Tree Girl
Authors: T. A. Barron
T
REE
G
IRL
Other Books by T. A. Barron
Heartlight
The Ancient One
The Merlin Effect
T
HE
L
OST
Y
EARS OF
M
ERLIN
E
PIC
The Lost Years of Merlin
The Seven Songs of Merlin
The Fires of Merlin
The Mirror of Merlin
The Wings of Merlin
Picture Book
Where Is Grandpa?
Visit T. A. Barron’s website:
www.tabarron.com
T
REE
G
IRL
T. A. B
ARRON
P
HILOMEL
B
OOKS
• N
EW
Y
ORK
P
ATRICIA
L
EE
G
AUCH
, E
DITOR
Copyright © 2001 by Thomas A. Barron
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced
in any form without permission in writing from the publisher,
PHILOMEL BOOKS,
a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,
345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
Designed by Semadar Megged
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barron, T. A. Tree girl / by T. A. Barron. p. cm.
Summary: Despite the warnings of the old man with whom she has always lived,
nine-year-old Rowanna is drawn to the forest and a huge tree she can just
barely see from her home at the edge of the sea—especially after she
befriends a bear who is much more than he seems.
[1. Trees—Fiction. 2. Spirits—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.B27567 Tr 2001 [Fic]—dc21
2001016304
ISBN: 978-1-101-65154-4
for
Denali and Larkin,
my tree girls
Chapter 1
S
HE DANCED WITH ME
,
SHE DID
.” Anna narrowed her hazel green eyes, and nodded at the squirrel beside her on the branch. “Danced for hours—aye, even into the night.”
But the squirrel, busy chewing on a fir cone, just ignored her. And kept munching. All the while, its tail licked the air like a furry tongue.
Anna laid her hand on the trunk of the tree, the great fir she called Old Master Burl. Then she gave the branch a bounce. It creaked as it rocked both herself and the squirrel. She closed her eyes. And for a thin sliver of a moment, she wasn’t in that tree at all, but in her mother’s arms, swaying to a dance she could barely remember.
From a time she could barely remember.
With the mother she could barely remember.
“And she sang to me, too,” said Anna dreamily. “A song all soft and slow and whispery. A song that blew like the wind…aye, and beat like a heart.”
She bounced the branch again—this time so hard, the squirrel dropped its cone. With a burst of angry chatter, it scampered up the trunk. Bits of bark rained down on Anna.
“Flying fish eggs,” she muttered. She pulled a sticky wad of sap out of her hair. “Look what that little beast did to me, Burl!”
She gazed up at the tree and filled her nose with the familiar smell of fir, both tart and sweet. She didn’t need any answer. Not from Old Master Burl. She just knew he heard every word she said—sometimes before she said it.
A few hairs came off with the sap. Anna turned them slowly in her hand. The day’s last light caught them, and they gleamed as golden brown as summer squash. What color, she wondered, was her mother’s hair? And was it long, so long it swayed whenever she danced?
Suddenly she heard a sound. Aye, a pitiful sound, halfway between a squeak and a whimper.
Cheeeyup. Cheeeyup.
Anna spun around, searching for whatever had made it. There—it came again, from the roof of the cottage that stood beside Old Burl.
She slid down the branch and leaped onto the
roof. Her knees, covered with leggings she’d woven from strips of sea kelp, crunched into the thatch. But just as she landed, the branch sprang back and swatted her right on the bottom.
“Now, Burl,” she scolded. “Remember your manners!”
A wind rustled the fir’s needles, and the whole tree seemed to shiver with laughter. Anna herself couldn’t keep from grinning. How could she stay angry? She liked Old Burl’s pranks as much as he did.
Using both hands, she grabbed hold of the brittle thatch and climbed up the side of the roof, all the way to the ridgepole. She stood there, on the very top, feeling tall. Tree tall. Like Burl’s own little sister! Her grin widened.
On one side of the cottage, she could see the wide ocean, striped with rolling waves. On the other side, she could see the dark forest, whose branches moved with waves of their own. Endless water on her left, endless woods on her right. And in between, the narrow strip of rock and sand and sea kelp that was her world, her home.
And the home of Master Mellwyn, who had built this cottage for them both.
Anna’s grin faded like a footprint in the sand. The master had changed—sure as sea foam. She didn’t have to be nine years old to see that. And their life together had changed, too. Something was missing now. Something she needed.
But what? He hadn’t hurt her. Or grumbled any more than usual. And he always shared his fish, even if the catch wasn’t hardly worth cooking. And no matter how far he ranged on the ocean during the day, he always came back to the cottage at night—except for the one night of the year he sailed to the Farthest Reef.
What was it, then?
Anna gazed out across the lagoon and the open sea, feeling the briny breeze on her cheeks. A pair of dolphins leaped out of the shallows: two gray bodies as sleek as sand dunes. A mother and her child, swimming together.
She swallowed. What she wanted was something more than fish to eat or straw to sleep on. Something the master just couldn’t give her. Something even more precious than the friend she often wished for, who would always be ready to climb a tree.
No, what she wanted most of all was…a
mother. And not just to dance with her, and sing whispery songs. A mother, a real mother, could help her know who she really was. Where she came from.
Where she belonged.
Cheeeyup.
That sound! What in the name of crab claws was it? She stood still on the thatched roof, straining to hear it again. But she heard nothing besides the roll and slap of the sea.
For a while she watched the waves, painted as bright as shells by the setting sun. Then her head turned, as it so often did, toward the forest.
It brought bad luck to look that way, into the very eyes of the forest ghouls. She knew that. And if she somehow forgot, Master Mellwyn never stopped reminding her. But how could it hurt, just this once?
Her back straightened. And she looked, for just an instant, at the forest’s dark and shrieking groves. The very places where ghouls lurked. Where they licked their fangs and carved up their prey with bloody claws.
Then she spied the great ridge that rose beyond the farthest edge of the forest. From its folds, as
rumpled as a blanket, curls of mist spiraled into the sky. And on top of that ridge grew a single tree—so tall, she could see its shape even from here.
The High Willow. The master had warned her never to watch it, whether in mist or in moonlight. Or above all in full daylight, sharp against the sky, as she saw it now.
And yet…
She watched the High Willow, so tall atop the ridge. And a strange new feeling swelled in her chest. A feeling she couldn’t quite name.
Something about this tree spoke to her—aye, called to her. If only she could fly across the forest and go to its side! Touch its bark, its branches. Hear the rustle of its leaves. Mayhaps even climb—
Cheeeyup. Cheeeyup.
That sound again!
Anna shook herself, as if waking from a dream. The cry came again—weaker than before. Whatever made it was hurt, she could tell. Badly hurt. With an effort, she turned away from the tree and toward the sound.
Cheeeyup.
Across the roof, next to the chimney, she spied a small, tattered nest. And inside it, something
smaller, barely as big as a clamshell. Something wriggling, and alive.
A baby bird!
“I’m coming,” she called, using her best mother bird voice. Then she spread her arms wide, like wings, and balanced herself on the ridgepole. With a flap, she set off, dancing down the rooftop.
“I’m coming, my little one. Flying as fast as I can!”
She gave her arms an extra strong flap. But her balance shifted, and she started to slip sideways. Just then, a sharp breeze stirred Old Burl. One of the tree’s branches smacked against her side—and knocked her upright again.
It all happened so fast that Anna didn’t seem to notice. Or to realize how close she’d come to falling. She just kept on flapping toward the nest.
When she reached the little bowl of straw, thistledown, and sea grass, she found the scrawniest sparrow she’d ever seen. The bird’s gray feathers, stuck with bits of broken shell, splayed every which way. One of his wings looked deformed, bent almost in half. And his slim yellow eye watched her crossly.
“Oh,” cooed Anna, “what a right handsome fellow you are.”
The little creature just snapped his beak at her.
She gathered up the bird and put him in the pocket of her apron. “Come now, let’s go down together. The master will be getting back soon, and he’s sure to be hungry.” She cocked her head. “Just like you, aye?”
She tried to stroke the sparrow’s wing, but got a fierce nip in return. “All right then, little one. I know just what you need. A spot of food, a bit of warmth, and…”
She paused, smiling to herself. “And a mother.”
J
UST AS SHE REACHED THE EDGE
of the thatched roof, Anna saw a faint shape on the horizon. A shape that came steadily closer.
Master Mellwyn! He rowed his boat across the lagoon, cutting through the dusky purple waves. Strings of kelp hung from the hull like a scraggly beard.
Anna jumped off and dropped to the ground with a thud, spraying sand all around. Her apron flapped against her thighs. From inside the pocket, the sparrow gave an angry squawk.
“There now, little one.” She gently patted down the apron. “Your first flight. How did you like it?”
The bird tried to bite her with his tiny beak.
“Oh, I’m glad. You did beautifully, really. Someday you’ll be a great flier!” She cocked her head. “You’ll be needing a name, though. Whatever should I call you?”
She stroked the bird’s crumpled wing. “Aye, a
great flier. One who soars, way above the clouds. Like an eagle.”
And so Eagle got his name. Anna scurried about and gathered enough woolly lichen to make him a new nest. Above her, the branches of Old Master Burl stirred in the evening air, almost as if they were laughing. Green needles sprinkled the sand.
Seeing the boat approaching the beach now, Anna rushed inside. She threw the nest on the kitchen shelf, patted down its sides, and set the bird inside. Then she tossed him a slice of leftover mackerel—just as the cottage door swung open.
A bent, graying man strode in. So much sea salt encrusted him that he looked like a walking barnacle. With a grunt, he dumped a fish on the rough-hewn table—the only piece of furniture in the cottage, but for two driftwood chairs.
“A mackerel,” said Anna brightly. “You did well today, Master.” She tried to catch his eye, but he turned away too soon. So she took the smallest knife from the shelf, poured some rainwater into a bucket, and started to clean the fish.
The old man grunted again. “Well enough, mayhaps, to keep us from starvin’ tonight.
Thunder and blast, girl! I wonder if ‘twas worth carryin’ me skillet all the way here, seein’ how few viddles ever go into it.”
“Oh, but you’re a grand fisherman, you are. You just—”
“Crab shells!” he cursed, cutting her off. He struggled to pull off his soggy sweater, flapping his arms and spraying Anna with seawater. At last, he flung the sweater, woven from shoots of dune grass, over the chair nearest the hearth. It dripped on the earthen floor.
The old man sat down heavily in the other chair. One of its legs buckled beneath him. With a fresh spate of curses, he propped the broken chair against the main post of the cottage. Then he seated himself again, grabbed a tangled net of vines off the floor, and started to tie the loose ends.
