“Last night, I saw you out in the storm, going down the road to a big brick building,” Willow says.
Cora snorts but doesn’t pause as she dishes steamy scrambled eggs onto their plates. “Now, missy, what would I be doing outside in this storm? You must have been dreaming.”
“I wasn’t dreaming,” Willow argues. “I wake up in the middle of the night a lot. It was four a.m. I heard the clock. I was standing at the window watching the storm, and I saw you out there.”
Cora lets loose a laugh so loud that Wisp and Willow and their mom all jump. “Girlie, there ain’t no way you saw me outdoors in a snowstorm like we’re having. I can barely make it up the stairs to my bed. How do you expect an old lady like me, with knees that can barely hold up a mosquito, to have stumbled her way through twenty-four inches of snow? You were dreaming, baby. It was nothing but a nice, big dream.”
Maybe she was sleepwalking and sleep dreaming. But Willow doesn’t think so. She remembers the solid feel of floor beneath her feet. So is she wrong or is Cora lying? And if she is lying, why?
Willow’s mom eyes the eggs Cora has put in front of them. “Excuse me, Cora. You don’t happen to have other breakfast choices, do you?”
DuChard Spoken Family Rule #1: Wisp is to eat nothing that is not organically grown. And since Wisp must follow this regimen, so must the entire DuChard family—without complaint.
Their dad disagreed with this decision. And so he is not there.
“This is a B&B, not a restaurant with a menu, and that there is your breakfast,” Cora says. “There’s a storm going on, if you haven’t noticed.”
Willow can almost see her mom’s thoughts wrestle each other: Should Wisp eat the eggs, even if the chickens that produced them probably weren’t free-range, or should she stand firm and let him go hungry?
Obviously, there is no way of getting organic food in Kismet, Maine, in this blizzard. Eventually, their mom gives Wisp a nod.
Before she can change her mind, Wisp digs in enthusiastically. It has been months since he has eaten eggs that were obviously cooked in butter or bacon fat. His smile makes Willow smile too.
He shovels the eggs into his mouth with the speed of a freight train coming down the track. But then Willow sees him pause, and he sets his fork down quietly, his head drooping to his chest. She knows this is the signal that Wisp’s stomach is rebelling. Silently, their mother moves his plate away and his bucket near.
Wisp swallows and swallows, until, at last, it seems the nausea has passed as he raises his head again. He looks at the eggs and sighs with frustration.
Tears prick their mother’s eyes.
“Well, at least we’ve got power,” Cora says, breaking the silence and awkwardness of the moment. “That’s one thing to be thankful for. But now, see here. I do breakfast, not lunch or dinner. There’s a diner down the street, and Mrs. Wallace, the owner, knows your situation. She’s willing to let you eat there for free until you’re able to get some money.”
“Thank you,” Mom says.
Cora pauses to spritz one of her plants. Its large leaves tremble with the touch of water, as if the gigantic bush is nodding in thanks.
“Do you think people who lose power will freeze to death in their homes before someone can reach them?” Wisp asks. “Will they be all stiff like ice cubes when they’re finally found? Will their limbs break off when the police try to get them out?”
“Wisp,” Mom sighs. “Please stop with the gory thoughts.”
“Hello, hello,” comes a loud voice from the hallway. A gust of cold tumbles into Cora’s dining room.
A man comes in with the icy air. He is ramrod straight and military stern, with eyes set deep in a face that is lined and lean. In his hands, he carries a parcel wrapped in a plastic shopping bag.
“Colonel Stanley,” Cora says, waddling forward to take the lanky man’s coat and reaching up to brush the snow from his graying hair. “Glad to see you today.”
“James and Layla are taking me around town,” the colonel says, accepting a cup of hot coffee from Cora. “Being mayor and in charge of emergency services, I want to ensure that everyone is all right. You look like you have everything under control.”
“I do, Colonel,” Cora tells him, beaming. “As expected.”
“Willow?” he barks at Willow, after he takes a sip of his drink.
“Yes,” Willow says in surprise. How does he know her name?
“Layla asked me to give you this,” he says, holding out a plastic bag.
Inside, Willow finds a spiral notebook, college lined, and a feathered ballpoint pen. She is a bit old for this type of pen, but already she can feel her fingers itching to write.
It was nice of Layla to have thought of this, and Willow gets it now. Layla has obviously told the colonel all about them. He is the mayor, after all.
“Have you been in a war?” Wisp asks, eyeing the colonel’s uniform. “Have you fought in any really bloody battles?”
“Wisp!” Mom admonishes again.
The colonel nods. “Indeed I have, young man. Many years ago. Before I came here. But I prefer my life now to any battlefields I’ve been on. Battles are usually unexpected. And I don’t like being unprepared.”
Wisp nods as if this is the most normal conversation ever. His fascination with gore and blood and war since the onset of his illness is one of the reasons Willow stopped having friends over—that and her mom and dad’s increasing arguments over Wisp’s treatment.
“Would you like to come along with me?” the colonel asks Wisp. “We could use a second lieutenant on our rounds.”
Wisp beams, and the dark circles under his eyes seem to fade to light ash.
“No,” Mom says, her voice like a shot going off in a metal room. “Wisp isn’t well. I don’t think the cold would do him good. But thank you for the offer.”
DuChard Spoken Family Rule #2: Wisp is not to do anything that might weaken him further—no complaining.
Their dad put up a bit of a fight about babying Wisp. And so he is not here.
Willow watches Wisp wilt.
“Well.” The colonel pauses for a few seconds, eyeing Wisp. “If that’s the final decision…”
And you can feel the colonel’s question hanging like smoke in the air.
But Wisp doesn’t have the strength these days to continually fight their mom.
He looks down at his lap. His shoulders sag. He whispers, “We’d probably go over a cliff or something out there anyway. We’d probably die in a fireball of explosions.”
The colonel waits another second, but when Wisp says nothing more, he nods and shrugs back on his wool overcoat, handing Cora his cup. “I’m off, then. Thanks for the coffee, Cora.”
The man goes out, taking the cold with him.
Willow can see Wisp’s disappointment in the bend of his back. Her heart gives a sad little swish.
Their mom stands. “I’m going to try to reach work anyway, and I should call your father and let him know where we are. Let him know we’re okay, although as usual, he won’t be any help.”
Willow quickly glances around the room to find something to think about, to block out more of her mother’s wearisome grievances about their dad. And she sees some books in a bookcase and makes herself think about Dr. Seuss, whose books she truly adored when she was younger. Willow loved how he always tried to simplify life, even in a seriously complicated world. Finally, her mom says no more and leaves the room, taking her bitterness with her.
Willow wishes she could call her best friend, tell her all about the situation they are in, but Willow has no cell phone now. And, of course, Elise is almost two thousand miles away in a foreign country, probably sunning on a beach.
“Wisp,” Cora says, all brisk business now, “how about you help me carry these dishes in? Willow, why don’t you ge
t the door?”
Puzzled, Willow looks at Cora. But then a hard knock sounds.
Staring at the door, Willow wonders how Cora could possibly have known that someone was coming. She turns back toward Cora, but Cora is already heading to the kitchen.
Willow looks at Wisp, who shrugs. And so she goes and opens the door.
Standing before her is the oddest-looking boy she has ever seen.
He is a mishmash of contrasts. One blue eye and one green—as if God could not decide whether this boy should see the world through sky or leaves. On one foot is an L.L.Bean fishing boot and on the other a plain brown work boot. One black mitten and one red glove shower down snow as he takes them off. Willow stares.
He grins at her. “Hi, Willow. I’m Topher Dawson.”
He holds out his hand, and Willow looks first before touching him. Will he be fingerless on one hand and six-fingered on the other? But he seems to have normal limbs and all ten fingers.
Willow shakes his hand, and cold and snow scent the air around him.
He removes his hat, and the contrasts continue. Thick, dark hair tickles his neck. One feather-braided streak of green decorates the left side. His blue-green eyes move past her.
“And you must be Wisp,” he says, kicking off his boots. His socks, predictably, don’t match either.
Wisp has come in from the kitchen and is hanging back, staring shyly at the boy before him.
Topher swings a backpack off his shoulder. “Layla said you guys were holed up here. Thought you might like to hang out, play a game or something.”
He pulls Life from his bag, and Willow sees Wisp’s face light up with delight.
“I love that game,” Wisp says.
“Me too,” Topher says. “Come on, then. Let’s set it up. My brothers will be along in a minute to join us.”
As if on cue, Cora comes back from the kitchen. “Hello, Topher.”
“Hey, Cora,” Topher says.
“Come to entertain my guests?” she asks as she moves about the room, adding fertilizer to one of her plants before snapping off a dead leaf.
Topher laughs. “Them and my own hooligan little brothers. Mom’s busy at the hospital.”
“How many brothers do you have?” Wisp asks. “Are any of them sick?”
Willow sucks in her breath at her brother’s inappropriate question.
Topher looks thoughtful. “Uh, nope. I don’t think so. They were both healthy when I left them ten minutes ago. Too healthy, really,” he adds. “They never slow down.”
His eyes rest on Willow for a minute, as if she can empathize. But Willow can’t. She would give the sun and the moon to have Wisp wear her out.
“Joe Joe is twelve, and Taddie is eight,” Topher says.
“That’s my age!” Wisp shouts, pumping a fist in the air.
“Are you a wild loup-garou like my brothers?” Topher asks, laughing.
“What’s a loup-garou?” Willow can’t help but ask. She’s never heard the word before.
He turns to her. “It’s a kind of wolf, a wolf who is always causing trouble in our Acadian folk stories.”
“Are you French Canadian?” Willow asks.
Cora laughs, that loud laugh that makes Wisp and Willow jump again. “Almost everyone in town is. Our ancestors made their way here years ago, seeking a different kind of life. But we’re descended from the original settlers up there—loggers, fiddlers, and farmers, every one.”
Topher shrugs. “I’m only half, though.”
He gives Willow a look with his peculiar eyes. “My mother is Acadian, but my father was from away.”
Away? Willow thinks that an odd choice of words.
“Was?” Wisp asks, picking up on another of Topher’s words. “Is your dad dead?”
Topher shakes his head. “No, my parents are divorced. My dad doesn’t live here anymore. He didn’t like living in Kismet.”
“Why not?” Wisp asks.
Topher shrugs. “Too many people knowing everyone’s business is what he thought.”
“Does he visit you often?” Wisp asks.
“No…,” Topher says slowly. “He never visits.”
“Doesn’t he like you?” Wisp asks.
“Wisp!” Willow protests again.
But Topher just laughs as he sits down and begins to set up the game board on the dining room table. “He likes us well enough. It’s Kismet he’s not fond of. And actually, he isn’t allowed to visit.”
Cora coughs loudly, and Topher’s eyes swing toward hers. Cora gives him an odd look, and Willow sees Topher redden.
“Why isn’t he allowed to visit?” Wisp asks, his bold curiosity insatiable.
“Because that’s what Topher’s mom and dad agreed on,” Cora interrupts sharply. “Right, Topher?”
Topher nods but says nothing else. He gazes down at the floor.
Willow thinks of her own dad and how little her mom wants him around now too.
“Do you miss him?” Wisp asks softly, walking over and leaning his body into Topher’s knee.
Topher places a palm on Wisp’s head. He looks right at Wisp. “I miss him every day.”
Willow wonders at Topher’s ability to speak so calmly of this. He does not blink back a tear. His voice does not waver. He is like those settlers of bygone days whom Willow has read about—rugged and tough.
Topher may be settler strong, but Willow thinks of her own dad again and a lump lodges hard in her throat.
Cora nods as if satisfied before heading into the kitchen.
Topher glances behind him, and then leans toward Willow and Wisp. In a voice so soft that only they could possibly hear, he says, “My dad would visit if he could. But there’s a reason he can’t. It’s a secret.”
Wisp’s eyes widen. His mouth opens, but before he can say anything, Topher puts a finger to his lips. “Please don’t ask. I’m not allowed to tell you why—not today, anyway.”
Wisp nods solemnly, thrilled, Willow can tell, to share a confidence with an older boy. But Willow just feels baffled. What could possibly be so top-secret about his father not visiting?
“Your family plans on leaving as soon as you can, right?” Topher asks, an odd sense of what Willow identifies as urgency in his voice.
“Yes,” she says. “Why?”
Topher glances behind him again. “Because you don’t want to stay here. Believe me.”
Before Willow can ask why again, a storm of arms and legs and giggles and shouting descends on them all.
Topher’s brothers arrive in a flurry of coats and boots and mismatched mittens. But unlike Topher’s, all four of their eyes are river-bottom brown, and their hair is cut straight and true and just below their ears.
“Ah, Topher,” the older one says. “Not Life again! Can’t we go sledding or have a snowball fight instead?”
“Quiet!” Cora comes back into the room and shouts into the uproar, and her voice, like her laugh, boomerangs off the walls. “You ruffians may stay in my house, but put a lid on the noise.”
The boys grow quiet immediately.
“Now, you want hot chocolate, I take it,” Cora says as they settle down.
“Yes, please!” the boys yell.
Then each of them eyes Cora guiltily, but she just laughs. “Hot chocolate, already made and coming up.”
Willow watches Cora waddle off again toward the kitchen. Then she turns back to Topher, planning on asking him about his dad and why they should be worried about staying in Kismet.
But Topher shakes his head at her.
Willow crosses her arms in irritation. Why won’t he tell them?
She decides then and there to ignore this boy and his silly, probably stupid secret and ominous warning. After all, it’s not as if she will be around after today. They are leaving.
/>
“Taddie, Joe Joe,” Topher says, introducing his brothers, and pointing to each, “this is Wisp and Willow.”
Taddie is shorter than Joe Joe by about two inches. Like Wisp’s, his eyes shimmer with mischief, and his lips threaten laughter. Joe Joe stands beside his brother, taller and gawky, with a few pimples.
“Hey,” they say to Willow and Wisp.
“Okay, come on, then. Game time,” Topher says. “What color car do you each want to be?”
“I want green!” Taddie shouts.
“Can’t we play anything else? How about hearts?” Joe Joe asks, continuing his plea to do something different.
“Wisp likes Life,” Topher says. “So Life it is.”
“I like Life too,” Taddie says. Wisp and Taddie exchange excited looks, and Willow can tell that all thoughts of secrets have left Wisp’s head in the face of a possible new friendship.
“Fine,” Joe Joe relents. “I’ll be whatever color.”
“Willow?” Topher says. “What color car do you want to be?”
He looks at Willow with his odd-hued eyes, his gaze open, waiting.
“I think I’ll pass,” Willow says.
“Really?” Topher asks, his eyebrows raised.
His look gives her a funky feeling, a rumbling, tumbling jolt of something Willow cannot describe. It is an odd feeling, just like him.
“I don’t like playing games with Willow.” Wisp suddenly speaks up, breaking this boy’s spell. “She’s a brainiac. She won the school geography contest last year and is the highest scorer on her school’s debate team and has read more books than the librarian at my school.” He rolls his eyes as if to emphasize his point.
Willow sticks her tongue out at her brother, and Wisp laughs and sticks his tongue back out at her. It is their weird little ritual, this tongue-sticking-out, something their parents taught them to do years ago to stop them from using their fists when they were angry with each other. It has always made them laugh so their differences disappear, and today is no exception.
Cora comes in with mugs of dark chocolate, clouds billowing from the cups like trains in a station enveloped in their own steam.
The Root of Magic Page 3