In the twin bed Haley murmured and rolled over, her sleep seemingly uninterrupted.
Emily took a few deep breaths, puffing them out through open lips, willing her rapid heartbeat to slow. No one had come running, and she hadn’t awakened Haley, so the scream must have been only in her dream. She began to relax.
Through the dull glow that came through the window from the spotlights that surrounded the building, shadows in the room began to take the familiar shapes of dresser, desks, and chairs. Emily climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. Without turning on the light, she washed her face with cool water and rubbed it dry.
Now that she was fully awake, it was easier to think. Over the years the nightmare had reappeared, but not very often. Yet lately it had been hounding her. Why? she wondered. What did it mean? Who was the woman in her nightmare?
Emily rested her forehead against the cold hardness of the mirror, closed her eyes, and whispered aloud, “What do you want of me?”
There was only silence.
When the bell rang at six the next morning, Emily struggled from a sleep that clogged her brain like a thick fog and wouldn’t let go. As she brushed her hair, squinting toward the mirror, Haley squirmed past, strewing clothing to either side.
“Time to meditate and pick our runes before we go to breakfast,” she said.
“Not today,” Emily complained. “I’m not ready.”
“Of course you’re ready,” Haley said. She grasped Emily by the wrist and led her to the rumpled bed. “Sit,” she ordered.
Too tired to argue, Emily sat cross-legged on the bed.
Haley, clutching the box of runes, sat facing her. She gently shook the box, then opened it and laid it between them.
“Now close your eyes. Meditate on … um … I know. Meditate on what you hope to be someday.”
Emily closed her eyes. Her ambitions went no further at the moment than simply hoping to fully wake up, so she didn’t even try to meditate. She allowed herself to slide off into a doze.
Her eyes flew open with a start as Haley rattled the box of stones near her nose. “I’ll go first again,” Haley said. “It’s much easier to take care of myself before I begin worrying about you.”
She drew a stone with two parallel lines slanted toward the right and seemed pleased. “Parjuk,” she announced. “He’s the rune of travel.”
“Does that mean you’re going somewhere?” Emily asked, hoping that Haley would.
“It can be interpreted in a number of ways,” Haley told her. “It might mean the shopping trip we’re taking into town this afternoon. Oh, I meant to tell you. I signed you up, too. On the other hand, it can symbolize following a new direction on the path of life.” Smugly, she added, “We’ll just see what comes about.”
She thrust the box over Emily’s head. “Draw your rune,” she ordered.
Emily raised her right hand and thrust her fingertips into the box. She pulled out the first stone she touched and held it toward Haley on her flattened palm.
Haley gasped as she stared at the stone. “Loki!” she whispered. “Not again. It’s never supposed to happen like that.”
Emily quickly dropped the stone back into the box, shaken in spite of her nonbelief. “It probably felt familiar and that’s why I chose it. It’s just silly coincidence,” she said.
“It’s not coincidence. It’s a grave warning.”
“It’s only a stone.”
“It’s a powerful rune.”
“It’s a stone.”
“It’s a warning that forces of evil are working to harm you.” Haley hugged the box to her chest and stared wide-eyed at Emily. “We have to do something about this.”
Emily sighed. Although fortune-telling by means of little painted stones made no sense at all, she couldn’t help picking up Haley’s fear. “What can we do?” she asked.
Haley’s answer was immediate. “Find out if a curandero is in town.”
“What is a curandero?”
“It’s a person, a folk healer. Most live in the valley, but there are some in central Texas and in the Hill Country. I’ll find out. If there is a curandero in Lampley, I’ll know.”
Emily had no doubt about Haley’s ability to find out whatever it was she wanted to know, but she wasn’t going to allow her roommate to drag her to a folk healer without learning exactly what a folk healer might do. “What will this curandero do about Loki?” she asked.
“Not do about Loki,” Haley answered, “do about you.” She nodded, content with her answer. “He’ll find a way to protect you, maybe with a spell or maybe with something from his herb shop. It could be you need a purification rite or a protective charm.”
“Maybe I need to just forget your little stones and go on about my life the way it was before I heard about runes.”
Haley slid off the bed and tucked the box of runes away in the closet. “You can be as negative as you wish,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a nuisance for me, but I have vowed to protect you.”
The jangle of another electronic bell vibrated through the silence, and Emily stood, ready to leave for the dining room. The combination of the silly Loki stone and her recurring nightmare was enough to make anyone jumpy, but Haley’s crazy idea about protection from a folk healer was too much to take. “Why can’t we just go sight-seeing and shopping in Lampley and forget about curanderos?” she asked.
Haley’s smile was that of someone used to getting her own way. “Let’s go to breakfast,” she responded.
First on Emily’s morning schedule of classes was a history elective with Mrs. Gail Comstock. Wary because of Mrs. Comstock’s repeated invitation to share confidences, Emily kept her distance and found a seat in the back row.
She was surprised when Taylor sat next to her and reached out a finger, twisting a flyaway tendril of Emily’s hair around it. “Did you comb it this morning?” she asked.
“Sort of,” Emily said. “I brushed it, at least.”
“Wow! It’s all over the place. It’s spectacular, actually,” Taylor said.
Maxwell stretched his long legs over both Taylor’s and Emily’s and managed to reach the seat on the other side of Emily. He plopped down, tugging his wool cap even farther over his ears. “History is a meaningless collection of dates,” he said. “Totally worthless. Does it matter if Columbus discovered America in 1492 or 1942? What matters is the present. We are here and now in the twenty-first century—what is taking place to enrich, protect, or ensure our lives today?”
“You give me a headache,” Taylor told him.
“Better me than our illustrious teacher,” Maxwell said. He looked at Emily beseechingly. “You understand, don’t you?” he asked. “How can we care—really care—about a date or a battle or a treaty? They’re meaningless moments, lost in a time we are well rid of.”
At that moment Mrs. Comstock strode into the room, her short brown hair bouncing on her neck. “Come to order, please,” she said. She took a silent roll, looking up and down the rows to find the students, then laid her roll book on a nearby chair. Emily was surprised to realize that no teacher’s desk was in the room.
“This class is not going to be a testing ground in which we see how many dates we can memorize,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Dates are convenient hooks on which we can hang our memories of events. But history is all about people—people like you and me who did things to change the world, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. We’re going to spend six weeks learning about people and why they did the things they did. That’s history.”
Maxwell raised one eyebrow as he glanced at Emily. “This class may have potential,” he said, “if she means it.”
“The Longhorn Cavern is not far from here. It’s a state park that’s open to the public,” Mrs. Comstock continued. “The cavern is part of a series of caves that may stretch for hundreds of miles underground through the Hill Country and central Texas. Tomorrow we’re going on a field trip to visit the cave, but today we’re going to tal
k about the people who used it for their own benefit. Many years ago Comanche Indians used one of the large rooms for their council meetings. During the Civil War the Confederate army set up a manufacturing plant for gunpowder in the same large room, and later the cave was a hideout for a pretty wicked Texas outlaw named Sam Bass, who also used the cave to hide the gold he stole in train and bank robberies.”
Taylor spoke up, and Emily could hear the tremor in her voice. “Do we really have to go down into a hole in the ground?”
“There are stairs and handrails,” Mrs. Comstock answered. “And you can walk upright for most of the way. There’s just one low stretch called Lumbago Alley.”
She laughed, but Taylor shuddered and whispered to Emily, “I don’t want to go underground. It’s like being buried alive.”
“No, it’s not,” Emily whispered back, but she could tell that Taylor wasn’t listening.
Someone in the front row raised a hand. “I’ve never been in a cave,” she said. “Will we have to fight off bats?”
Mrs. Comstock smiled. “There are a few bats and some tiny cave mice, but either they’re in hibernation or they’ll stay out of your way. There are well-defined paths and electric lighting.”
The girl gave a sigh of relief. “So the cave is perfectly safe,” she said.
“I didn’t say that,” Mrs. Comstock answered. “There are deep drops and danger spots if you stray off the paths, and slippery places you’ll be told to avoid. Follow the rules, and nothing should go wrong.”
Only if Loki stays away, Emily thought. Startled, she scolded herself mentally for even thinking of Haley’s silly rune stones. Were the warnings going to color everything she did at this camp? Not if she could help it.
During the rest of the morning Emily attended an English course taught by Arthur Weil, who rhapsodized about the joys of diagramming sentences.
“Gross,” Haley whispered to Emily, and Emily at first agreed, but by the time Dr. Weil had begun diagramming sentences from bad movie dialogue, looking for hilarious flaws, everyone in the class was laughing.
After a couple of lines from low-budget films, he went into dialogue they’d recognize from some blockbusters. On the board he wrote, “Ben Affleck in Armageddon: ‘Well, we all gotta die, right? I’m the guy who gets to do it saving the world.’ ”
“He may be a star,” Haley said, “but his dialogue isn’t.”
“The writer is responsible for the dialogue in the script, not the stars,” Dr. Weil answered. “They just say the words. I’m betting that each of you can write better than many writers for movie actors do.”
He cleared his throat, then said, “I want each of you to come up with an original creative writing project. You may write a poem, a play, a detailed book report … something that is of your own creation.”
“How many words?” someone asked.
“It doesn’t matter. It just must be original and as creative and interesting as you can make it. Everyone understand?”
There was a general murmur of agreement; then Dr. Weil went on to another topic.
Emily was surprised when the bell rang. She had actually enjoyed the class. She hadn’t had to hide behind her hair even once, and she hadn’t felt as if she had to explain why she couldn’t do as well as her sisters had. The teachers here didn’t even know her sisters.
Reluctantly, though, she walked to the first of the three-times-a-week sessions she’d have with Dr. Hampton, the camp’s psychologist and counselor. There was nothing she needed to talk about, nothing she wanted to say, and she dreaded Dr. Hampton’s deep, steady gaze.
Dr. Hampton’s office was clean and spare, like a house someone had just moved into. Two testimonials and three framed diplomas hung on one of the walls, which were tinted a pale, restful blue. There was a nearly bare desk at one side of the room, but under the windows was a grouping of two chairs and a sofa, upholstered in a cheerful floral pattern, a low glass coffee table separating them. On the table was a bowl of wild pink summer roses mingled with white sprays of baby’s breath.
“Sit down, Emily,” Dr. Hampton said with a smile. “Would you like a soft drink? A glass of water?”
“A Coke, please,” Emily answered, and a frosty can of Coke appeared as if by magic.
Dr. Hampton sat on the sofa, across from Emily. The sun through the window backlit her hair, causing the red to glow. She almost looks pretty, Emily thought.
“Emily,” Dr. Hampton said, “how often have you been bribed by your parents to work harder on your studies?”
Emily blinked with surprise. “Bribed?”
“Yes, bribed. Offered rewards for grades. You know, five dollars for each A, season baseball tickets for a perfect report card. Or maybe lunch and a movie.”
Emily felt her cheeks grow hot and looked down, embarrassed that she was blushing. “They called them rewards, not bribery.”
“Rewards come as a happy surprise after the fact. Bribery involves promised rewards if something is accomplished.” Dr. Hampton didn’t wait for Emily to answer her original question but went on. “We—the staff at the Foxworth-Isaacson Educational Center—want to treat the cause, not the effect, of underachievement. We feel that a student’s low expectations of self are the root of the problem.
“You are a bright girl, Emily, with no reason not to excel in your studies. So let’s try to find out what has caused you to believe that you can’t succeed.”
“I don’t believe I can’t succeed,” Emily said, unable to keep a tone of resentment from sliding into her words. Why couldn’t people just leave her alone? “My grades are okay.”
“Okay? Are you willing to settle for less than the best?”
“I do my homework. I study.”
“Granted. But the reports your parents received from your teachers mention that you avoid participating in class discussions, that you cling to seats in the back rows, that you try not to make eye contact with your teachers. Why is that, Emily?”
“Look, there are plenty of kids who like all the attention. I just don’t happen to be one of them.”
“Would your older sisters have anything to do with this feeling on your part?”
Here we go again, Emily thought. It wasn’t the first time a well-meaning teacher had brought up her award-winning sisters. “I’m proud of Angela and Monica,” she said, “and I’m not jealous of them. I’m not trying to be them. Who they are and what they’re doing with their lives have nothing to do with me, and people shouldn’t tell me I should be like them when they know good and well I can’t be.”
Dr. Hampton nodded, as though she were agreeing. “We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “Would you like to talk about what happened at our group discussion yesterday evening?”
Emily sighed. “Not really,” she answered.
“You left when we began talking about our early memories,” Dr. Hampton went on, as if Emily had not objected. “Is there something about delving into early memories that disturbs you?”
“Could we talk about something else?” Emily asked.
There was a long pause before Dr. Hampton answered, “Of course. If you’d rather. We want you to be comfortable here, Emily.”
Emily looked into Dr. Hampton’s deep brown eyes and surprised herself by thinking, I don’t believe you. I really don’t think you do.
CHAPTER 8
This camp is a golden opportunity for success and recognition for our entire staff. When the results of our work are made public, there will be praise from educators across the country. I should have that praise. I deserve it. For years I’ve struggled to achieve it.
I am not about to lose all I’ve worked for because of Emily Wood.
Is she unable to remember her early childhood experiences? Or does she not want to remember?
At our noon staff meeting, when this was discussed, some felt one way, some the other. I’m the only one who thought it was essential to find out. Of course, I kept my opinion to myself. I’m determined that those memories
will never be made public.
I refuse to worry. I keep reminding myself, there is more than one way to blot out a memory.
CHAPTER 9
Emily’s group had beach activity scheduled before lunch, but before anyone could get into the water, Coach Jinks began to shout out camp rules through a megaphone. At first Emily tried to pay attention to the list of regulations, wincing at the pitiful jokes with which the coach tried to break up the monotony. But without so much as a wisp of breeze the hot sun toasted Emily’s bare shoulders and back, and she was eager to plunge into the chill of the lake.
“So that’s what the mama fish said to the baby fish,” Coach finished, and waited for laughter. It didn’t come.
Embarrassed for him, Emily thought eagerly about the small dock and rowboat she had discovered. The path would be shaded, the water would be sun-dappled and cool, and she’d be away from Coach and his awful jokes and rules in which she wasn’t the least bit interested. She edged away from the open beach and back toward the buildings.
Intent on explaining procedure during relay races, Coach didn’t seem to notice as she left. Neither did the others on the beach. Within a few minutes Emily had slipped out of their sight, found the almost hidden path, and followed it.
It didn’t take long to reach the lake. Faintly, in the distance, she could hear Coach’s insistent voice through the megaphone, but the silence captured by the snug glen wrapped around her like a soft blanket. At the end of the dock the rowboat bobbed lightly over waves that lapped the rocks, and far across the water a bird skimmed the surface, then soared out of sight.
Emily stepped onto the dock, which creaked and rocked a little under her weight—but she stopped as she spotted a hand-printed sign posted on a nearby tree: KEEP OFF.
The sign hadn’t been there the day before. Emily knew she would have seen and remembered it. Who had put it there? And why? The dock seemed sturdy enough, and Emily was sick of rules. Deliberately, she walked onto the dock and stood at the end, curling her bare toes around the sanded plank as she stared down into the dark blue water.
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