The Steward (3 page)

“Sure, anything,” I said quickly.
Too quickly.

“Well, ya might wanna hear what it is first, ‘fore ya agree an’ all. I hope ya’ll still feel the same way afterwards.”

“I promise, Aunt May. I will do whatever you ask. I trust you unequivocally, remember?”

Those were the words,
I promise
, that led me to the bottom of the stairs, alone but for Justice—they were the reason I sat quivering by the front door, preparing my head to get on with it. Justice moved to my side to nudge my hand with his cold nose. He was ready to go. I wasn’t. Even though I knew I could make the trek to the cave, and hoped that I could overcome my claustrophobia once inside, I seriously doubted the effort was even worth it.

According to Aunt May, I had to come to Arkansas because I
was selected
to be the next Steward. That, she had informed me, was a
human
liaison to the original inhabitants. I thought she was just spinning another Ozark tale when she told me that the original inhabitants were Fae. She claimed that they were immortals who lived on the Weald, as well as in similar places all over the world. The Fae and our family, she explained, had struck a deal in 1826 when my ancestors settled in the valley fresh off the boat from Ireland. Pete O’Shea, the first of my family to become a Steward, had made an agreement with the Fae to keep the tract in one piece in exchange for a comfortable life.

Though Aunt May did appear to be very well off, I just couldn’t believe that her wealth had anything to do with fairies. While she explained that there were many clans of Fae, I began to wonder when she’d get to the punch line. She never did. She claimed that I’d be working with the most powerful clan, the Seelie, and she told me that they could manipulate the elements. She also warned me that one clan in particular, the Unseelie, was dangerous, but that I’d be fine if I followed a few simple rules. The most important of all was to keep their existence a secret.
Oh, don’t worry, Aunt May, I don’t think I’ll be spreading the word about this anytime soon—or in a million years.

I realized she wasn’t trying to prank me when she led me to the stone gazebo. The structure was unique from the rest of the cottage. Centered in the glass-enclosed, copper-roofed breezeway, it stood between the main cottage and the small separate cottage that contained my parents’ bedroom. Worn and weathered, the tall, domed gazebo appeared much older than anything else on the Weald. Carvings in the stone walls contained four intricate, triangular symbols, each representing one of the cardinal elements: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water. It all seemed too elaborate for a simple prank.

Even though I silently questioned her sanity, I finally asked what I had to do. Once again, I couldn’t seem to leave good enough alone by just letting her tell her story—I had to go and volunteer.

Aunt May got even more serious. She told me what I had to do: for each element, I was to take a trial that the Fae would administer. She handed me a triangular amber stone as she explained the symbol for the Earth Trial. For it, I was supposed to climb down the bluff to the caves, find the Earth Sign, and place the stone inside.

“The secret ta the first trial’s in the caves, Maggie,” she said.

Nothing else she told me that day really registered. The word
cave
was enough.

I didn’t believe her at the time—it was impossible to believe her. It was all too crazy. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched every time I’d gone outside since then, or the feeling I had as I stared at the front door.
I’m not a coward! This may be a complete waste of my time, but I’m doing it. I made a promise!

Justice sprang to his feet when I pulled the door open.

TWO

THE PASSAGE

The door shut behind me and I felt the oppression bearing down on my chest. Without glancing above the stone wall that encircled the cottage garden, I followed Justice to the iron garden gate. The garden was large—a vast expanse of dormant vines and shrubs—easily the size of a baseball field.

Ten days ago, our chore list had also led us to that very place. There was no shortage of chores at the Weald. Aunt May had been too feeble for too long to keep the cottage garden in good order. She spent the morning telling stories about the property—it was like a historical propaganda reel that played continuously as Mitch and I took wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of debris to the compost pile.

I didn’t want to think about the compost pile. That was where I saw Chalen watching me. And where I saw the disappearing wolf the first time.

Situated at the end of the peninsula, with Beaver Lake on three sides, Aunt May’s Cottage was odd and quaint. Slightly crooked and seemingly haphazard, the walls were made of random stones in shades of mostly browns, with faint reds, oranges, blacks, and greens mixed in. The tall roof was shingled in dark, smoky plum tiles, with two steeply pitched gables protruding from the front. The kitchen was under one, and my bedroom, above Aunt May’s, under the other. The roof flared out, curving at the eaves. The front door—thick wood-planks with a round top and broad iron hinges—was set under a smaller gabled roof that met the eave in a more pronounced curve than the main gables. Four chimneys, each much taller than the roof, appeared to defy gravity. Also made of stone, the chimneys were stacked so randomly that they twisted and undulated up to the elaborate chimney pots on top.
My storybook prison—the garden, my cellblock.

Justice wagged his tail, eager to begin our hike. And to think, Aunt May said poodles were the smartest dogs.

After slinging the backpack over my shoulder, I trudged through the gate and past the small stone studio that stood just beyond the wall. Mom and I had already spent a lot of time in there, too. Yes, more chores. The Weald was like a work camp. Those chores, however, held a special significance for Mom.

Though I wasn’t at all happy with her decision to move here, I did understand it. Mom was an artist, a very good one, and she hoped to make a living at it in Arkansas. Eureka Springs was full of artists and galleries, and apparently the art scene drew people from all over the country. Dad found a job, and we lived with Aunt May for free, so for the first time in her life Mom could focus on her art.

Like every other building on the peninsula, the studio was stone, but unlike Aunt May’s cottage it looked positively medieval. It had three octagonal rooms joined together in a triangle—the walls thicker and wider at the ground than at the roof. Deep set diamond-paned windows and a steep roof covered in slate tiles of a dozen dark colors added to the cozy “built in middle-ages” quality.

For hours we had stacked boxes—in silence. We uncovered the kiln, and arranged more paints and glazes throughout the rustic interior than I could keep track of. A little guilt welled up in my chest for having given Mom the silent treatment. To be honest, though, it didn’t work. Underneath a little dust, her olive skin glistened that morning. She was stunning when she was happy, and I couldn’t remember seeing her happier. Mom was beautiful, exquisite actually, with long black hair, big brown eyes, and elegant features. Fortunately what everyone said was true—I did look like her. Half-Cuban and half-Irish, Mom brought a fiery passion to her art. Though I didn’t want to admit it, Mom’s passion had rubbed off on me. Not an artist, but I was passionate about swimming.

As Justice and I approached the woods, I tried to think about anything other than the cave—all dark, tight, damp, and full of creepy crawlies. In the movies, bad things always happened to people who had wandered into caves by themselves. The tingling sensation of panic stirred in my stomach, making me wish I had eaten less for breakfast. I paused for a moment and concentrated on keeping my imagination in check. Aunt May needed my help, if any of this was believable, and I was the one who had to help her. Nobody else could.

Past the initial line of trees, the feeling of being watched returned with a vengeance, sending my heart into spasms and causing me to twist my head to scan the woods behind me. Twice I nearly went back to the cottage to lock myself inside—but Justice was with me. His company gave me just enough confidence to keep hiking. If he growled even once, though, it would be a footrace to the garden wall.

The large stone barn, down and to the left of the garden, was the last building to disappear from view behind the wooden claws of the forest as I made my way deeper into it. Refusing to think about what lay ahead—or what lay in wait—I forced my mind to concentrate on the barn—the
Toy Box,
as Aunt May had called it.

I had been in that building, too. Aunt May showed it to us the morning we cleaned the garden of all the dead vegetation. Inside it, over thirty cars, two boats, and … a horse drawn sleigh—my great grandfather’s collection of
toys—
were all preserved. Mitch was ecstatic, giving him one more reason to love Arkansas. His excitement reached a fever pitch when Aunt May pulled the cover from Dad’s old dark green Mustang fastback. With the exception of one tiny pink car, an old Thunderbird, I was ambivalent. It wasn’t an act, either. If she would’ve rolled back the large doors to reveal a pool and the smell of chlorine, things might have been different. But the smell of gasoline did nothing for me. Nor did a barn—Toy Box—full of cars made in the twentieth century.

Deeper in the woods, Justice and I climbed the first set of stone stairs. The narrowness of the pass through the massive, rounded gray rock reminded me that I was about to enter a cave. Much narrower, much tighter, the images creeping into my head weighted my legs and unsettled my stomach even more.
Think about something else.

On a branch just ahead of me, to the side of the bluff passage, my little Blue Jay sat watching.
Skiiid-li-do, Skiiid-li-do,
it called to me. My mind quickly converted its song to,
you-can-d’it, you-can-d’it.

“Well, maybe I can do it if you go with me,” I joked.

Above the bluff line, maneuvering between the ranks of gnarled oak and hickory columns, my new tiny blue friend fluttered from one branch to the next along the trail.
It must have a nest nearby
.

My chest felt less constricted. Breathing a little more normally, I picked up the pace. Justice bounded along beside me, obviously happier to make haste than I was. The worn path led us up the hill and to a fork. The trail to the left led to the bluffs a quarter-mile away. To the right, the caretaker’s ragged cottage—and the caretaker—sat just out of view at the top of the hill. Nerve endings throughout my body reacted, tingling, making me wary of being this close again. “Don’t think about it, dummy,” I whispered.

Concentrating on the Blue Jay and its constant song seemed to strengthen my resolve. Silly, I know—it’s not like a bird could really protect me from anything. But I decided it was a good sign, nonetheless.

My mind wandered back to my newest friends, and I kind of wished they could have come with me to the cave … for moral support. A few days after my promise to Aunt May, I met three girls in Eureka Springs—Rhonda, Candace, and Rachel.

Mom had found a local art gallery to sell her work, and the manager’s daughter, Rhonda Adair, happened to be working in the shop that day. Rhonda and I left our mothers so they could work out the details of their new arrangement, and walked down the steep street, out of parental earshot, to chat. Eureka, as everyone called it, was a well-preserved nineteenth century Victorian hamlet that reminded me of the ceramic Christmas village Mom always displayed over the holidays. Brick and stone buildings in the historic center of town lined the narrow valley and steep wooded hillsides—all of it surrounded by Victorian mansions and gingerbread bungalows. Eureka was charming, and unlike any place I had ever seen.

The crack of a branch yanked my mind back to the trail in the woods. I realized quickly that it was Justice having some fun by leaping back and forth across the narrow trail ahead. He barked back at me a couple of times, as if to say, “Come on slowpoke, do it like this.” I felt a bit more confident hearing his big, deep bark.
Whoever’s out there, I don’t think you wanna mess with Justice!
A little smirk pulled the corner of my mouth as I trudged ahead. A hundred yards past the fork in the trail, my body relaxed more with each step Justice and I put between us and Chalen.
See, this isn’t so bad.
“Oh, shut up,” I told myself. Justice stared at me. “Not you, boy.” He nuzzled my hand. Nervously, I chuckled at my internal dialog, and thought again about Candace and Rachel.

They were Rhonda’s best friends. I’d met them both at the coffee shop Rhonda took me to—a quaint café across the street from an enormous stone hotel that seemed to grow out of the side of the mountain. The three of us chatted up a storm while Rhonda mostly ignored the conversation. In the end, I seemed to know we’d all be friends—well, Candace, Rachel and I at least. Over a Diet Coke, I had begun my new life as a teen in Arkansas.

Rhonda was athletic looking, if not a little thin. Blonde, perky, and graced with a perfect jawline, she was very pretty and she knew it. It was clear to me—immediately—that she preferred to be the center of attention, directing each conversation to a story about herself, and growing sullen and quiet each time the conversation wandered elsewhere. After telling me
everything
her dad owned in town, she showed me a picture of a very good-looking guy with blond hair, big white teeth, bright blue-gray eyes and a deep tan. “This is Doug Monroe. He and I have been together for a year,” she said with a big smile. “He plays football, basketball, golf … well, anything involving a ball, actually.”

She went on to explain that Doug’s family lived on the lake, and even though he had gone to junior high in Eureka, he wanted to be a quarterback. His dad, a professor at the University of Arkansas, transferred him to Fayetteville High School because Eureka Springs High didn’t have a football team. The girls joked that there was no place flat enough in town for a playing field. It seemed likely—after touring the city in Aunt May’s massive red Lincoln convertible, I was convinced the highway department had taken the path of least resistance. If there was a section of flat land bigger than a tablecloth in the entire area, I must’ve missed it.