A snorting noise erupted to my left, startling me. I looked, but there was nothing there. Then heavy footsteps (hoofsteps?) thundered closer. I peered into the trees around me: still nothing. But as the sounds grew louder, I sensed something large and hairy charging through the nearby leaves and brush.
I ran. This was no neighborhood dog. I glanced back and caught the flash of a white tusk and shiny, rolling eyes.
It was a boar.
The wild, hairy cousin of a pig. But a whole lot meaner.
That was impossible! Boars didn’t live in these woods.
I sprinted. I rushed around trees and tried not to trip. A painful stitch gnawed at my side and sweat poured into my eyes.
I nearly collided with an enormous tree. It had a gigantic central trunk and branches that reached down and became smaller trunks, like gnarled fingers grabbing the ground. I scrambled to climb up but couldn’t find a foothold. The boar drew closer by the second.
“Help!” I cried in a panic.
A hand reached down out of the tree. It was a kid’s hand, with skin tanned from the sun, attached to an arm that disappeared into the leaves of the tree. The hand opened, as if in invitation.
So I grabbed it.
The hand grasped mine with surprising strength and pulled me up. I clutched at the first branch I could reach and used my feet against the tree’s enormous trunk to clamber up as the boar’s hot breath blew on my ankles. Eventually, the hand let go and disappeared farther up into the branches. I sensed someone moving above me, but I had to keep my head down to avoid getting a face full of leaves.
“There’s a big branch up here you can sit on,” came a muffled voice. After several more minutes of climbing, I reached a large limb and hauled myself up to sit on top. And then I saw who the hand, arm, and voice belonged to.
It was a boy. He looked like he was about my age. He had brown skin and wavy black hair that brushed the collar of his T-shirt. He sat on the branch with his hands out, ready to steady me if needed. I wrapped my shaking legs around the tree limb. Then I looked up into the boy’s face.
He had the most unusual eyes I had ever seen. They were bright brown, with bursts of gold in the middle, like sunlight shining through honey.
He flashed me a smile and watched me until he seemed satisfied that I had my balance. Then he relaxed his arms and leaned back against the tree’s huge trunk. “Are you all right?”
I looked down; I couldn’t see the ground, but I could still hear the snorting, combined with the occasional ugly squeal. “Oh-my-goodness-that-is-a-BOAR,” I said. “Do you think it can climb?” I forced myself to slow my breathing.
“No, because it chased me up here a short while ago,” he said.
“Good thing it did, or you couldn’t have saved me from being eaten.”
“Where I come from, boars don’t generally eat people. They’re more of a nuisance,” said the boy. “But those tusks did look sharp.”
“But what is a boar doing here? There are no boars in Massachusetts! The worst I’ve seen in these woods is a fisher-cat.”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to these woods before last week.”
“Well, thanks for the hand up.” Why wasn’t he more freaked out? “I’m Mimi.”
“I’m Vik.” He smiled. “And you’re welcome.”
Now that I was safe, I could finally appreciate the tree we were sitting in. It spread its huge, twisting limbs so wide that there were no other trees within at least twenty yards in every direction. Its leaves were enormous, oval, shiny, and green-gold. And when I ran my fingers over its bark, it felt more alive than any tree I’d ever touched, as if I could feel it breathing. “What kind of tree is this?”
“A banyan tree,” Vik said.
I shook my head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Some say the banyan is sacred. Each of these limbs can take root and form a new tree.” He patted a branch. “This tree is immortal.”
“Amazing,” I said. “Where are you from? I haven’t seen you at school.”
“I was born in India, and I’ve lived in lots of places, but right now I’m staying here for the summer with my old aunt Tanya, who lives at the edge of the forest.”
“Welcome to Comity,” I said.
“Lovely town. Wonderful woods. And great food,” said Vik.
How nice that someone else had noticed! “What are your favorite places?”
“Ronaldo’s, and Deli-shush, the sandwich place. I’d love to get their harvest bread recipe and make it myself.”
I gawked at him. “You bake?”
He nodded. “I cook, too, but baking’s my favorite.”
This was almost too good to be true! “Have you visited the While Away Café? Are you entering their contest?”
He paused, then shook his head. “No contests for me. Too much of a hassle.”
“I’m entering,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out how to make it to the second round.”
“Good luck,” said Vik.
“Someday, I want to be a professional baker. A celebrity professional baker, like my idol, Puffy Fay.” I took my backpack off and laid it on the branch in front of me.
Vik plucked a leaf from the tree and examined it. “I just want to be a person,” he said.
“What?”
Vik laughed. “I mean, a regular person. My—my aunt is kind of famous . . . in our country.”
“You mean India?”
“I was born in India, but now I live in Lemuria.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a beautiful but tiny island in the Pacific,” said Vik. “There, Aunt Tanya’s a celebrity. Royalty, even.”
“That sounds glamorous.”
“Less than you’d think,” Vik said with a weary laugh. “We’re always traveling—to Europe, Asia, America. All around the world. She has business interests everywhere. It can be exhausting.”
That sounded like the kind of exhausting I would enjoy. “We don’t go on many trips to places we can’t drive to,” I said. “I have a brother and two sisters, and it’s super expensive for six people to go anywhere. I would love to visit India again.” The last time we’d visited Mom’s relatives was five years ago, and I was dying to go back.
“India is beautiful,” Vik agreed. “And—”
“The food is amazing!” we both exclaimed.
“Anyway, you said you like Puffy Fay? I’m a fan, too,” said Vik. “Have you been to his bakery in New York?”
I swung my legs back and forth. “Yeah, we visited last year, and I had a pumpkin pavlova that was insanely delicious.” It had been one of the best days of my life.
“I love a good meringue,” said Vik. He leaned toward me. “But I’ve never had a pumpkin one. I wonder how he kept the pumpkin from weighing down the egg whites?”
This kid definitely knew baking!
“Yeah, I wondered that, too. He’s never published that recipe, though.”
There was a brief silence. A bluebird called to its mate, and I remembered what had brought me out here in the first place.
“Did you hear a song playing a little while ago?” I had to know. Had I imagined it, like I imagined Dad’s weird purple eye flash?
“What song?”
I whistled the tune. If Vik had heard it, maybe he could help me find out what made it. A rare bird? A strange lizard? Or maybe something I’d never even dreamed of. Up in a banyan tree, safe from a snorting boar, anything seemed possible.
“Oh.” His face lit up. “That was me.”
“You whistled it?”
“No, I played it—like this.” And before I knew what was happening, he reached behind him for a small wooden pipe, and, balanced perfectly on the branch, he played the tune I had heard.
My heart inflated like a clafouti in the oven. So this was the answer I’d been searching for since I’d heard the first few notes of the song. A boy. In a tree! It was like being inside a story that Emma and I
made up.
“I’ve been hearing bits of that song since the beginning of the summer! Did you write it yourself?” I asked.
“No, it’s an old family song. I play it to keep myself company. And to remind myself of where I come from.”
“Well, I love it,” I said. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“I can teach you, if you want.”
I shook my head. “I’m no musician. It’s enough to finally know where the song came from. Besides, we’d better eat these before they melt. To celebrate avoiding sharp tusks.” I reached into my backpack and took out my carrier.
“Oh,” said Vik. “Cupcakes.”
He looked as grumpy as I felt when Grandma Kate served up stewed cabbage.
“I made them myself.” I held one out to him. It was only slightly squished; the carrier had done its job.
Vik accepted the cupcake reluctantly. “I’m kind of sick of sweets.” He peeled the wrapper down and took a small bite.
“I’d love to hear your opinion. I like trying unusual combinations of ingredients, like—”
“You made this?” Vik looked at me sharply.
“Yes,” I said tentatively. Was it too weird? I knew I shouldn’t have added that extra lemon zest!
“It’s superb. Wow. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Lemon and . . . blueberries, right? No, hold on—blackberries, I think. And . . . lavender? Lavender, for . . . excitement? I think there’s an old saying that lavender is good for something like that.”
That sounded familiar. “Just a second.” I took the book out of my backpack and flipped through the beginning again. “This isn’t in alphabetical order, or any kind of order at all. Oh, here it is. Lavender brings luck and adventure for those who choose to embrace it,” I said. “You were right.”
“What book is that?” asked Vik. “It looks ancient.”
“I just found it. It’s got all these drawings and descriptions of herbs and spices.”
“Cool! Can I take a look?”
I handed him the book, and he spent the next few minutes leafing through it, but then returned to eating the cupcake.
“I love this. It’s so different from the usual boring things people make. Although . . .” He took another bite. “I have a suggestion.” He studied the cupcake. “The cake is light, fluffy, and complex, and the creamy, tangy frosting complements it so well. It might be even better with an edible garnish. Like a sugared mint leaf.” He took another bite. “Or a sugared violet,” he said with his mouth half full. “That would be lovely.”
I gaped in surprise. He was right. It would be lovely! I’d thought about topping them with fresh, mouth-puckering blackberries, but these suggestions were so much more elegant. This kid shouldn’t be hanging out in trees; he should be working in a restaurant. Or a bakery. Or writing reviews for a newspaper.
“It’s the best cupcake I’ve ever had. Sorry for my initial reaction—I’ve had a startling number of truly terrible desserts lately.” His gaze flicked to the other cupcake. “You should eat yours.”
“Okay.” My cupcake had changed him from grumpy to giddy in just a few minutes! I giggled and peeled back the wrapper.
“Now.” Vik’s eyes glinted. “Tell me the story.”
“What do you mean?”
“The story of how you came up with this delicious cupcake. I know you have one.” He finished his cake and looked at me expectantly.
I took a bite and thought for a moment. Puffy Fay had a story for every recipe in his book—something about the inspiration for the food, or how he enjoyed it with people he loved. I cleared my throat. “I first made these last year, for my friend Emma’s birthday. She lives—well, she lived—next door to me, and we’ve been best friends since before we could walk. Her favorite color is yellow. She’s a sunny person—she loves jokes, and we used to laugh together every day. My favorite color is purple, so I thought about how I could bring the two together. And I had all this lavender in my garden begging to be used, so I put everything together and . . . this is what happened.”
Vik had closed his eyes. “I can see it. But . . . did something happen to your friend?”
“She moved to Australia a couple of weeks ago.”
Vik opened his eyes again. “That came through in your baking. What a great friend she was, and how much you miss her.”
Speechless once more, I stared at the cupcake in my hand. I took another bite and chewed slowly. Could someone taste friendship?
“You should totally enter the contest,” I said. “You know so much.”
Vik shook his head. “I just like baking for fun. I don’t need anyone to give me a prize for it.”
“I bet you don’t care because you’ve already won a bunch of prizes. I’ve never won anything, ever.”
Vik resumed looking through the book while I continued eating my cupcake. “Did you know there are stories in here?” he asked.
“No, I found that book just before I heard your song, so I didn’t get a chance to read much.”
He turned a few pages in the book, then stopped. “Here’s a cool one,” he said. “Want to hear?”
“Go ahead.” I adjusted my seat on the branch. “Emma and I used to tell each other stories all the time.”
Vik sat cross-legged and leaned over the book. “Once there was a girl with flowers in her hair. Flowers were what she knew and loved. She tended her garden and grew blossoms beyond all imagination, with colors bold and bright, and colors soft and yielding. But she felt that no one truly understood her.” His voice was low and pleasant, and I could picture the girl from his story as if she were sitting in the tree with us.
He continued, “And then the girl met the Woodland Queen, the Queen of The Wild, who knows everyone’s deepest desires.”
Vik’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the golden leaves.
“To join the Court, the girl needed to give something worthy of the Queen. She offered the Queen the Love Blossom, with trailing vines and petals that blushed purple with love’s wound. And the Queen was pleased, but asked for something more.
“Next, she offered the Queen the Herb of Refreshment, with tiny white buds and blue-green leaves that restored the senses and cleared confusion. And the Queen was pleased, but still she asked for something more.
“So one starry night when the moon was full, the girl presented the Queen with her heart’s work, a perfect pink flower that resembled a tiny woodland dancer. It was something that only she in all the world could have wrought. And the Queen bestowed upon the girl a trowel of willow wood, unmatched in coaxing fragile roots to find their way. And so the girl was welcomed to the Court of The Wild and resides there still, tending to endless gardens that never cease to delight.”
It was quiet; it felt like everything in the woods had stopped to listen to the story. “That’s beautiful,” I said. I finished my cupcake and licked the tangy frosting off my fingers. “Her heart’s work. And the Queen gave her a special gift to help her with her garden! I wonder, was it magical?”
“Probably.” Vik closed the book. “I bet it wouldn’t make just anyone a master gardener, but it was the perfect tool for that girl.”
What tool would the Queen give me? I wondered. A whisk? A spatula?
I glanced at my watch. It was getting late, and I’d promised Mom I’d help with dinner. But I didn’t want to leave. I thought for a moment. Mom would be happy I’d already made a new friend this summer. I didn’t think she’d mind. And besides, it would be fun to have someone my age to talk to.
“Want to come home with me? We’re having friends over for dinner. Would your aunt Tanya be okay with that?”
“I’d love to,” Vik said. “As long as I’m home before dark, it should be fine.”
I packed away the cupcake carrier and the book and hoisted my backpack. I looked down and hesitated. “Do you think it’s safe?” The snorting had stopped, but who knew whether the boar had really gone?
“Yes,” said Vik. He began
to climb down.
“But how do you know?”
“Simple. We ate your lavender cupcakes. Remember? Lavender is for luck.”
As we started on the path home, I found a large rock and picked it up.
Just in case.
CHAPTER 8
HONEYSUCKLE COOKIES
Every tree seemed leafier, every flower brighter, and every fleeting scent drew me here and there before vanishing into the humid air. I knew we should hurry home, especially since the boar might be nearby, but we couldn’t help strolling off the path.
We came to a clearing and stopped. Dark green vines with oblong leaves and purple flowers in pairs grew everywhere—under our feet, around tree trunks and small shrubs, in a circle at least thirty feet wide. Fat green-eyed insects buzzed lazily around the blossoms. A heavy, luscious fragrance filled the air.
“Honeysuckle!” I plucked a couple of flowers and took a moment to appreciate the dark purple petals that faded to lavender and then white at their base. I brought one to my nose and sniffed. My cousins had a vine like this at their house in India. But these blossoms were gargantuan, each one the size of my palm.
I pinched off the green cap that held the petals together, pulled on the little string that was exposed, and tasted the small glob of nectar that glistened at the end. My mouth burst with sweetness. Vik did the same and beamed at me.
Some time later, when I found myself competing for the flowers with an irritated-looking hummingbird, I decided it was time to stop. I had an idea.
“Help me, will you?” Vik and I gathered a bunch of flowers, threw them in my backpack, and raced the rest of the way home.
Mom was working in the kitchen. “Mimi! There you are,” she said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Vik.” Vik placed his hands together and bowed. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Namaskar, Vik,” said Mom, putting her hands together.
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