by Sandra Evans
He sits down and looks at me. This time I’m sure he sees me. “Scientists don’t really know what gifts our mothers have given us. Only we do.”
Dean Swift really has a way with words sometimes.
I look down, because my eyes are saying too much. Maybe Dean Swift guessed how much the new kid coming today reminds me of the first day I came here and how sad and lost I felt. He wants me to know my mom is everywhere inside me all of the time. That it’s not just words; it’s science.
The bell rings and we pick up our stuff to leave.
Mary Anne holds out her hand for the dean to shake. “Dean Swift,” she says in her most grown-up voice, “you soar high above the knowledgeable but pedestrian scientist when you weld wisdom to feeling.”
I get the gist of what she’s saying. But for me there’s a lot more to it than feeling.
Vision, hearing, heart—these all have to do with my secret.
Maybe that’s why the secret came to me. The secret was my mom’s first. Or her grandma’s grandma’s grandma’s. Each mom gave it to her child until it got to my mom. Then she gave it to me.
You can call it magic or you can call it science. I think it’s a little of both.
Chapter 6
WHERE YOU HEAR ABOUT WHITE DEER FOR THE FIRST TIME
When I wake up, the first thing I think is, What’s Vincent’s class schedule? And the second is, It’s Friday.
I hurry to get ready. Maybe Vincent will sit next to me at the counter.
But as I’m going in to breakfast, Vincent is coming out. He’s telling a story to Mean Jack and Jason, and the two dimwits are laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
So that’s that. I know it’s dumb, but it feels like someone has taken a rake and dragged it back and forth over my lungs. Vincent is already part of the Pack—the pack I’m not part of.
But Vincent stops when he sees me.
“Raul, my man,” he says. He grabs my hand and shakes it. With a flick of his chin he tells the other two to go on without him. “I was waiting for you. Save me a seat at lunch, okay?”
It’s crazy how relieved I feel. But I wonder. How long will it last? How long will he be able to be friends with me and with them? A week, I bet.
“I can hardly understand what those two are saying,” he says. “It’s like they speak their own language. Don’t throw me to the wolves like that again, okay?”
He doesn’t even know how funny that last comment was.
Fishing Friday. It’s my job here. Every Friday after lunch and before parent pick-up I take the Cubs fishing at the lake at the edge of White Deer Woods.
Today Dean Swift joins me at the counter for a quick meeting.
“No sign of Gollum?” he asks.
I shake my head.
Dean Swift exhales. His shoulders drop. “Very unfortunate. But we have another small crisis that is slightly more pressing. Remember the bone Sparrow found in the Blackout Tunnel?” he asks.
I nod.
“The bone undoubtedly belonged to a dog. Last night I explored the Blackout Tunnel myself. It appears that over the winter an animal used it as a den.” Dean Swift stares out the window like he’s thinking. “That new housing development they put near the ferry terminal has been a catastrophe for so many of our animal friends. I believe we are dealing with a predator—most probably a coyote—that has been displaced from its territory.” He shakes his head sadly. A second later, his spine straightens, his elbows jut out a little, and he begins a Lecture.
“In packs, coyotes have been known to attack humans. However, the animal that has claimed the Blackout Tunnel appears to be a loner. And if his territory is centered around the Blackout Tunnel, I doubt you would encounter him so far north as the lake. Especially in the middle of the day. I believe that suspending our normal activities would teach a lesson of fear to our young Cubs. Fishing Friday is their sacred hour free from adult supervision and in the tutelage of that divine preceptor, Mother Nature. But I’m counting on you to keep your eyes open today. Bobo must go with you, as usual. She will function as an early warning system.”
Coyotes don’t scare me. But I know what he means when he talks about the new housing development. It borders the far side of White Deer Woods, and coyotes aren’t the only predators the new human families are making nervous.
After breakfast the Cubs all follow me out of the dining hall and line up in front of the equipment room so I can hand out their poles.
If the dean only knew how Fishing Friday normally goes down, he wouldn’t waste his breath warning me about a coyote.
Six times Jane has hooked me, not a fish. Four times Tim has eaten deer poop. Now, the little turds do look like berries, but after the first three times you’d think he’d make a mental note of it. Three times I lost one of them for more than an hour, and we all had to fan out in a long line and form a search party. Twice Little John was sure he saw a witch and got so scared he wet his pants. I keep telling him that yes, there is magic in those woods, but no witches.
Before we leave, I line them up and hand out the equipment—poles, hooks, and bait.
Sixty times someone’s pole has floated away to the middle of the lake.
When it’s Sparrow’s turn, I hold his brand-new pole out to him and then jerk it back a little as he grabs for it.
He laughs. “I won’t bust it up, I promise,” he says.
I hand it to him and squeeze the back of his neck lightly. His hair is soft and wispy.
He flips the pole over in his hand and then looks up at me with his face really still. I can tell he’s too happy for words when he gets that look. He traces a finger along the design I carved. It’s of two wolves, and they’re running around the bottom, tail to mouth. It’s the best carving I’ve ever done. And he gets what it means, he knows what I’m saying to him. I’m saying, Hey, Sparrow, you’re no cub, you’re no weak runt, you’re a wolf. You’re in my pack.
Five times Sparrow has slipped his hand in mine while we walk back to school from the lake.
You know what Sparrow’s problem is? It’s so bad it’s hard for me to tell it. When he first came here he always had a couple of bruises on his cheek or his arm. Over the week they would fade and turn into yellow smears. Then Friday night he’d go home with his mom.
When he came back on Sundays he’d run to his room, open the door, and chuck in his duffel bag. Then, quick like a bunny, he’d head down to Fort Casey all by himself. But every single time, Sparrow would come back with more bruises. He’d tell the dean that he’d fallen on the stairs at the fort, or that he’d stood up under the cannon and gotten a lump on his head.
I had a bad feeling about it. How can one kid get hurt so much and so bad?
So one Sunday afternoon after his mom dropped him off, I decided to find out. First, he ran to his room and put his bag away. He came back out wearing a too-big baseball cap, and I followed him over to Fort Casey. You know where he went. To the Blackout Tunnel.
Before he stepped into the tunnel he looked back, like he wanted to make sure nobody was watching. He lifted his head up, and for the first time I saw what the baseball hat hid. A huge bruise under his eye.
He stayed in the tunnel for a while and then came out. When he got back to the school he ran up to the dean and said, “Dean Swift, a little boy playing on the field at the fort hit a baseball right into my eye.”
Dean Swift clucked a few times, put an arm around him, and took him to the nurse.
I was confused. Nothing had hit him at the fort.
My gut told me that Sparrow shouldn’t go home on the weekends. But I kept my mouth shut, because I didn’t know who to tell or even really what to say. It was just a feeling, that’s all.
It turned out Sparrow’s mom was hitting him—not because he was bad but because she was. I heard the dean telling Cook Patsy one day when they forgot I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t see his face, since I was chopping up onions and had to keep wiping my eyes, but I’ve never heard his voice so furi
ous. Those were the worst onions I’ve ever chopped.
The dean had found out that Sparrow was lying about getting hurt at the fort because he didn’t want his mom to get in trouble. I think he was just sitting in the Blackout Tunnel feeling sad and trying to imagine accidents that would match the bruises his mom gave him.
Now his grandma picks him up for the weekend, and he never has bruises anymore.
So I take special care of Sparrow. I should have told the dean what I saw that day at the fort—even though I didn’t understand it. It took another month before the dean figured it out. How many more times did Sparrow’s mom hit him in that month?
Dean Swift says we have to forgive ourselves when we make mistakes. He has a funny reason for it too. He says if you don’t forgive yourself for making a mistake, then you get so that you never want to admit that you made one.
I’m still chewing on that one.
Today Vincent is coming fishing with us, even though he’s not one of the little kids. It was the dean’s idea—to give the new kid a chance to have some fun.
“If he has a great day today, it will make it easier for him to return on Sunday night,” he said.
Here’s the thing about Dean Swift. He lies, sure, but only because sometimes it’s easier than explaining everything. He’s disorganized, but that’s because he’s always thinking. Studying the natural light phenomena of the island is a big job.
But the main thing is, he’s kind. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? To us, anyway, to the ones who got left on the edge of an island with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of trouble.
No kid here is lucky, but we’re all lucky to be here.
When it’s Vincent’s turn for equipment, I hold up a fishing pole in one hand and a slingshot in the other. Then I shrug a little so he knows he can choose one or the other. Some kids think fishing’s boring. But everyone loves a slingshot.
Twenty times I’ve been hit so hard with a rock in the back of the shin or the private parts that I almost fainted.
Vincent looks from one to the other. “Can I just hang out and watch?” he asks.
I nod. Vincent’s not a little kid, but I’ve seen lots of little kids act like this. As far as I can tell it’s just that they’re afraid of messing up. So when Vincent says he wants to sit and watch us all have fun, I make sure he sees that I’m packing the slingshot. In case once we’re out there in the woods, he changes his mind and decides to try something new.
The dean opens the door for us and hands me the walkie-talkie to use in case of emergency. To him a scraped knee is an emergency.
That man has no idea what happens in those woods.
We walk single file in the weeds along the roadside. Bobo leads the way. No traffic on this road, since it only leads from Highway 20 to the school. The lake is ten minutes away, halfway between the highway and the school.
While we walk, I think about my problem. The counselor says I have “trust issues.” He says it’s because the people I relied on most—my mom and dad—have not been able to take care of me. He says that’s why I don’t like to talk very much.
Wrong, is what I want to say to him—but not enough to say it. The reason I don’t talk is because I can tell nobody is really listening. What I have to say doesn’t really matter.
The things that matter happen in the woods. The things that matter don’t need words.
Today is Friday. So tonight matters.
Once we step off the road and into the woods, we all breathe in deep to smell the trees and dirt.
Bobo runs off on a scent. There’s nothing I’d like more than to drop to all fours and follow her.
I point up into the fork of an old oak tree.
Vincent follows my finger. “A bike! How did that get there?”
It’s a rusted red ten-speed. In five places, where the branches of the oak have grown around it, the bike has become part of the tree. It’ll be there until that oak falls, and by that time, a boy walking by the trunk won’t even know the bike is in there—the oak will have swallowed it up like a snake does a mouse.
Sparrow answers, “Raul put it there.”
Vincent laughs like it’s the coolest thing ever.
My dad gave me that bike. It was way too big for me. He pushed me around on it a lot the Friday afternoon he brought it up here. Put on a good show for the other parents. When he stopped coming, I decided to give the bike to the tree. It’s just as likely to learn to ride it as I am.
We keep walking; we’re at the end of the path. The lake is in front of us. On the other side of the lake the trees are so close together and the blackberries scrape and the nettles sting so sharp that nobody has ever gone beyond them. Nobody but me, anyway.
“What’s that?” Vincent asks in a whisper.
Pin pricks in my fingers and on my head. For a second I wonder if I’m going to look where he’s pointing and see the secret that changed my life.
I follow his finger with my eyes. He’s pointing to the straw man that I nailed to a huge cedar last year after Tuffman tackled Sparrow during touch football.
We use it for target practice. It’s wearing Tuffman’s favorite sweatshirt that says 3X Olympian. I stole it from the laundry room. He turned the whole school upside down looking for that shirt. Not one of the Cubs ratted me out though, not even when Tuffman leaned in and hit them with his foul breath and a deadly speech about honesty and thieving and the awful punishment you get for stealing a man’s clothes.
On the head of the straw man I nailed an old crow’s nest that looks like Tuffman’s toupee. Cracks me up every time I see it.
I pull my sling out of my back pocket. It’s a little harder to use than a slingshot, but it’s my weapon of choice.
I walk over to the straw man and point to the feet, the chest, and the shoulders.
“Five points,” Sparrow yells out.
Then I point to the knees, and Little John shouts, “Twenty points.” A runner’s knees are valuable. I can see by Vincent’s nod that he gets that.
I point to you-know-where on the shorts.
“Fifty points.” I have to say it myself because all the kids are laughing to bust a gut.
I walk back to Vincent. I reach down and scoop up a smooth stone, the perfect shape.
A sling has two cords attached to a leather pouch in the middle. I set the stone in the center of the pouch. I hold the ends of the cords with the fingers and thumb of my right hand. I look at Vincent to make sure he’s watching.
I start to spin it above my head. Vincent’s eyes follow it. The Cubs whoop as the sling arcs faster and faster. For a minute I just swing and stare at the straw man, finding my rhythm.
I can’t help but show off. I close my eyes.
I let the end of one cord go. The stone flies out of the pouch and makes a straight line toward the old cedar.
Thwack. I hear the kids shout and I open my eyes. I look at Sparrow.
“Fifty points,” he informs me, and reaches out to shake my hand like a gentleman.
Vincent shakes his head. The look in his eyes means more than any compliment.
I’m about to hand him the sling, but then I think better of it. I want him to do something he can be good at right away. I pull the slingshot out of the knapsack.
It’s a lot easier to learn how to use than the sling. And it’s a lot safer while you learn. You let go of that sling a little too soon and some kid has a rock between the eyes.
I hand him the slingshot. I show him how to hold the Y-shaped piece of wood and where to put the rock, but I can tell he already kind of knows. I leave him alone to practice and go help the little kids bait their hooks. Whiz. I hear Vincent’s rock sail by the cedar tree. Thump. It falls on something soft, like a big mushroom. Whiz. Another one. Fwip. A leaf on a branch. Progress.
Whiz. Thwack.
Now that hit straw.
I turn back and give him a thumbs up. He stands taller, throwing back his shoulders like a major league pit
cher on the mound.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, the sound follows me all the way to where the little kids are squatting over their hooks.
One problem down, another pops up.
Little John is bawling. Tears are streaking through the dirt on his face and snot is running from each nostril like two yellow slugs. He looks at me and sobs, “Wahoul, I don’t wanna kill Mr. Wormie.”
“It’s just a worm,” Sparrow says to him. He stabs three of those suckers onto his hook.
I lead Little John by the hand to the edge of the lake.
“Look,” I say. I point to the pollywogs swimming around the shiny smooth rocks. I scoop up a bunch and let them wriggle in the palm of my hand.
Little John bends down to look. He stops crying. He starts petting the pollywogs. Nothing like the life cycle of amphibians to get a boy’s mind off his troubles.
Before I can stop him, he pops four of them into his mouth. He swallows. A huge gulp. “They’re good,” he says, rubbing his tummy.
“Oh man,” I say. I’m gonna zuke.
Then my scalp tingles.
Something in me says to look up. Woods magic.
I look up.
I look up and see a glowing ball of blue-green fire floating across the lake. Will-o’-the-wisp. I mouth the words but no sound comes out. I’ve seen it once before—when I first noticed the woods-world. And it takes the breath from my lungs this time too.
Will-o’-the-wisps are one of the light phenomena that Dean Swift studies. Ignes fatui it’s called in Latin, and that means “foolish fire.” People have been seeing it for centuries, but it’s still a mystery. Dean Swift says most scientists think it’s some kind of chemical reaction caused by a bunch of dead stuff breaking down. He says it with bigger words, but you get it.