“Oh, that’s all,” I mocked.
“We share similar family disappointments,” he continued, “and we use similar strategies, like fanning the angst.”
“Fanning the what?” I grinned.
“You know, carrying the stone on your back.” I started giggling at our cultural miscommunication. “You mean having a chip on your shoulder?”
“That’s it!” he cried. “It’s a strategy, you see? Anger confuses the sadness.”
He’d read me correctly: calm on the outside but hurting inside, attempting to deflect with bursts of snotty anger. It didn’t fool him one bit.
“I guess we all have issues,” I agreed.
“Issues.” He nodded.
“Before, you were just a blur to Frederick and Lupine. How come we all saw you that night?”
“The senzall went thin when I caught your mood.”
“What’s senzall?”
“Sort of an energy byproduct. It acts like a screen, and when I was distracted with sympathy, the screen went thin.”
Appalled at the idea of him feeling sorry for me, I decided to double-check. “Do you mean sympathy like pity?”
“Like understanding,” he corrected.
“So while you were snooping in my brain, you let down your guard?”
“Exactly!”
“Can all your people catch moods like you?”
“No!” he scoffed, surprised at my assumption. “We all read the auras, which give us a general impression, like what frowns and smiles do for you. But the mood catcher gets all the details and cannot be deceived. The knowledge is instant and true.” Shifting his gaze, his eyes locked into mine, and I had a feeling he was reading my mood as he spoke.
“We are often physicians,” he went on, “and healers of the mind. Or else we go odd and become lunatics, burdened by overload.”
“Which are you?” I asked, growing uneasy with the boy’s intensity.
“Lunatic, of course,” he claimed.
“No, you’re not,” I flipped back. “You’re smart—and perceptive.” He hoisted one appraising eyebrow and replied, “As are you. And I think we might help each other.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“I want to stay in my hometown,” he confided. “And you want to stay in your book house. Would you concur with this truth?”
“I’d definitely concur,” I said, smiling at his quaint way of putting things. “But how can we help each other?”
“When I have a strategy, you’ll be the first to know.” He was pleased with his own mysteriousness.
“Whistle, did you do something to that dog at the homestead? I saw you for just a second, the day we got chased.”
His smile broadened at the memory. “Oh, him. Nervous fellow, that Eddie. I calmed him with some mild senzall and told him a little joke was all. When he got to laughing, he lost interest in you three.”
“You told him a joke?” I asked, heavily skeptical.
“Well, I’m not going to repeat it!” he said, aghast. “It wasn’t exactly polite, if you track my current.”
His expression changed, and I was sure he was reading me again when he said, “You are quite untypical. Most humans glow like dirt or, at best, with fleeting virtue, but there’s something unique in the way you shine that has puzzled me from the start.”
“Maybe because I’m creative,” I suggested.
He smiled, but his reply sounded doubtful. “Maybe.”
CHAPTER 22
The Shabby Remains
of Nutfolk Wood
“DO YOU THINK he’ll show?” Frederick asked, tossing another pebble in the sodden ashes of the fire circle. The bleak Saturday was cold and gray, with rain on the horizon.
“He doesn’t like humans,” I admitted. “But he’s curious, and he’s lonesome. I think he’ll show.”
Craning my neck, I scanned the meadow and checked the leaden sky. Dark clouds were looming in the west, and cold gusts kept charging over the field, battering the grass.
“It’s after noon,” Lupine grumbled, consulting her watch and huddling her knees in close. “I thought you said he’d be here at noon,” she complained.
A faint crackle preceded a glow, and the three of us watched as Whistle materialized on an empty log seat.
“I see him!” Lupine gasped, fairly trembling with excitement. “But he’s all blurry.”
Whistle hopped down from the log and touched Lupine’s ankle. She jolted like she’d been Tasered. “I see him perfectly!” she exclaimed.
Frederick got tapped in the same manner, but maintained his composure. Only his wide-open eyes betrayed his astonishment.
“How’s it going?” Frederick asked, making a good attempt at being calm.
“It all goes with a certain amount of anxiety,” Whistle carefully replied. “You understand that my people don’t normally associate with your people, so you must swear never to speak of what you see this day.”
“We swear!” The three of us bobbed our heads in eager cooperation.
“Swear upon your honor, and know that I can read your deceit as plain as a bad book.”
There was something threatening in his tone—he didn’t say “or else,” but we all sensed it. Standing taller, we recited, “We swear upon our honor!” Frederick held up his hand in a Boy Scout salute.
As he faded like a hologram, Whistle directed, “Right, then. Follow the markers!” and he vanished.
“Look, there’s a light!” I shouted, and we were off. The markers were leaves glowing like Christmas lights. As we dashed through the woods in search of the phosphorescent leaves, we were swept up in the thrill of the hunt.
Soon, we’d passed the Secret Garden and were crossing Voodoo Creek on an old foot bridge, where the remnants of a trail twisted and led us uphill. Here, the woods were silent and dark, the huge trees towering to unseen heights. In the gloom, the thick bark looked lavender and the forest floor black. Chilly and damp, the air smelled distinctly earthy, like mushrooms and mulch.
Another glowing leaf signaled a turn, and we squeezed through a wall of huckleberry bushes. Under low cedars and over fallen snags, we finally stepped into an improbable clearing. On a nearby branch, Whistle balanced gracefully, and without fanfare, he announced, “We’re here.”
Panting, I could hardly believe my eyes. With a stump like a little apartment building and rows of tiny cabins gathered around a miniature public park, I beheld the shabby remains of Nutfolk Wood.
At one end of town stood a bench-sized building made of small gray rocks, speckled with damp, green moss. A sign on the bell tower proclaimed TOWN HUB. Next door was the Postal Hub, a delicate structure built from what must once have been white pebbles, discolored now to sickly green by the moss.
The largest complex was topped with a sagging sign that read NUTFOLK WOOD TRADE CENTER, with various subcategories like GROCER, CLOTHIER, and COBBLER, all part of the shingled mini mall.
The residential homes curved around the town, climbing up a small hill to one side. They were similar in style and size to the cabin at Lupine’s, built with sticks and rock chimneys and cedar shake roofs, but they appeared mostly empty. The shutters on the tiny windows and doors were closed and latched.
A tree stump had been converted into a house, and with numerous windows and interesting balconies, it was a handsome example of their architecture. But again, the shutters were closed and the arched front door was boarded with a Leave Be sign, hastily written and pounded crooked onto the jamb.
The settlement presented a sad picture of neglect. On the porches were piles of leaves and litter that no one bothered to sweep. Yards were overgrown, chimneys were crumbling, windows were broken, and the enemy moss was threatening to envelope the town.
A movement in the overgrown park drew my eyes to an old Nutfolk man chipping on a woodblock with a hammer and chisel. On the ground next to him lay the detached wooden Steller’s Jay.
Suddenly annoyed, the old elf spotted Whistle and dem
anded, “What’re these dumb hums doing here?”
“I brought ’em,” Whistle stammered. “They’re the hums—the humans I told you about, Grampy. You know, the ones who can see.”
Squinting, the little grandpa faced us. He was the chess king I’d seen on the back of the bird!
“So you perceive this here village?” he inquired.
Obediently the three of us nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be cracked,” the old guy mumbled, and then he spit. “Don’t s’pose it matters anyhow, since this here town ain’t long for the liv’n’.”
Glancing toward the wooden Steller’s Jay, I asked, “Why did you drop that acorn at my grandmother’s funeral?”
“That one be momby to the Honorable,” he said, “so we owed her the nod and, of course, a minor good deed.”
My face assumed what must have been a “dumb hum” expression, so he tried again.
“To show the weight of respect and the tie to the Nutfolk,” the tiny man elaborated with obvious impatience.
“How was my grammy tied to the Nutfolk?” I asked.
“She be momby to the Honorable,” he repeated, “and there’s not many left these days—the folk could count ’em on one hand.”
“What makes a person Honorable?”
“Aid or protection of the folk and their property,” he recited like a schoolboy. “Valor in particular, and strength of character as well.”
“So my mother aided Nutfolk?” I was astounded at this new information.
“Indeed. When she was a child.”
“What did she do?”
“Tried to fight off an auto ride.” He chuckled. “Some log-headed hum thought he’d buzz through the glen, and your momby decked him. Righteous, she was, and tough for a skinny thing.”
I was enjoying thinking of my mom in this new light when I remembered the acorn mark on her arm, her freckle of mystery.
“Would she be marked in some way?” I asked.
“You might find a mark if you was looking,” he agreed. “Most likely the crest of the family or town—by crack, you’re a talkable hum, ain’t ya?” he accused.
Under his breath, Whistle urged, “Grampy, don’t keep calling them hums.”
“Right!” Grampy’s head moved up and down. “Right you are. Forgot my manners,” he boomed. “Just never conversed with, er, humanity.”
“Why can’t more humans see you?” I persisted.
Grampy considered this carefully. “It’s like when you drive your auto rides and you’re zipping fast along the lane. You cannot focus on the little things; they come and go and leave no impression. Only it’s your brain that’s driving fast, with the next thought overlapping the last thought and most a heap o’ trash anyhow. It’s like that.”
I had to smile at Grampy’s vague and puzzling explanation. To hear him tell it, most humans were shallow creatures living hurried, pointless lives. In defense of humanity, I exclaimed, “We’re not all dumb logs, you know!”
“No, I didn’t know that,” Grampy confessed, displaying genuine interest in this unlikely possibility.
CHAPTER 23
Psycho Guy
“WE SHOULD GO,” Lupine warned, interrupting the fascinating Grampy. “I think a storm is coming.”
I surveyed the treetops and watched clouds piling up like dark pillows. As a chilling gust whipped around me, I shuddered. Just then, a flash of lightning preceded a crack of thunder so violent that I jumped and cringed at the same time.
“Let’s go!” Frederick shouted over the wind.
“Good-bye, Grampy!” I called as we turned to run. “Good-bye, Whistle! And thank you!”
We squeezed through the huckleberries and then rushed over the bad trail as fat bullets of rain splattered all the way down to the forest floor. That’s when my foot caught a root and yanked the ankle I’d already twisted.
“Slow down!” I yelled to Frederick as pain seared up my leg. “I twisted that darn ankle again!”
“Lupine!” Frederick called ahead. “Let’s go to the homestead for shelter.”
Arriving at the back of the empty house, we scurried up the ladder and climbed through the window. With another zap of lightning, thunder even louder than before rattled the glass, and then a torrent of water fell from the sky, as if a giant had turned a hose on high.
“Man, what a downpour!” Frederick shouted as Lupine closed the window.
“It won’t last long,” she predicted with her usual confidence. “Let’s take another look at those paintings.”
Once we were in the attic, Lupine lit the kerosene lamp so we could find our way in the gloom. Then, after setting down the light, she placed all the paintings against the wall.
I sat on a stool to give my ankle a rest, then examined the images of old Nutfolk Wood while Frederick busied himself taking a series of photos of each painting.
“Look, here’s the secret garden,” I pointed out, picking up a stiff watercolor. “There were a lot more rows of vegetables back then and no salal bushes at all.”
“Here’s the stump house,” Lupine added, examining another picture. “The paint was brighter in those days,” she said. “Look at the trim.”
“It used to be a much smaller town,” Frederick observed. “But it was in a lot better shape.”
The old watercolors depicted just a few homes surrounding the park—no town hub or post office or trade center. Between then and now, Nutfolk Wood must have expanded like crazy and then dribbled off as its people lost faith and started to flee.
Frederick tilted his head and got a peculiar look on his face. “Did you hear something?” he asked.
“Like a car engine?” Calm but alert, Lupine quickly extinguished the lamp.
We padded downstairs and headed to the back bedroom, where Lupine opened the window and emitted a strangled yelp. Stepping up on the ladder, right outside the open window, was the sopping-wet dog owner, smiling.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a low voice, “if it isn’t my mysterious trespassers.”
Stunned, we stood there gaping. Then, with the dog owner still on the step, Lupine pushed the ladder as hard as she could. “To the front door!” she screeched.
Not waiting to watch him crash, we scurried to the door. Lupine flipped the bolt and swung it wide, but the screen door was locked as well, and she wasted precious seconds fumbling with the latch. Finally, we were free, racing up the path with speed fueled by panic.
This time I was the slowpoke, trying to keep up with my stupid sprained ankle. Almost to the Secret Garden, I thought. Just then, I misplaced my foot ever so slightly, and my wimpy ankle betrayed me with a sharp sting of pain. I was going down!
“Hey, kid,” the man said, standing over me. “You okay?”
My heart lurched in my chest and my mouth dried up as he reached out a smudged and dirty hand. I wasn’t sure if he intended to help me up or grab me, and I was surprised to find myself slapping the hand soundly. “Leave me alone!” I shouted.
“Look, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he assured me. “But I want you kids to quit trespassing in that house.”
Still sitting on the forest floor, I felt vulnerable, but angry. “You’re the trespasser, you psycho! You’re the one sneaking around with your ratty truck and your mean dog. We’re just nosy kids, but you’re a creepy adult.”
Taken aback by my fierce speech, he stood quietly, looming over me like a shadow. He withdrew his outstretched hand and then shook his head like he was amused.
It was hard to get a fix on his features with evening settling in. His beard and hair seemed longer, his eyes indistinct in the shadow of the baseball cap. I felt relief in knowing that he couldn’t see me any better in this dim light. With my hood up, I doubt that he could tell if I was a boy or a girl.
“Look, I just don’t want anything happening to that house,” he said calmly, “and I know you kids are playing with matches in there.”
“We weren’t playing!” I shouted. “We only
lit a lamp to explore with. And we were really, really careful. Unlike you—driving on the grass and letting your crazy dog attack people. You’re the menace,” I declared, pleased with my word choice.
Now the man chuckled. “The best defense is offense,” he said to himself. “You’re a funny kid,” and as he said it he laughed, but then his face lit with a new expression.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone more intense.
Except for my pounding heart, the forest was quiet, until a faint hum escalated into a buzz, making the hair on my arms stand up. Relief flooded through me as a smirking Whistle Bright materialized on the man’s shoulder. Glowing warmly in the purple dusk, Whistle pointed a casual finger toward me.
A static charge cracked, and I found myself up on my feet and racing into the woods, pushed along by a force like an itchy wind.
Soon I was joined by Frederick and Lupine, who had appeared from behind trees. Lupine took my hand and pulled me along, and in case the man pursued us, Frederick bravely followed last.
CHAPTER 24
Feelings in Boxes
THAT NIGHT, FREDERICK e-mailed the pictures he’d shot in the attic, and I studied each one closely. In view of Whistle’s claim that humans rarely saw the Nutfolk, it seemed bizarre that these images had been recorded. Yet here was painting after painting depicting every detail of the glen. Who was this artist?
Opening a picture to full size, I checked the signature. Rachel Meeker, it said. Meeker? The name hit me like a freight train—Meeker was my father’s name.
At the kitchen table, Mom was adding columns of numbers. After a long day in the bookstore, her hair was messy and her blouse had a coffee stain the size of her hand. Although she looked tired, there was a sparkle in her eye.
“Every day is better than the last,” she said gleefully. “Sales are really good!”
“Who is Rachel Meeker?” I asked, getting right to the point.
Startled, she looked up. “Your grandmother on your father’s side,” she soberly answered. “She died long before you were born.”
“What was she like?”
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