The Root of Magic

by Kathleen Benner Duble

  The boys giggle and laugh. And Willow sees that Wisp is now acting like a bit of a wild frontiersman himself, easily joining in the merriment of Topher and his brothers. Without Willow, the game begins, and Willow is released to do what she wants.

  She goes to the window seat near the front of the house. Down the road, she sees someone trudging along with his head down, fighting his way through the snow, hands stuck deep in the pockets of a bright red parka. He turns a corner and goes inside the brick building Willow saw last night. She wonders again about seeing Cora out there, and what must be inside that building, before she turns her thoughts to her writing.

  She opens the notebook Layla has sent as Cora comes and sets a mug of chocolate near her. If Willow cannot be with Elise, she will spend time with her nonhuman friend, the blank page. The scent of new paper rises to melt with the steam of the drink, and the view of the snow outside and the feel of the warmth inside prickle with peace. Soon Willow is writing, lost in words and thoughts, all flowing onto the pages as if a tap has finally been unclogged. Mud and sludge spill out.

  Willow has always loved the play of written words and the sound of them in her mouth, especially big words, rare words, words people hardly ever use, words that can change lives or minds. But since Wisp took ill, her writing seems to only be about sad and ugly things. She knows her tales now would horrify her parents, but sometimes making up tragic stories is the only thing that keeps her from worrying about Wisp or the separation of her mom and dad.

  Time passes, and Willow continues writing.

  And then she is taken away from her quiet reverie by a rise in voices. Life has become a winner-take-all contest, a race to the finish.

  Willow stands up and moves toward the large wooden dining room table. It is Wisp’s turn, and he spins the wheel just as Joe Joe and Taddie begin arguing over who owes what to whom. Wisp is distracted, listening to them, and Willow watches as Topher slyly reaches out and swings the wheel just slightly to the left, adding a two-space advantage to Wisp’s roll.

  “Boys,” Topher says, his voice steady and stern. “Your arguments are pointless. Wisp has won.”

  “I have?” Wisp cries, turning to look at the board. “I have!” he shouts in triumph as he realizes the number on the wheel places him over the finish line.

  Topher’s eyes meet Willow’s, and there is a light dancing behind them, turning one eye Easter-egg blue and the other spring-grass green. He shrugs innocently with open palms, as if he had no choice but to pull this trick.

  In spite of herself, Willow feels a smile break free on her face.

  This boy with green-streaked hair and mismatched eyes may be strange, but how is it possible to dislike a boy who cheats at Life to let Wisp win?

  Willow’s mother comes into the room, her eyes red-rimmed and her lids rubbed raw. And Willow realizes in a flash that her mom has not just phoned work to say she would not be there or spoken to their dad or made the phone calls to get them out of this town.

  Her mother’s face betrays the fact that she has also called the doctors and gotten the results of a test Wisp took before they left for Canada. Willow knows the look. She’s seen it on her mother’s face many times before. The last test must have been negative, leaving them, once again, unsure as to what is wrong with Wisp.

  “What is going on in here?” Mom asks, quickly bringing down her mother mask, as she often does, clearly shoving Wisp’s test results deep into the back of her brain.

  “I just won Life!” Wisp says.

  Mom blinks in surprise, but she recovers quickly. Her fingers graze the bangs that hang low in Wisp’s eyes. “Did you, Wisp? That’s wonderful.”

  Topher stands and holds out a hand. “Topher Dawson, ma’am. Boys?” he adds, and obediently his brothers stand too. “My brothers, Taddie and Joe Joe.” Topher points to each.

  They all shake her mom’s hand sweetly and seriously, and her mom smiles. The Dawsons are winning her over with an ease that irritates Willow.

  Topher begins to gather up the board. “We have to go. My mom’ll be home from the hospital soon.”

  “Your mother’s a doctor?” Willow’s mom asks.

  “She’s the best one ever,” Taddie brags.

  “Their mother is Acadian—that means French Canadian,” Wisp bursts out, grinning at his new friends. “Everybody here is.”

  “I’m only half,” Topher reminds him, “though my mom is full Acadian.”

  “She can cure anything,” Joe Joe adds.

  “She took care of my bunions,” Cora says as she comes down the stairs from carrying up clean towels. In her hand, she has a box of beads and a long string of wire. She eases herself into the deep, flowery sofa, yelping as her knees give in. She pours the beads out onto a dark wooden butler table with a rim that catches the balls and prevents them from spilling onto the floor. “And she brought the colonel through a bad bout of pneumonia last winter. The boy’s right. She’s a healer.”

  “A healer?” Mom asks, and Willow winces.

  Her mom’s face falls into speculation. And Willow sees a spark of hope in her eyes. In the same flash, she can see her father’s frown and hear his voice with all its disapproval.

  “Don’t, Starr,” he would say. “Let it go.”

  But he’s not here, and Willow knows her mom won’t. Over and over the doctors have told her mother that only Wisp’s body can beat this thing—but her mom keeps pushing to find the one doctor who can figure out the truth and come up with a cure.

  DuChard Unspoken Family Rule #4: Never give up on Wisp—even if it kills everyone else.

  In that moment, Willow almost hates this boy, Topher Dawson. Her mom is going to want to meet his mom to get her opinion on Wisp. Willow knows it.

  Topher returns the game to his backpack. He and his brothers plunge once more into their coats and boots and mittens and gloves.

  “See you tomorrow?” Taddie asks Wisp.

  “We’re heading home later today,” Willow says quickly, hoping to stop her mother from trying to track down Topher’s healer mom.

  “Oh, you’ll be here,” Cora says. “Ain’t no one going nowhere in this weather.” Her fingers shuffle through the tiny glass globes.

  “What are you making?” Wisp asks, curiosity drawing him nearer.

  Cora pulls down the collar of her shirt to reveal a beaded necklace circling a wrinkled neck. Each bead is etched with a leaf. “I sell them at the fair in the summer.”

  “Cora’s a real artist,” Topher says.

  He grins at Willow as if this is a joke they can share. And perhaps he’s right. Willow can easily tell that Cora’s handiwork is not exceptional, though her ability to grow plants is obviously amazing. They are taller and greener than any plants Willow has ever seen.

  But Willow does not return Topher’s open smile. This boy may have kindled a flame in her mother’s heart, giving her false hope once more.

  “See you later, Willow,” Topher calls as he heads for the door, his playful, tumbling puppy brothers crowding around him as they head off into the snow-whiteness.

  But Willow says nothing. Instead, she watches her mother, who stands there, staring after the boys.

  Suddenly, her mother grabs her coat, puts it on, and moves toward the door. Willow knows where she is headed.

  “I don’t think Taddie meant his mother was a miracle worker,” Willow says, hurrying after her mom, wanting to end this crusade before it begins.

  “Willow, what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t at least talk to her?” her mother asks.

  Willow says nothing, for there is no good response to this question. She watches the front door open and then close behind her mom. And once again, Willow is left standing alone in her mother’s wake as her mother sails off in search of a cure for Wisp.

  Willow sits in a chair by the window, watching
the snow as it continues to fall, each flake adding to the already mountainous heaps of white. For a minute, the sun forces its way through sinister-looking clouds and shines and shimmers on the town, making her squint. And then it is gone again, swallowed whole by stormy intentions.

  Down the street, James McHenry’s plow moves slowly into driveways, pushing snow back and forth, until Willow begins to see how each person’s driveway was connected to the main road before snow reshaped the town’s world.

  Kismet itself is small. From Cora’s B&B on the hill at one end, Willow can see all the way to the other. Every structure except one is made of wood—fine planked, straight and tight—and each house is part of a cul-de-sac, each cul-de-sac running off the main street. Not many homes, except Cora’s and a few others, are more than one story tall. Willow sees the big brick building, along with a drugstore and a library, a post office and a bank, the diner and a tiny movie theater, and far down the road, the hospital, a grocery store, a school, a police station, and a gas station. That is all there is to Kismet, Maine.

  When the plow arrives in front of Cora’s, Willow sees Layla in the front seat. Through the window, Willow holds up the journal and mouths “Thank you.” Layla gives her a grin and a nod, her knitting needles never stopping.

  Then they are gone, back out onto the streets, weaving their way through Kismet, creating pathways and trails through which the townspeople can find their way in this newly formed and unfamiliar landscape. As the plow moves on, Willow notices for the first time that the streets of Kismet are oddly bare. There are no mailboxes on the road or on porches, no newspaper boxes or doors with mail slots. Where does the mailman put the mail?

  Cora has turned on a gas fire, and the flames flicker and flash. Willow’s mom has been gone all afternoon.

  Willow’s dad calls around five on Cora’s house phone since their cell phones are at the bottom of whooshing waters bound for lakes or rivers or oceans. Willow answers eagerly, but her dad sounds strained and worried.

  “I talked to your mom this morning,” he says, “but I’m glad to be talking to you now. Are you all right? How is Wisp? I wanted to come get you, but the state of emergency is keeping everyone off the roads.”

  Willow tells him that they are both okay, that they will see him in a day or two when everything clears. She does not mention where her mom has gone. There would be little her father could do anyway about her mother’s crusade, and Willow is still hoping that nothing will come of it.

  When Willow goes back to the living room, Cora continues to work, her hands stringing bauble after bauble into a merry string of greens and golds. The sound of one bead clacking against another as it is threaded and dropped is somehow comforting.

  Wisp has fallen asleep. His head rests lazily on the sofa cushions. His woolen-socked feet have found a way to nestle in Cora’s large lap, and Cora has laid a blanket over him.

  Willow looks back out the window and sees two people trudging through the snow toward the brick building. They disappear inside.

  “Come away from the window, girl,” Cora says. “It’s cold there, and you can’t change a thing.”

  “What?” Willow asks, even as she stands up and moves over to Cora.

  Cora shrugs. “Your mother is a grown woman and is quite safe. Not everything is your responsibility, you know.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Willow asks.

  Cora doesn’t answer. Instead, she nods her head toward Wisp. “What’s wrong with him?” Her voice, usually booming and banging, now slides softly through the warm room like heated taffy poured out of a hot pan.

  “They don’t know,” Willow says. “They’ve tried test after test and treatment after treatment, and they can’t figure it out.”

  Willow pauses and then raises her eyes to meet Cora’s. “I heard one time…because my parents didn’t know I was outside their bedroom…I heard my dad say the doctors told him there was a possibility that Wisp could even die.”

  This is a moment Willow tries to forget, so she’s not sure why she’s told this woman about it. She has never told anyone else what she’s learned.

  “Nobody promised you fair when you came into this world, girl,” Cora says. “And nobody promises you fair on how or when you go out. The best you can do is to be prepared.”

  Willow sits down and hands Cora a bead.

  “I hate him being sick,” Willow whispers.

  Cora’s hand shoots out and envelops Willow’s before she can pull it away. Willow can feel the lines and creases of Cora’s palm, its worn spots and soft spots.

  “I know,” Cora says. “But you can relax for now. He’ll be okay today.”

  Willow stares at her. There is no way for Cora to know how Wisp will feel for the rest of the day. Even Willow can’t predict how Wisp will be hour to hour, and she lives with him and his illness all the time. Why would this woman say such a foolish thing?

  Before she can ask Cora what she means, the front door opens, and Willow’s mom comes in from the cold. Snowflakes lie on her coat, hat, and mittens, evidence that she has been braving the snow for quite some time. Willow takes one look at her mom’s face and sees disappointment there.

  “I tried to follow those boys,” her mom says as she takes off her coat, “but I couldn’t find them. I walked around and around the town, but the snow covered their tracks too quickly. So I went to the hospital, but their mother was gone for the day. The staff wouldn’t give me their address. The only good that came from all this was confirming that Wisp’s doctors have sent his records here. I spent a few hours getting all the paperwork done so they’ll be ready if we need them.”

  Willow suppresses a sigh of relief. For now, Wisp is free from any new treatments.

  “Can you tell me how to get to the Dawsons’ house?” Mom asks Cora.

  “Tomorrow,” Cora says. She gently picks up Wisp’s feet and lays them to the side, then pushes her heavy frame from sitting to standing. “You should have an early supper at the diner tonight. There’s a lull now, but there’s more heavy snow coming this evening.”

  Willow sees her mom start to protest, but then Wisp stirs, and their mom is at his side, her hand on his too-skinny arm, her mind completely focused on her son. Wisp opens one eye and then pulls his arm away from his mother.

  “I’m hungry,” he says.

  Willow is hungry too, realizing only now that they have had breakfast but no lunch. It’s five-thirty, but her stomach must think it’s seven-thirty, the way it is groaning and growling.

  The idea of going outside shimmers like freedom. Willow is suddenly longing to escape this cooped-up, waiting world they have been in all day.

  Their mom eyes Wisp uncertainly. “Maybe Willow and I should go alone. We could bring you something back.”

  “I want to go,” Wisp whines, sitting up.

  Already, Willow can see the defeat in his eyes.

  “He’s been inside all day, Mom,” Willow says, coming to her brother’s defense. “And he slept.”

  Her mother thinks for a moment, and Willow can see her begin to bend.

  “He slept for two hours while you were gone,” Willow tells her.

  Please let him go, she thinks. Please.

  “All right then,” her mother says at last. “Get dressed.”

  As quickly as air shoots out of a popped balloon, Wisp is up, and he and Willow pile on hats and mittens, boots and coats.

  “Would you like us to bring you something?” Mom asks Cora.

  Cora nods. “That would be nice. I’ve some watering to do here. Now, Old Woman Wallace makes good meat loaf. No veggies. I hate veggies. I’ll be here when you get back, with the fire going. I appreciate you helping a tired lady out. That snow would be too much for me and my knees.”

  Willow is reminded again of last night and of seeing Cora walking down the snow-covered stre
et. If Cora won’t go out for food, why would she go out at four in the morning for no good reason? Willow must have been dreaming.

  And then they are off—out into a world gone white and wild. Wisp tugs on Willow’s arm and begs her to race him. And so they run, slipping and sliding along. Wisp hoots and hollers all the way there.

  Before Wisp got sick, he too played hockey, and he skied. Their dad called him his little daredevil, as Wisp was always taking the kinds of chances that made their mom and dad go white with worry.

  Willow loves that her brother is racing her now, sliding when he can in his boots, laughing and snorting.

  “Careful,” Mom calls to them. “Slow down, Wisp.”

  DuChard Unspoken Family Rule #5: Wisp must be careful at all costs.

  And so they slow down, but they do not cease their play. And their laughter echoes in the silent streets, like rumbling thunder through snow-sodden hills.

  Soon, though, the diner rises out of the white piles of snow, ending their brief tumble back into carefree. A neon sign flashes a welcome in the dark, merrily lighting the front door.

  Their mother shoos them inside.

  The heat of the diner rises like a wall against Willow’s nose. She unties her scarf, pulls off her mittens. Wisp does the same, the color on his cheeks red-rosy and bright.

  “Sit wherever you want,” a waitress calls to them. She heads over. “Oh, and you’ll need these.” She hands them each a menu, crisp and seemingly brand-new.

  The place is packed, but it’s cozy, with a “come on in and join us” kind of noise, and so they slide into a booth with red leather seats. On the wall beside them is an old-fashioned jukebox. Willow spins the dial but doesn’t recognize any of the songs, though she knows the singers: Elvis Presley, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra—singers her grandparents used to listen to, songs from the past for this backwoods town.

  “I want a hamburger,” Wisp says as he looks over the menu.

  Their mom shakes her head. “The eggs were enough, Wisp. Let’s see if we can’t find something healthy to eat.”