Over the Darkened Landscape (18 page)

Halfway down Clem howled, practically in their ears. All the animals froze, a beat ahead of Michael, and then Old Lightning roared, and Michael heard the shot slice through the air, barely above his head. James turned and looked at the rest, then took Michael’s hand. “Write me a good story some day,” he said, and with a shake of his tail he raced off towards Farmer Godfrey and Clem.

“No!” shouted Culpepper Frog, but Randall Grizzly growled and jumped in his way, kept Culpepper from chasing after James.

Two more shots were fired, and Clem howled again. “The young master comes first,” growled the big bear.

They carried on down the rest of the hill, quiet and somber now, and stopped when Culpepper raised his hand, the fire and the lake on the other side of a small grove of trees. The mammals in the group sniffed at the air, but Randall shook his head. “Nothing but smoke,” he said.

“I’ll go,” said Cameron Crow, and with a flap of his wings he launched himself into the air, circled their group twice before he disappeared over the tree tops.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then came a loud squawk, followed by laughter, and then a child’s voice rose up out of the night. “The rest of you should quit skulking about in the dark and come join me.”

All the animals froze for just a fraction of a second, and then with roars and squeals and cheers they rushed through the trees, catching Michael by surprise. He ran after them, and came out of the woods onto the rocky shore of Happy Lake, a comfortable and welcoming campfire placed carefully in the middle of a circle of several old logs, a young boy sitting on one of the logs, Cameron Crow perched on the boy’s knee and the other animals gathered around the boy, jumping and chattering excitedly.

The boy, no older than eight or nine, looked up at Michael with a smile. “You brought back my friends,” he said. “Thank you.”

Michael sat on a log on the opposite side of the fire. “You’re welcome. You must be Willy.”

The boy smiled and nodded. “I am.” He leaned forward and enfolded Cassie Beaver in a tight hug, buried his face in her fur. “I’m sorry I ever let you guys go.” He looked around at the rest of them. “Where’s everybody else?”

All the faces turned sober. “Most of ’em are back in the book,” said Culpepper Frog. “Except for Clem and Farmer Godfrey, who’re chasin’ after us.”

“Most of them?” Willy stood up and walked over to Miranda Whitetail. “He got you with Old Lightning?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “He got James, too,” she said, barely a whisper. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Willy closed his eyes, pain written on his face. But when he opened them again, he smiled. “He’ll come back, girl, don’t you worry. He’ll find us or we’ll find him.” He stroked her neck, then looked around at the other animals. “Who brought you all here?”

“I did,” said Cassie Beaver. She stepped forward, and Willy reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

Willy turned to Michael. “Read her back into the book for me, will you?”

Michael pulled out the book and turned to the last page of Cassie’s story. “It was a fine home, as beautiful as any other in the Green Green Woods, and the next time a flood came to Happy Lake, Cassie Beaver’s wonderful construction job held fast.” After one loud slap of her tail, Cassie flipped and folded and disappeared inside the book.

Michael blinked against the sudden harsh brightness. They were in a kind of hospital room, fluorescent light buzzing and flickering overhead. An old man, one tube stuck in his arm and another leading into his nostrils, lay in bed, stroking Cameron Crow with wrinkled, papery fingers. Culpepper Frog sat on the foot of the bed, concern in his eyes, and Randall Grizzly and Miranda Whitetail stood at either side, Randall leaning his front paws on the mattress, which sank down several inches.

After a moment of stunned silence, Michael spoke up. “You’re Willy, too.”

The old man slowly turned his head, broke into a coughing fit before he could answer. “I am.” His voice was a dry whisper, but Michael could hear a long-sought joy embedded deep inside.

“We’re here for you now,” said Culpepper. “We’ve missed you so.” He buried his face in Willy’s shoulder and his body shook as he silently cried.

Willy reached up and stroked the frog’s back. “I’m sorry I abandoned all of you,” he said. “I thought I’d grown up. Never knew how much I’d need you the rest of my life.” He looked again to Michael. “Bring me the book.”

Michael crossed the room and handed the old man the book. He slowly flipped through the pages, often grunting in amusement or with recovered memories. “Mr. Haywood and Mr. Davies were family friends, you know,” he said to Michael. “Mr. Haywood was my godfather, too. When he gave me these books, he told me that they were special, but I was young enough when I first went to the Green Green Woods that I think I took the magic for granted.” He closed his eyes. “And then the war came, and Pop went away and died on some island in the Pacific, and right quick I had to stop being a boy.” He reached out a tentative arm, rubbed Randall’s head. “Time to be with my friends again,” he whispered, and then he turned back to the beginning of the book and read, out loud, slowly and cautiously, “Culpepper Frog’s collection of flies remained the biggest at Happy Lake, and the jar he got to replace the old one was his pride and joy.” Culpepper hopped over to the book and was folded in as he turned a somersault in midair. He read the ends of the stories for Miranda Whitetail and Randall Grizzly next, slowly and carefully, making sure all the words were right.

That left Cameron Crow, Michael, and Willy. “What’s going to happen to Clem and Farmer Godfrey?” asked Michael.

“Water,” whispered Willy. Michael got him a glass and straw, helped hold up his head so he could have a sip. He smiled his thanks. “Better. Clem and Godfrey will go when this is done, since they never had a story in the book to themselves.” He looked back to the bird sitting on his chest. “You ready, old friend? You were always my favorite.”

“Ha!” squawked Cameron, holding his unlit cigar in one wing. “I always thought so.”

“Even though things had pretty much gone Cameron Crow’s way that day, he remained in a
very
bad mood indeed, and until night fell he sat in the Old Papa Oak and yelled and screeched at everyone who walked by.” Cameron winked at Michael and then flew into the air, folded as his wings flapped, and then Willy shut the book and set it on his chest. He kept his eyes closed for a minute, then looked back at Michael. “Sit with me. Pretend you’re my grandson for a minute. That’ll be the story you can tell the nurse if she comes in.”

Michael pulled a chair across the room and sat beside the bed. He yawned.

“Do you have parents who will be worried about you?”

With a start Michael saw on the clock by the bed that it was already almost five in the morning. Hopefully his mom had just assumed he was asleep in bed and hadn’t come in to kiss him on the forehead or anything. “My mom,” he answered.

Willy broke into another coughing fit. “You’ll see her soon. In the meantime, promise me you’ll take care of these books for the rest of your life. Don’t just put them on a shelf and forget about them, or worse, sell them for a quarter to some kid down the street.” A single tear welled up in one eye, but dried up before it could follow a track down the wrinkles of his face.

Michael fought to hold back his own tears, unsure why he would want to cry right now. “I promise.”

Willy smiled and closed his eyes, and Michael watched as his breathing slowed, then stopped. His mouth was half open, and the only sounds in the room now were the buzzing flickering lights and the steady hiss of an oxygen tank that was no longer needed. Michael searched in his memory for a prayer he could say for Willy, then he stood and pried the book from the old man’s fingers. It felt a little bigger now, and when he flipped it open to the back he saw that there was a new chapter, and the first sentence read;
The day that young Willy finally decided to make the Green Green Woods his home was the day that saw the biggest celebration any of the animals could ever remember
. Just as important, the second sentence read:
And although he had a bit of a limp for all the rest of his days, James Jackrabbit was first to greet Willy that day
.

Michael smiled and dug into his pack, pulled out a sharpened pencil, and after flipping to the front of the book, wrote under Willy Thornton’s signature: “And Now to Michael Cashman” followed by the date. He sat back down and had read all of the stories by the time the sun rose, and he looked out over Chester Pond—Happy Lake—and watched a family of ducks as they splashed in the early morning light.

Clink Clank

C
link
.
Clank
.

Sounds from the basement. Ken looked at his mom as she stirred the scrambled eggs—a rare treat—but she kept her eyes down, never looked towards the basement or to the table where Ken and his dad sat, Ken blowing bubbles in his OJ and his dad reading the paper and drinking coffee. Before he could say anything, she grabbed his plate, threw on a thick clump of eggs, added bacon and gave it to him.

“Eat.” Mom’s gaze drifted over to his dad, hidden behind the paper, fingers white and slowly crumpling the newsprint. Her hand rested on Ken’s shoulder, hard and firm. “You have to get to school.”

After she served dad and herself, she filled another plate and slipped it into the oven. Ken tried to ask, but one look from his dad forced the curiosity back down his throat.

Clink
.
Clank
.

When Ken came home from school that afternoon, his mom looked pale and nervous and tired. She took Ken to his room and had him sit at the old desk, had him do his homework there instead of at the kitchen table. She brought him a snack and shut the door when she left.

Clink
.
Clank
.

Ken got up from the desk and walked quietly over to the window, looked outside, just in case.

Clink
.
Clank
.

Below his feet. He looked down, saw the vent. Was it the furnace? Some piece of it rolling around inside, banging up against another piece of metal? He crouched and put his ear to the vent, waited.

Clink
.
Clank
.

It didn’t sound like the furnace. He strained to hear more.

Cough
.

His dad walked in. “What are you doing?”

Guilty but not sure why, Ken jumped to his feet. “I dropped a toy dinosaur. I think it went down there.” He pointed to the vent.

His dad’s eyes were a hard squint, lines of worry on his face. For the first time that Ken could ever remember in his eight years, he looked old. He said, “You listen to me. Your mom and I need you to know that right now the basement is off limits. Okay?”

“But—”

“But nothing. I haven’t been getting much work this past year, but your mom found something that’ll help us. We haven’t received all the money for it, though. Until we do, stay upstairs. Understand?”

Ken nodded. “Yes, sir.”

His dad ruffled Ken’s hair. “Good boy.”

Clink
.
Clank
.

His dad closed the door, mouth a hard line, ignoring the noise.

Clink
.
Clank
.

At supper Ken’s mom and dad were quiet. His mom said how lovely the hamburgers were, especially after nothing but mac and cheese for the past week, but she couldn’t hold the thought, it seemed, and her words vanished into the air.

Sitting on the counter beside the fridge was another plate, two burgers, fries, and carrot sticks on it. Again he tried to ask, and again was warned with a look, so Ken excused himself to use the toilet. When he came back the plate was gone. Mom’s face was red, and she made to brush away imaginary crumbs from her blouse.

Clink
.
Clank
.

In bed that night, Ken turned on his side and watched the vent, barely acknowledged his mom and dad as they came in to kiss him good night. His mom ran her nervous, sweaty fingers through his hair, and his dad clapped him on the shoulder and, after a kiss on the forehead, reminded him to stay upstairs.

Door shut, dull glow of a distant streetlight seeping through the window, Ken tried to keep his eyes open, but eventually he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of ogres and treasures and aliens, sometimes all at once.

Clink
.
Clank
.

Scrape
.

His eyes popped open. Had he dreamed the new sound?

Ken looked at his door and saw that the lights in the house were out. His parents were asleep. He climbed out of bed and scooted over to the floor vent, and after a fidgety few seconds of indecision, ran his fingernail across the metal slats of the vent.

TICK-tack-tack-tack-tacktacktacktacktack
.

Clink
.
Clank
.

Scrape
.

Then: “
Come down here
.”

Just a whisper, really, so distant Ken wondered if it had come from his own head. He jumped up, his dad’s order ignored because of curiosity, and found a flashlight in his toy box.

He sneaked down the hall, past his parents’ bedroom and his dad’s snores, and turned on the flashlight once he got to the top of the basement stairs.

Clink
.
Clank
.

One step down, he stopped and listened. Again. He watched the light dance wildly on the wall at the bottom, his hands shaking. Finally he reached the cold concrete floor of the basement and raised the light to see.

Clink
.
Clank
.

No longer so distant. At the edge of the light, a chain scraped slowly across the floor. Ken followed the movement with the flashlight to a chain clamped to a man’s ankle. He tracked the light up and into the eyes of a strange man, sitting on a cot. The man shaded his eyes with one hand and smiled, a broad toothy grin that looked ready to devour anything in its path. “Heya, kid.” His voice was low, throaty, a rumble that scraped Ken’s ears.

Ken hung back, lowered the flashlight to the gulf of the floor between them. “Hey.”

“Can you get me a drink of water?” He pointed to a plastic cup beside him.