Thornghost (5 page)

I
n his defense, Niklas Summerhill had never used troll's bane before. Not for real.

The moment he let go of the acorns, he knew the throw was short. A piece of burning oak crashed to the ground right in front of him, making him snatch his hand back early. But when the sparks cleared, the green eyes had vanished.

The lynx spoke behind him. Niklas felt the hairs rise on his neck. “What did you do?”

“I threw acorns at it. Troll's bane. It kills them.” Across the path there was no troll, but no body, either. “Or it's supposed to.”

“Like a gun.” The lynx began pacing, staying as far away from Niklas as she could get. She looked as if she were caught in a cage. Niklas supposed they
were
caged, inside the protection of the oak tree. Except now the jailer had left. “Do you think it's . . . ?”

“No. Not dead, but you scared it into hiding. Do it again.”

Ah right, excellent idea, except he had no more acorns. In the panic, he had thrown them all. He glanced around at the scorched grass. “Do you know the nuts from this tree?”

“Yes. They make the squirrels taste bitter.”

“Let's see if we can find some.”

Niklas ended up doing the searching, which was hard to do without turning his back on either the spot where the troll had disappeared or the lynx. She watched him silently, gliding out of the way of burning objects until he gave up. The acorns had all burnt, or the bitter squirrels had gotten them.

But he found something else lying in the crook of two roots not far from the tree trunk. A round rock the size of his palm, wrapped in hide. There was a drawing on it: three jagged lines that met at the bottom. He held it up. “Is this the rock you saw the troll toss?”

“Smells like it.”

Niklas frowned at the stone. If it started the fire, then maybe . . . He took two quick steps and hurled it into the Summerchild. Immediately the flames in the oak tree died down, as easily as if someone had flipped a switch. Niklas blinked up at the naked branches as his eyesight adjusted. For a moment they were silent and shiny with char.

Then the first crack sounded.

“Look out!” Niklas rolled to the side as a big branch thundered to the ground. All around them, the oak tree's limbs came down in great huffs of ashes, until the trunk itself gave and toppled groaning off the ledge.

Niklas stared at the blackened stump. The fire must have eaten the tree to the core in minutes for it to collapse like that. He was no expert, but it must be far too fast. And the way the fire had died as soon as the leather rock hit the water . . . It was wrong. Unnatural.

Magical.

“It's coming.”

That shook him out of it. If there were talking lynxes and trolls, then why not magic? A better question was
why
the troll had burned the tree. “You think the protection of the oak tree is broken?”

The lynx tilted her head in the direction of the path. The green eyes were back.

“We go after the tree,” she said.

“Down from the ledge?” Niklas rubbed his forehead. He had perched on the branches above the slope many times. The drop was so steep and littered with boulders that the slightest misstep could set off a slide. “No one can climb down that hill in the dark.”

“You can if you want to live,” the lynx said, tossing her neck. With two fluid bounds, she leaped off the cliff.

Niklas ran to the edge. The lynx stared up at him from a shelf ten feet down. He cast one last glance back toward
the troll, then got down on his belly and went over the edge legs first. The lynx waited until he dangled by his hands before she moved on.

“Follow.”

Niklas tried to stay on the lynx's tail, but the four-pawed path she chose among the boulders was hard to copy. More than once she returned to show him the way out of an unstable patch. “Not so slow!”

Behind them, where the top of the hill drew a black semi­circle in the sky, a silhouette loomed against the blue of night, eyes glowing like emeralds. It sniffed along the lip of the ledge, but it made no move to climb down after them.

“It's too heavy,” the lynx said. “The stones will tumble. The newcomers know. They know the land.”

“Newcomers? They?”
Niklas couldn't help raising his voice. “How many are there?”

The troll answered with another jarring howl. The lynx flicked her ears back. “Not so loud!”

“Sorry,” Niklas whispered.

“Now try to follow. The screaming stone isn't far.”

Of course. If that creature really was a troll, and the rules of the game were true, then the other safe place was the farm, on the other side of the screaming stone. “How do you know the trolls can't get past the stone? Have you seen them try?”

“Quiet,” the lynx warned. “It's heavy, but it's fast. If it takes the trail, it will be waiting for us on the other side.”

They cut a straight, slow line along the dell of the Summerchild. The lynx slipped easily between broken roots and boulders. She looked like she had been magically transported from a jungle with her flecked fur that glowed golden in the tree shadows. When she turned to make sure he kept up, her eyes were lined like an Egyptian queen's.

“Are you the lynx I . . . ?” Niklas cleared his throat.
Saved
seemed too forward. “I mean, did you take the roast I left for you in the ash tree?”

“Old meat,” the lynx scoffed. “Disgusting.”

“Sorry,” Niklas said again, covering a little grin. Now that the troll was behind them, the thrill of hearing her talk jolted his chest. She curled her tongue so carefully around the sounds when she spoke, slurring every
s,
but she still knew the word
disgusting.

“You asked how many. I've seen two. The three-eared one up there and the clever one with scars. But I stay out of their way when I can.”

“Probably wise,” Niklas said.

“The forest has changed,” the lynx said. “Something is poisoning it. It's not safe anymore. Most of the prey animals have left already. You should leave, too.”

Niklas stopped for a moment, trying to find a way down from a mossy boulder the size of a shed. “Why haven't
you
left?”

A quiet sort of hiss, and the lynx replied, “Because you're too rash to watch your back. You can't hide, you
can't pounce, and you don't know the first thing about sneaking.”

“Hey now.” Niklas slid down the stone, knocking his shin against a hazel tree. Being called rash was one thing, but he could sneak well enough. Mr. Molyk and his boots would testify to that. “I know how to handle myself in the wild.”

“Do you? Everywhere you've walked, the
trolls,
as you name them, have walked, too. They're hunting you.”

Hunting. Niklas thought of the long claw and the saw teeth. After that he kept quiet until they ducked out of the trees by the big ash, only a few yards above the screaming stone. The lynx lifted her lips to taste the air, good ear tall and tense. “Is the troll here?” Niklas whispered as he moved up alongside her.

“No.” She edged away from him and jumped onto the lowest branch of the ash. “Go now,” she said. “Don't come back.”

“What do you mean? Of course I'm coming back.”

The lynx beat her tail. “Didn't you hear? They're hunting you, and the oak is gone. There's nowhere safe for you in the forest now.”

“But trolls belong in stories and games. They aren't . . .” He cut himself short. He was going to say they weren't real, but with the chill of threat trickling down his back every time he glanced up the trail, that sounded plain foolish.

“They're
mine,
” he said instead. “That thing sticking out
from the troll's neck? He uses it to find people who are trying to hide from him. I know that because I made it up last summer. Just as I made up the border.” He nodded at the screaming stone. “So they're
my
problem. Besides, the grown-ups have no idea how to get rid of them. I'm the only one in this valley who does.”

Well, except one person, and a stubborn one at that. He glanced down at the main house at the bottom of the hill. Both he and Lin agreed that Grandma Alma must have owned that first jar of troll's bane in the loft, the one that started the game in the first place. He should find a way to ask her tomorrow.

The lynx stared at him, head cocked and white chin tucked in. “But I just told you they'll kill you.”

“Good thing I have you to watch my back, then.” He smiled up at her. “Can I ask you something? How is it that you can talk?”

She shifted on the branch, making the leaves rustle. “I had hoped you could tell me that.”

“No idea,” Niklas said. The lynx didn't reply, and he got the feeling he had disappointed her. He added, “But we can try to find out. When did it start?”

“After the last spring storm,” she said. “I'd hidden in a cave, so I don't know what happened outside. But something must have, because when I came out from my shelter, the valley looked different to me. Full of . . .”

Her ears twitched at some sound Niklas couldn't catch.
“It is on the trail. You need to go past the stone now, or the killing will happen tonight.”

“All right. Just meet me here tomorrow.” Niklas bolted out from under the ash tree and past the screaming stone. On the other side, he skidded to a stop. “Wait! I can't go without knowing your name.”

The lynx thought for a moment before she said, “I'm the lynx of these woods.”

Niklas laughed. “I guess lynxes don't have names. Well, I'll give you one. I'm Niklas, and you're. . . .”

He tilted his head. He didn't know why the lynx could talk, or why she stayed here to protect him. But it made him hurt with happiness. No grown-ups could know about this, not if it meant he would have to share her, or give her up. Not even Grandma Alma.

“You're Secret.”

“Stupid cub.” The golden fur faded into the darkness of the ash tree. “But I'll keep the name.”

T
hat night the nightmare changed.

It started as before, the waiting, the coming, the white dress. But this time his mother didn't float. She labored step by jerky step, dragging something heavy up the trail. A rusty cage on a long chain. When she turned by the screaming stone, she raised her arm and pointed up the mountainside, up toward Sorrowdeep, while murky water poured out between her lips.

She looked like she was screaming, too.

W
hen Niklas came downstairs, sun filled the kitchen. Grandma Alma balanced on her toes, straining to fetch her blue mug from the bottom shelf of the cabinet. They would have to move all the cupboards down a foot before long.

Already his grandmother's world had shrunk to just this one floor and maybe the steps outside on a particularly warm and dry day. He hurried over and got the mug for her. “If it isn't the heir to the realm,” she said, plucking it out of his hands.

“Good morning.” Niklas didn't want to inherit anything if it meant the queen would be gone.

“Is it? I thought it was past noon,” Grandma Alma dunked the mug in a pot of dark brown tea. She liked to keep the leaves simmering away on the stove, even though it made the tea so bitter, it was near undrinkable. She also liked to say that anyone with sense in their skull knew to
sweeten life with at least three sugar cubes. She stirred the grainy slush. “What's the matter?”

Niklas rubbed his eyes. They still felt puffy from the smoke last night. He wanted to tell Grandma Alma about the fire, but he couldn't, not without admitting he had been out late. “Slept badly,” he said into the fridge, where no quick and obvious breakfast appeared, just vegetables, white fish steeping in salt for dinner, and age-old marmalade.

“Hm.” She granted him a small smile, the first since their conversation in the bird room. “As a very old lady, I feel I should tell you that grief is a natural part of life. So is guilt. There is no getting around them. But there is one thing that will ease the weight somewhat.”

Niklas closed the fridge door. “Making amends?”

“Oh sure, when that's an option.” Grandma Alma slurped her tea. “Most often it's not. I was going to say chocolate cake.”

Niklas gaped at her. “For breakfast?”

“It's in the tin in the hallway. If anyone would like some.”

The chocolate cake waited for him where she had promised, rippled on top and cut into generous squares. Grandma Alma must be feeling very sorry for him when she let him have this for breakfast. Not only did it not fit into her idea of what was good for a growing lad, she only ever made it for special occasions.

She claimed this was because the secret ingredient cost so much, but Niklas and Lin had investigated the
cupboards many times without ever finding anything fancy-looking. They suspected she said it to keep the legend strong. It was a well-known tale in Willodale, even among those who had never sampled it, that Alma Summerhill's chocolate cake was the finest of the land.

Niklas made no argument there. In the cool of the hallway the cake had set so he could eat it with his hands, no plate or spoon required, just dense mouthfuls of not-too-dark, frosting-covered magic. It had never tasted better.

He finished six pieces, downed a glass of milk, and as usual, his grandmother was right. It did help a little. He felt almost ready for his first task of the day: acorns. His shirt pocket was all empty, but he had an idea where he could go to get more.

• • •

N
iklas hadn't been inside Morello House since the Rosenquists left.

He took off his boots and climbed the stairs. Despite the decent summer, the timber walls felt raw against his fingers. The second floor seemed stuffy, as if all the loneliness had drifted up and gathered under the low ceiling.

Lin's room contained nothing but abandoned furniture. The desk where she used to draw her maps, the bed with star constellations on the headboard. But no casket, no papers, and sadly, no acorns. She had taken the troll-hunting gear with her to the city.

It took him a while to find the exception: a piece of paper that had slipped behind Lin's desk. It was an unfinished sketch of a Summerhill map that had been smudged by a teacup before she could finish it. Oak Bridge was marked in green on the map, as were the two other oak trees in the valley, both on the western edge of the Summerhill lands. But those two trees had caught the oak blight last June and had to be chopped down. He hadn't thought much of it back then, but he wondered now if the trolls were behind it. If they could set a tree on fire with nothing but a carved rock, maybe they could give it oak blight, too?

Niklas sat down on the bed. If Lin had been here, he would have climbed the morello tree and knocked on her window last night, to tell her about the impossible things that were going on. Or even signaled from his windowsill, because they did have a code for this: Two blinks meant
danger, troll nearby.

But she wasn't.

He should call her. The last time they spoke on the phone, everything had been so weird. Lin sounded curt and distant, as if she had all sorts of secrets and worries she wouldn't share with him. Niklas just wasn't very good at phone conversations, or writing, for that matter. It would be different if they could just meet in person.

He had been invited to come visit last winter, had even bought a ticket. But the day he was supposed to leave, Grandma Alma's cold had turned into pneumonia, and
Uncle Anders had to take her to the hospital in Willomouth, and Niklas had to stay and take care of the cattle. He had stood at the bottom of the snow-covered netherfield and watched the bus pass by without stopping, as always. The Rosenquists hadn't invited him again.

Still, he should call.

On his way back through the hallway, he passed by Anne Rosenquist's study. The door stood ajar and he peeked in at a tape player and a set of boxes. Lin's mother collected old songs. That was how she and Uncle Anders had become friends all those years ago. She liked recording and playing the old way, so she had thousands of taped songs, all labeled and contained in boxes just like that. Apparently she hadn't taken them all.

Something Uncle Anders had said suddenly struck him.
We made a tape of it, but I don't know where she put it.
Niklas had been too rattled to think clearly, so he had thought Uncle Anders meant Erika. But if anyone made and disposed of a tape, it wouldn't be his mother. It would be Anne.

Niklas sidled through the door and pulled out the three boxes. The first contained loose notes, copied down snippets of the Lindelin ballads. Lin was named for this medieval maiden, who always traveled into great danger and used her wit and magic to save every prince she met.

It suited her well.

He opened the second box and struck gold. Tapes. All of them were dated and labeled with place, musician, and songs.

Except one, which simply said
ERIKA
.

Niklas slapped his forehead. Anne Rosenquist had nearly told him about this tape last summer, while he was waiting for Lin to feed Rufus so they could go troll hunting. Anne had sat with him for a moment, looking out on the morello garden where Uncle Anders was watering the strawberries.

“So, you're Summerknight,” she had said, which had annoyed Niklas a little. No one was supposed to know about the code names, least of all a grown-up. Anne must have seen it on one of Lin's maps. He had nodded anyway.

“It sounds like a proper knight's name,” she had said. “Your mother would have liked that. She loved heroic songs, especially if they contained death and impossible tasks. Did you know she even wrote one herself?”

She had smiled at him. “I actually have a . . .” And then she had stopped and looked over at Uncle Anders, and Niklas was sure she wished she could take it back. Lin had come out with Rufus concealed in her pocket, and that was the end of that. Later, both he and Lin had tried asking about it, but Anne had brushed them off. The week after, they left for the city.

He bet his entire collection of comic books that she had been about to say “tape.” Had she left this here for him?

He shoved it into the player and pushed the button.

At first he heard only muffled voices, fuzzy laughter, a fiddle being tuned.

Then the recorder must have been moved into a better
position, because he heard Uncle Anders say, “You should sing it.” He sounded so different. Light, almost crisp. “I'll play, if I can remember the tune.”

“Yes, sing it,” Anne Rosenquist chimed in. “It ought to be preserved for future generations.”

A third voice sounded, echoing from rooms at the very back of Niklas's mind. “It's not worth preserving,” said his mother. “It's not traditional.”

“Who cares,” Anne said. “Every legend begins somewhere. Why not with you?”

Silence followed, and through the scratchy, wheezy filter of the tape, Niklas could almost hear them hold their breaths. Then his mother said, “Because it didn't.”

But she sang anyway.

Wake now, little rose,

The night grows dark and old.

Your feet must find the trail tonight,

To Sorrowdeep the cold.

Wait now, little dog,

Your voice will carry through.

The key lies in her hand tonight,

Sebastifer the true.

Stay then, ghost of thorns,

If you can't play the part.

The key will lead you nowhere when

It's locked inside your heart.

The recording ended.

Ghost of thorns. Even if Grandma Alma insisted he had dreamt it, Niklas had always believed that the last word he heard his mother speak was
Thornghost
. That couldn't be a coincidence.

His skin prickled, but he listened to the tape again, then jotted down the lyrics and tucked it away for evidence.

The third box contained a framed photograph, taken in the yard. His mother with her white locks tossed back and an intense, uneasy look in her eyes. The dark twist of the Willodalers' gossip, captured for anyone to see. And next to her a miniature building that Niklas knew well.

The bird castle. Except it wasn't mounted outside the east window, it sat on a workbench beneath the elm tree. The tower lacked its dome, and the drawbridge dangled by its chains, unfastened. But that was about to change, because in her hands Erika held a carving iron and a tiny screwdriver.

His mother had made the castle. She was the unknown master carver.

Niklas pried open the clips behind the frame and removed the cardboard. Anne Rosenquist had written something on the back of the photo.

Erika and her nightmare castle.