. You can go ahead any time.”

Martin looked at her, not sure what she was expecting him to do.

“Aren't you going to interrogate it?” she said, raising her eyebrows like a challenge.

Martin didn't know how to begin.
O mighty tree, tell us your secrets
. He'd sound like a lunatic. Or at least like some kind of live-action, role-playing loser. Which he was sometimes, but Hannah didn't have to know it. Instead he said, “Um, Hannah, let's try this your way. Notes first.”

“Okay. We have a trunkload of leads right there in the carvings, if we can figure them out.” She looked warily up to where the tree met the sky, maybe checking for more falling branches, then took a notebook and pen out of her messenger bag. “When my parents were growing up, Lower Brynwood was a good place to live. Better than Upper Brynwood, maybe. More fun. But something changed. Everyone thought the factories closing started all our bad luck, but what if the curse really started the troubles? What if
it
caused everything to collapse here?”

Martin shivered. He told himself that it was just evaporating sweat, not fear. “Maybe. But why? And how?”

“Let's think.” Hannah chewed one side of her mouth. “So, why would someone curse something—a person, a tree, whatever?”

“Usually revenge,” said Martin. Then he thought of the sorcerer clans in
Dragon Era
, and remembered how the Worlinzer sorceresses laid brutal curses that could drain a ranger's skill points, then turn around and use his talents against him. There was nothing worse than facing an enemy armed with powers they'd just stolen. “Or maybe to get something for themselves.”

“Okay,” said Hannah. “So, we're looking for someone with a grudge against Lower Brynwood, or a person with something to gain if the town went down the tubes.”

“If we figure out when the curse started, then we can find out what happened around the same time—who stole whose husband, who hit the bingo jackpot at St. Barnabas. Who lost and who won,” said Martin.

“Right!” Hannah's ponytail whipped back and forth as she got excited. “And that's how we'll find the guilty party.”

The bad one
, Martin thought. Did he really want to find somebody who was capable of slinging curses in real life? He swallowed. “So, when did the Spirit Tree tradition start? That's probably our best bet.”

“I don't know, exactly,” Hannah said, flipping to a blank page. “My mom said they didn't do it when she was young. So if we find the oldest carving, we'll find out when the curse started.”

“Yeah!” Martin said. “Maybe even something that tells us who set it—a witch's mark or something. A signature. A rune. Look, I didn't tell you before, but after you left, the tree called someone
the bad one
. If we find the bad one, we can figure out how to stop them.”

Hannah cocked her head. “Is there anything else you didn't tell me?”

“I wasn't holding out on you—you left me here, remember?” Martin felt himself getting hot again, despite his damp T-shirt.

“I won't do it again—we're a team now,” she said, as if a team were the most sacred thing in the world. She hesitated, and he waited for her to say something. She shook her head, as if shaking a thought away. She pointed to Martin's earbuds, still on either side of his head. “Do you have a camera on that thingie?”

“What?” Martin whipped off the iPod, reaching behind him as if he were double-jointed to shove it into his backpack before she could grab it. “No. It's really old.”

“I have my mom's camera. I'll take pictures, you take notes—write down everything you see, like a scientific field journal. Right now we won't know what's important and what's not.”

Martin jumped the first time the flash went off, thinking the lightning had returned, but they soon settled into a rhythm punctuated by the strobe of the camera. He sketched a diagram and tried to replicate the marks he saw, position and all.

“I can't read half these carvings,” he said. As the tree had grown, natural cracks and texture in the bark had obliterated some letters. There was some bad handiwork, too. Clearly those kids had never been Boy Scouts—or scholars, either.

“Then just draw what you see. Maybe it will make sense later,” Hannah said.

Rock on, class of 2004. Party like it's 1999
. In between the class sayings were random graffiti—names and bands and professions of love with creative spelling.
Van Halen. MJ + JB. I luv Jake. U2 4ever. To Brynwood 1997
.

Martin felt more and more disgusted. Who really wanted to immortalize such ridiculous sayings?

Hannah cringed.

“What? What did you see?” Martin asked. She pointed to the fresh words overlapping two of the oldest carvings—
Lo-B Rulz
.

“I can't believe I came here to be part of the ceremony yesterday,” she said. “Now it just seems stupid.” Her shoulders sagged. Then she said, “How about you? Find anything like a curse?”

“A few four-letter words, but nothing I don't see in the boys' bathroom every day,” he said, hoping she'd know he was joking.

She laughed, and he smiled. “You should see the girls' room,” she said. “Maybe you'd better not. So, what's the oldest carving you found?”

He scanned his list. “Looks like 1990.”

“Ha!” She held up her notebook like she just won at bingo. “I've got 1989—
‘Forever young, 9/15/89.”

The sun went behind a cloud and Martin shivered. “Sounds like something written on a gravestone.”

“Hey, take a look at this!” Hannah called out. Martin bent toward the carving beneath her finger. The bark had healed over, almost obscuring the figures, but the repeated symbol was still visible. “Could this be a code? Like the sign of the devil?”

“The sign of the devil is three sixes. This is six threes,” Martin said.

“I said a code. Or maybe the person who made it is dyslexic. These threes are backwards,” said Hannah.

“That's because they're not threes. They're Es,” he said, tracing the crude letters.

“Like an eye chart?” Hannah said. “See, there's a big one on top, then smaller ones in rows underneath.”

“Maybe,” Martin said. “But why would a witch put an eye chart on a tree?”

Hannah shrugged. “Waverly's dad is an optometrist. I'll ask him about it tomorrow.”

Martin was about to argue when he heard something large crashing through the brush—the sound was definitely too big to be a squirrel. He braced for another invader.

Hannah didn't look surprised when a tall blond guy appeared. Hannah's brother. Crap. Martin had hoped never to see him again. At least his thug teammates weren't with him.

“You came!” Hannah said, running up as if to hug him. The blond guy grinned, tossing his leather bag down to slip her into a headlock and ruffle her hair like a puppy's fur. He nodded at Martin, who didn't make eye contact, assessing the dangerous-looking implements that had fallen from the bag. What were those—loppers? A hand saw? Was he planning to take the whole tree down today?

“What's
he
doing here?” Martin said, trying to talk tough and ranger-like but sounding whiny even to his own ears.

“I asked him to stop by. He can help us heal the tree,” Hannah said.

“He's done enough already.” Martin clenched his fists. What could this dumb football player do other than mess things up even worse?

Hannah's brother shook his shaggy, streaky head. “Nick wasn't kidding about this kid,” he said to Hannah, as if Martin couldn't hear. “He's like a little Tasmanian Devil.”

Hannah threw her hands up, as if to signal that she thought Martin was crazy, too. Of course she'd be on her brother's side. Martin glared at them both, and then Hannah laughed.

“It's okay, Martin. This isn't Nick. This is our older brother, A.J. He graduated two years ago. He's a landscaper.”

“I'm your aunt's landscaper,” A.J. said, pointing to the logo on his forest-green T-shirt. “I work for Laughlin Landscaping and Tree Care.”

Martin's eyes widened in recognition, then embarrassment. “Oh. Sorry, man.” The brothers could've been twins.

“You should be sorry,” Hannah said. “He's going to help us figure out what's wrong with the tree. We don't know anything about plants, and he does. And the tree is in worse shape than we thought.”

“No kidding. What happened in the last two years?” A.J. asked, sizing the tree up. “That thing looks like kindling.”

“That's why I asked you to come. We need to act now to save it. It's part of our town's history.” She turned her wide eyes on Martin and said proudly, “A.J. studied horticulture in college.”

A.J. snorted. “For a semester at the community college. Still, that makes me more qualified than my boss.” He circled the tree as if he was looking for something, then stopped. He touched the letters on one inscription and read out loud,
“Victory will be ours
. I carved that. Didn't come true.” He paused, then looked up. “Huh. Well, this is an American beech tree. The bark is beginning to crack and blister, not just around the carvings, but all up and down the trunk.”

“I don't remember seeing that yesterday,” said Hannah, squinting.

“Huh.” He pushed back his floppy hair and scratched his head. “Looks like some kind of fungus or viral blight made its way into the wounds left by the carvings. I'll take some material samples and try to find out more. You got a camera?”

“Yeah,” Hannah said. “Mom's.”

“I hope you asked to borrow that. Anyway, get some close-ups.”

Martin gritted his teeth when A.J. pulled out a pocketknife. Not again. But A.J. scraped off some of the bark thoughtfully—surgically, even. He gathered some fallen wood too, picking up a few branches and examining them closely. Hannah snapped a few more shots, then patted the bark and stepped back next to Martin.

“How about we call it a day? I think I've photographed every square inch of this trunk already.” She leaned in closer to Martin and spoke softly. “Those six Es are the most interesting thing we've found so far. We might as well try to figure out what they mean before we go any further.”

“I'll give you guys a ride home,” A.J. said. Martin wanted to refuse, but he felt suddenly tired. A ride would be nice.

As they headed off, Martin took a last look behind him. Orange sunlight streaked through the branches. It almost looked as if the tree was lighting up again. Martin thought as loudly as he could,
O mighty tree, tell us your secrets
.

A light blazed up on the trunk for an instant, right where the cryptic carving had been. He waved goodbye, just in case the tree could see him.

9

Volunteers

W
averly always sat next to Hannah in social studies. Usually, she didn't stop talking until Mr. Michaelson told her to, but today she seemed too fascinated by her manicure to glance at Hannah.

The night before, Hannah had called her five times, but Waverly didn't answer, which was weird. She normally got out of the shower to answer the phone—she just couldn't resist. And that morning Dr. Wiggins was the only person who spoke during the ride to school.

“I'm sorry, Wave.” Hannah didn't know what she was apologizing for, but pretending to be sorry seemed like a good start.

Waverly spoke through her teeth, not looking up. “I know you didn't go to soccer after school yesterday. If you didn't want to hang out, you should've told me. You're supposed to tell me everything.”

Hannah wanted to tell Waverly about the tree, but Waverly would never believe it. She wouldn't have teamed up with Martin if the whole world was at stake, much less a tree. He just wasn't her type of person.