The Door in the Forest

by Roderick Townley

  Wesley was particularly taken with the soldier talk around him. As the baby brother in the Crowley family, he was drawn to the rough, the tough, and the grown-up. When a big-chested soldier named Crenshaw told of a drunken escapade ending in an overturned truck in a cow pond, Wesley giggled as if he’d been there himself.

  Sloper was the most engaging of all. He would tilt his head toward you and lower his voice in a confiding tone, as if you actually mattered.

  “John,” said Sloper, leaning back in his chair, “how do you manage to get by, with that store of yours, when most of your customers raise crops of their own?”

  “I didn’t say I was doing well,” Crowley said with a smile.

  “But well enough to raise two hungry boys.”

  One of the boys, just then, was not very hungry. Daniel was too busy being mortified to have an appetite for corned beef. It embarrassed him that his father was forced to put up with these occupiers, feeding and housing them and answering their questions.

  And it bothered him that Sloper wouldn’t give an exact date when his troops would be leaving. They’d been here almost three weeks now. “We’re awaiting reinforcements,” he said with a nodding smile. “There’s a platoon a few miles west of here. No,” he said, catching Mr. Crowley’s look, “you won’t have to feed them! When they join us, we’ll pack up and head to the city to finish the fight.”

  Crowley looked thoughtful. “And the fight? It’s going well?”

  “Splendidly.” Sloper tilted back farther and gazed at a corner of the ceiling, as if conjuring visions of victory. “We’re in the mopping-up stage now.”

  “Oh. Mopping up!”

  An interesting thing about Daniel was that while he couldn’t tell a lie himself, he could usually guess when one was being told. It was something in the eyes. Sloper had said that the fight was going well, and his eyes had darted, for the briefest moment, to the side. Daniel interpreted that to mean the fight was going badly.

  He remembered the condition of the troops as they’d marched into town behind the artillery caisson and the line of military cars. The vacant expressions. The listless trudging. The crutches.

  If all that was true, what was Sloper so cheery about? He just sat there gobbling his meat and cabbage and asking about the local populace. He said he’d seen a farmer that afternoon sprinkling some sort of liquid outside his barn door. On questioning, the man had said it was pig urine, and its function—

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Crowley with a laugh. “It keeps out bad spirits that would sour his milk.”

  “That’s it! Remarkable!” Sloper shook his head. “I have to say, though, he didn’t seem very friendly when we spoke to him.”

  “Oh, he’s all right,” said Crowley. “I know who you’re talking about. Wayne Eccles. A fine man, once you know him.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Sloper tented his fingers. “Not crazy about the government, though. Told us, excuse the expression, to go to hell.”

  Crowley flicked his hand to dismiss the thought. “That’s Wayne for you. But, I mean, who is crazy about the government? Are you crazy about the government?”

  “I’m loyal to the government.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean …” Crowley felt Gwen’s foot kick him under the table.

  “Quite all right,” said Sloper mildly.

  “I mean, nobody likes their taxes raised. Twice in the year.”

  Another under-the-table kick.

  “We’re fighting a war, Mr. Crowley. That takes money.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He looked around the table. “I hope Mr.… What’s his name again?”

  “Eccles.”

  Sloper nodded to his aide across the table. The man took out a small notebook and jotted down the name. “I hope Mr. Eccles understands as well.”

  The table grew so silent you could hear the candles flicker.

  “Captain,” said Gwen Crowley, her smile preceding her as she leaned forward, “you needn’t worry about the loyalty of the people of Everwood.”

  “That’s comforting to hear, madam.”

  “They’re good, hardworking people. Simple as paint, but loyal as you could ask.”

  “I’m sure.”

  One of Sloper’s aides snuffled a laugh. “And crazy as magpies!”

  “As pig urine!” chortled the one named Bailey.

  The captain turned an amused eye to Daniel. “Do you believe in these superstitions?”

  The boy, to be honest, wasn’t ready to discount them all. “I don’t believe in the pig urine,” he said at last.

  “Good lad.”

  “Danny, tell him about the island,” piped Wesley. “There’s all kinds of superstitions about that!”

  “Wesley,” said John Crowley, “the captain is not interested—”

  Sloper held up a silencing hand. “Let him speak. What island is this?”

  “Well,” said Wesley, ignoring Daniel’s shut-your-mouth look, “there’s all these stories about weird animals that live there.”

  “Is that right?”

  “And there’s a gate or a door in the middle of it that leads somewhere. Nobody knows.”

  “And why is that?”

  “ ’Cause nobody’s ever been there.”

  “Really? Never?”

  Wesley shook his head proudly.

  Sloper turned to Daniel. “Is that what we saw from the bridge that first day?”

  Daniel felt his chest tighten. “Part of it,” he said.

  “I remember the heron.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you eaten him yet?” Sloper’s grin revealed the gap between his teeth.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “You may have to, with all these soldiers to feed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you say no one lives there?”

  Daniel could only shake his head.

  “Sounds perfect. And people are superstitious about it—think it’s bad luck or something?”

  “They’re afraid of it.”

  “Better and better.”

  The boy tried to read the captain’s features, but he could see only contradiction: face mild as mist, eyes stormy with schemes.

  “Why are you interested in the island?” Daniel said.

  “I’m thinking it might be the perfect place to test our new artillery. You’ve seen our big pig of a tank. It’s finally ready.”

  “Don’t use the island,” said Daniel.

  Sloper turned his head to the side, as if to hear better. “Why not? The gun’s got to be tested. Why not in a place where no one goes, where there are no houses, no crops, not so much as a stray cat?”

  “But you can’t get to it. It’s surrounded by thorn trees and—”

  “Perfect! It’ll keep people away. I think you’ll agree,” Sloper said, “it’s better than testing it on that fellow’s farm. Pig urine!”

  Sloper’s aides barked with laughter.

  Daniel stood, upsetting his glass of apple juice. He didn’t notice. “Not the island.”

  Sloper took this in. “You feel strongly,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  Daniel shook his head. Why? He hardly knew himself.

  “You must have a reason,” Sloper pursued.

  “You’ll think it’s stupid. You’ll think I’m superstitious like the farmer who buries a sock in the corner of his field.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid. That’s the last thing I think.”

  “There’s just … something about it,” Daniel managed. “Something untouched. It should stay that way.” He didn’t know how else to put it. Abashed, he sat down.

  “I see.” Sloper darted an amused glance at his aide-decamp across the table. “That does make a difference. There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said, stroking his mustache. “Do the farmers around here really plant socks in their fields?”

  At ten the next morning, the roof
tiles were already hot, and Emily had brought up a towel to sit on. There was a breeze somewhere—she could see the clouds overhead being cuffed around—but the roof’s peak blocked it from reaching her. She’d been up here several times, hoping to hear the voice that had called her from sleep that first night. But the only sounds she heard were the arguments of birds, the laughter of soldiers below, and the twang and slap of a screen door.

  From here, the view stretched impressively from the Byrdsong manse to the beginnings of town, with all the barns and fields between. Straight before her lay the forest. She knew where the island was, but it was hard to see in the profusion of foliage. Ah, there was the footbridge she’d stood on with Daniel. Four or five people were there now. Soldiers, pointing and gesturing.

  She spread out the map on her knees.

  You’ll figure it out, Grandma Byrdsong had said, but it was as mysterious as ever. It seemed to mark places, but gave no place names. And it gave no hint of scale. Did it cover miles or only yards?

  And what were these markings, nearly illegible with age, around the edge of the map? Some were symbols, while others were clearly (or unclearly) words. “Cover the Serpent,” one line began. Emily puzzled over it, squinting in the sunlight. Cover the Serpent with something something. Next Spring’s Earth? She spoke the words: “Cover the Serpent with Next Spring’s Earth.”

  Now that makes a lot of sense.

  There was a second line, ending “for the something Rebirth.” The Heart’s Rebirth? That was it.

  Closing her eyes, Emily tried to visualize the island; but all she could think of was the house below her, its spiral staircase twisting its way up to the turret and the Four Seasons room.

  Just then she heard a familiar sound below her, the honking protest of a heavy drawer being pulled open.

  A bureau drawer. Her bureau!

  The map slid off her knees as she jumped to her feet. She made a grab for it and felt it tear slightly. Careful, she told herself. She folded it hastily. A moment later, she was on the stairs, then in her room. Empty. But the top drawer of her bureau was not completely shut. She went over and yanked it open. That same groaning sound. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  She rummaged wildly. The small oblong case was still there. But—she snapped it open—the necklace was gone! That pearl necklace had belonged to her mother. Grandma Byrdsong had given it to her that first day in Everwood.

  At first, Emily thought her grandmother might still have it. She’d borrowed it yesterday to clear a bucket of water that wasn’t quite right for drinking. The water had come from the rain barrel that caught runoff from the roof, and it wasn’t always drinkable. Emily had been there with her, watching as the cloudiness dissipated and the water grew clear and sweet. But she remembered distinctly bringing the pearls back up—yes, she had dried them on her blouse—and returning them to their case.

  She heard a staff car revving up and pulling out of the gravel drive, and suddenly she was sure who the thief was. It was the same man she’d found in her room the other day, the one with the high, surprised-looking forehead and meaty hands. She raced from the room, her feet pummeling the staircase. She flashed by the kitchen where Grandma Byrdsong and Mrs. Beinemann were sitting with their midmorning tea, and then she was out in the yard by the vegetable garden.

  No one in sight. Where would he have gone? She remembered the soldiers down by the footbridge. No reason to think he’d gone there, but it was worth a try. She set out at a run.

  A pain in her side soon slowed her to a walk. She was wearing a light sundress of her mother’s that she’d found in the closet, but she was still sweating. The pain began to lessen, and she pushed herself to a trot. Finally, practically gasping, she found the footpath that led to the bridge, and the car parked in the grass.

  There they were with that bastard Sloper, a clipboard in his hand, taking notes and gesturing with his pencil.

  “Ah,” he said. “Miss Emily. Well.”

  Don’t speak, the girl warned herself. Remember.

  She came up to the knot of men. She recognized that good-looking soldier named Martin who’d smiled at her at dinner. And sure enough, there was the one she was looking for. He looked big, and he looked dumb. His fists were on his hips. Without a word, she dipped her fingers into his shirt pocket.

  “Hey!” he yelped.

  She reached into his pants pocket next. There it was.

  As she pulled out the necklace, the man’s heavy hand, unpleasantly warm, clamped down on her. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?”

  She fixed him with a furious stare as she twisted to get free of him, but he was strong. With all her force, she kicked him in the kneecap, and his grip loosened. All this happened before she had time to think or others had time to react. But the pearls were in her hand, and she danced back, away from the man.

  He was after her in a moment and managed to grab her other arm.

  Emily was not a large person, but the sound that came from her then was a growl that would have made anyone pause. This man was not going to get this necklace!

  With a strength she had no idea she had, she pulled back her free arm and hurled the necklace high into the air. It arced over the brambles and baneberry, over the murky stream, and landed on the bank on the other side.

  The soldier, outraged, gave the girl a slap that knocked her off her feet and into the bushes beside the bridge.

  It took three other soldiers to hold him back from tromping her to death.

  “Stop that!” bellowed Sloper.

  “That’s mine!” cried the thief, pointing at the glimmering necklace across the water.

  “I doubt that very much,” said the captain. “But you can go over now and get it and bring it back to the girl.” He glared at him. “Go!”

  Breathing hard with indignation, the soldier hulked through the undergrowth, ignoring as best he could the clawing resistance of thistles and brambles. A thorny branch slapped him in the face, drawing blood and oaths.

  Emily pushed herself up on her elbows and watched him. She tasted something warm and metallic and realized her lip was bleeding. That didn’t stop her from smiling.

  Reaching the margin of the water, the man waded right in, his eyes on the circle of pearls on the far bank. He had not gone three strides before he felt his booted feet being slowed by some underwater resistance. With all his strength, he managed a fourth step, sinking from waist to chest, and then could go no more.

  Though he thrashed about wildly, his efforts seemed only to pull him deeper. Panicking, he let out an inarticulate cry. The murk was now to his chin, his head tilting back to keep his face from being covered. “For God’s sake!” he gargled. “Help!”

  Sloper nodded to the soldier named Martin. “The idiot can’t swim.”

  The young man gave a smart salute and trotted ahead, straight into the stinging undergrowth. You could see his suffering as he fought his way forward, but he didn’t complain.

  Emily winced. The word “No!” escaped her as a whisper.

  By the time he made it to the edge of the creek, his arms and one cheek were bleeding freely; but he dove in without hesitation, reaching his comrade just as the man’s head was sinking from sight. There was a turmoil as rescuer and rescued struggled together; but it was no use. The first man was firmly stuck, his head now under the water, his arms flailing more feebly as the seconds passed. About then, the other soldier felt the pull of the muck beneath him.

  “Quicksand!” he called out. “Help! I can’t move!”

  He was moving, though—downward. Two other soldiers fought through the resistant underbrush, hoping to get close enough to throw their friend a rope. It was all happening too fast. The young man was barely keeping his chin above water.

  That’s when he saw a delicate V of ripples swerving in his direction. His look of puzzlement turned to horror when he saw it was a snake. He thrashed wildly and sank up to his nose. That left his eyes at water level as the snake reached him, its pale head gleami
ng, its human eyes brilliant with malice.

  Emily, who’d been watching from the bridge, ducked her head to the side to avoid what happened next, but she heard the scream. The mad splashing. The quick intake of breath of the soldier beside her.

  A long silence followed. That was worst of all.

  Finally, head still down, she dared to look. The water was calm. A finch began to trill atop a thorn bush.

  Then she saw it, a sudden presence on the other bank. It was the heron. Slowly, even daintily, it approached the necklace and uncurled its neck. It dipped low to examine the strange object. The long beak pushed it, then opened and picked it up. Straightening, the creature turned its head, flashing one yellow eye and then the other at the soldiers across the stream.

  The necklace swung from its beak as the bird walked slowly away.

  Dinner that evening was quiet at the Crowley house. The captain seemed to have lost interest in the inhabitants of Everwood, including his host. He abruptly excused himself before dessert and went outside, followed by his men, the screen door slapping behind them. Gwen was thrown off by this. She had baked a cherry pie, now cooling in the kitchen. Catching her look, her husband fractionally lifted his shoulders.

  If dinner was quiet at the Crowleys’, it was stony at the Byrdsongs’. Two empty chairs stood at the end of the table like accusations. The men rifled angry looks at Emily, as if the deaths that day had been her doing.

  Even Bridey was quiet. She’d had a bath that afternoon and had learned more than she’d cared to know. Later Emily helped her with the dishes in the kitchen. The water had been brought in earlier from the well and heated on the stove. Now it was poured into two basins, one with soapy water, the other clear for rinsing, with a lantern above them hanging on a nail.

  Emily was struggling to open the grease jar.

  Her grandma smiled. “You’ll never get it that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”

  Now the girl really didn’t understand.

  Bridey made a little circle in the air with her finger. “The other way. Counterclockwise.”