Silverwood

by Betsy Streeter

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “You’re moving away,” Rosie says.

  “Yeah. It’s the middle of the night,” Henry answers. “What are you doing here?”

  “I knew you were going. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at school; I saw it a couple days ago. Are you guys okay?” the girl asks, a frown of concern on her face.

  “Not really,” Henry says. “But hopefully we’ll meet up with my dad soon.”

  “Yeah,” the girl says, looking down.

  “Rosie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll write to you when I get there, okay? Wherever we’re going.” Henry knows that’s kind of an empty thing to say, but he does mean it.

  “Um, alright.” Rosie looks up at him. “Be careful, okay? Be careful on your way to Brokeneck.”

  Rosie sees things the way Henry does. Before they happen. Draws them, too. One time Rosie drew a whole series of things that were going to happen at school. She only showed it to Henry. But it all happened. A teacher got the flu, somebody’s dog got loose on the school grounds, some student got a bright blue backpack. Not exciting stuff, just bits and pieces falling into place. She knew exactly what it was all going to look like. The same way Henry does.

  Apparently, she also knew that Henry was going to be leaving. And where he’s going.

  Rosie goes on, talking faster. “Henry, my dad says you and I are members of a thing called the Guild. I’m not sure what that is, but that’s why he says we can see things. And draw things. All Guild members are connected. So I hope I can still see you after you’re gone.”

  Henry smiles at Rosie. He hopes so, too. Rosie is his friend. His only friend. He tries to memorize her face. He’ll draw it later on the car ride.

  “Well, I gotta go,” Henry says. “The road beckons.” He attempts a smile.

  “Okay.”

  Henry trudges back to the car. His body feels heavy, but strangely hopeful. He climbs back into his seat and pulls on the heavy door.

  “Henry?” Rosie calls out before the door shuts.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “Okay. We’ll be careful. I promise.” The door shuts with a slam that echoes in the parking garage behind them.

  The car creaks the rest of the way out into the rain. Henry waves through the window, and Rosie holds up her hand. In it is the pencil Henry gave her. She lifts it up like a salute.

  Steam rises from the manhole covers in the street as the station wagon, with its trailer and its cargo of Silverwoods, turns and heads downhill.

  Rosie lowers her arm. She skips down the sidewalk toward her father, who has waited patiently for her in a doorway. He raises an umbrella over the two of them, smiles, and takes her hand.

  The city skyline shrinks in the distance behind the station wagon. The interior of the car turns intermittently bright, dark, bright, then dark as it passes under the lights along the steel bridge taking them out of the city and toward—elsewhere. The windshield wipers thump back and forth. The little silver trailer bounces along behind them.

  Clarence sleeps in the backseat, useless as ever. Henry scratches the top of his head, causing his ears to shrug up and down.

  Here we go again Clarence, thinks Henry. He looks down at the sketchbook in his lap. The top page is blank. Henry has drawn nothing today. He sees nothing. It’s like this when they move. For a while, his mind goes blank and he has to wait to see again. It’s the same feeling Henry has when he walks into a dark room and has to wait for his eyes to adjust.

  The water below the bridge looks the way Henry’s mind feels: dark, and black. The bridge lights flip across the drawing paper—bright, dark. Bright, dark.

  Stripes of light slide across the dashboard. The tires thump over the seams in the pavement, as they cross the expanse of water.

  Helen rubs her hand where it was bleeding. “So that’s it, huh?” she says. “Off we go to this Brokeneck place? Like that?”

  “Like that,” Kate answers.

  “I’ll be amazed if we ever get there,” Helen says. “This sounds like we’re just chasing around after nothing. This is a fiasco.”

  Kate shoots a look over at her daughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said,” Helen says. “Don’t you think it’s interesting? Some guy shows up at our apartment, and gives you a half-baked story about dad, and an hour later somebody is shooting out the windows? And now we’re in the car? How is that not a fiasco? I mean, there is no way we are not being followed right now. Right?”

  “Where do you get this stuff, Helen? Too many spy novels. That’s where you get it from. Spies do stuff like that. And why would anybody follow us?”

  “Maybe for the same reason somebody just shot at us?” Helen says with more than a little sarcasm. “Considering all the stuff you just laid on me about the Tromindox, who turn out to be real, a fact which was known to everybody but me apparently, including Henry, don’t you think this mysterious they might have a problem with somebody who can destroy them without even trying? With my nifty magical blood?” Helen pauses to take in a breath. “And that brings me to my next question.”

  “What the heck are these Tromindox things, anyway? Other than ugly, I mean?” Helen asks.

  “They are time traveling predators that feed exclusively on humans,” Henry says from the back seat. “They kill people and they eat them.”

  Nice, thinks Kate. Somewhere along the way my son has become a Tromindox expert, while I was spending all my time protecting Helen. Terrific.

  “And mom hunts them down, don’t you, mom?” Henry adds.

  “Well… not right now,” Helen points out, “Right now it looks like we’re the hunted ones. On the run and everything.”

  “We are not on the run, Helen,” Kate says. Her hands tighten more and more on the steering wheel. “We got some information, about your father, and we’re on… on the move. That’s what we are, we are on the move. Because we have information. Information we are not supposed to have. Okay?”

  “But you do hunt them, don’t you mom?” Henry asks again. “I mean, that’s cool, if you do, and all, I don’t mind. Somebody has to. Right?”

  “Okay, yes,” Kate says. “Yes, your mother hunts Tromindox. For a living. Okay? I’m a bounty hunter. Do you know what that is? I get paid to hunt down Tromindox. I hunt them down and yes, I kill them. I do. And in return for that, I get a truly mediocre paycheck. Do you think I’m proud of that? Do you think I don’t want some kind of a normal job, where you do normal things and there aren’t monsters trying to kill you all the time? Do you think I enjoy having this stupid life where I’m out all night at strange hours and I don’t even know if you two have homework or not? Or where we have to move all the time? Sometimes I can’t even remember the name of the school you go to, which I guess doesn’t matter since you won’t be there long anyway. I’d like to settle down. I’d like to not have to drag you two all over creation. But this is our lot in life right now. And we have a chance to get your dad back, and we’re going to take it. Fiasco or not. Because if we can get the family together, then maybe, just maybe we can live a normal life. Okay?”

  Kate draws in a breath. “And, do you think it’s okay with me that somebody is spraying bullets into my apartment? Where my kids are? The only reason they didn’t get a good shot at us is because they were firing at an angle from the upper floors. And yes, that was part of the plan, yes, I case the entire area when we move, to be sure there are no unoccupied apartments across the street. You know, where someone could aim straight into our window. What kind of life is that? What kind of life…” She trails off, her hands kneading the steering wheel. She stares ahead at the road and Helen can see that her mother’s eyes shine with tears—just enough to pick up the street lights, not enough to roll down her cheeks. They have left the bridge now, the freeway stretches in front of them lined with a forest of strip malls and noise barriers and billboards. For as far as
they can see.

  Helen and Henry ride along listening to the rumble of the engine and the swoosh of the windshield wipers. Neither of them knows what to say. They have the feeling that this is one of those times when a parent says things partly to them, but partly just to say them out loud. Their mom isn’t really talking to them.

  RECORDING

  Hi dad, it’s Helen. Again.

  We’re on the road. It’s been an interesting night. We’re at this gas station outside the city now. Somebody blew up our apartment. So we left.

  It hasn’t been the easiest trip, so far. We’ve been doing a lot of staring out the window saying nothing.

  Several facts have been revealed in the last twenty-four hours and I have learned a lot but my confusion level has gone up considerably. I don’t know what’s true and what isn’t. I’ve been told—by Henry, of all people—that the Tromindox are real. That, I believe is true. I also heard that you were in prison. I don’t know whether to believe that or not.

  I’m sure Mom’s doing the best she can with what she’s got, like you always say. But she’s wound up tight. Based on the things I’ve learned, I can see that her life is… complicated. I didn’t know she had to case the neighborhood for bad guys moving in across the street. I certainly didn’t know she had explosives stored in the bedroom. I just wish she trusted me enough to tell me what is going on. I’m not a little kid. I can handle it.

  Here’s something that’s really got me stumped, dad. Now I know that mom hunts Tromindox. But, I also know that I supposedly heal them. Or, I heal the humans inside them. So, how does mom know which ones to kill off? How can I be keeping people alive while mom is taking them out? It’s all jumbled up in my head right now.

  I have so many questions, dad.

  Am I going to keep having dreams? Or are these Tromindox going to start showing up at lunch now?

  Are we really going to a place called Brokeneck?

  Are you really going to be there?

  All I can be sure about is, we’ve got a long road ahead. I’ll try to say something positive to mom, I promise. We’ll be okay.

  Good night dad, hope to see you soon. We miss you.

  END RECORDING

  PART TWO

  Long ago, a small village sat far up in the mountains above the clouds. The people who lived there were tough and hardy, having survived many harsh winters in the high altitude. From time to time neighboring kingdoms attempted to lay siege to the village, only to return home in defeat and in awe of the villagers’ superior strength and cleverness.

  Several times a year the people of the village would hold magnificent festivals with music and dancing, and create great paintings in colorful chalk that wound throughout the streets wrapping the entire village in beautiful scenes. The paintings told stories, depicting the trees and birds and other beautiful features of their mountain home. When the festivals were over, rain and snow would wipe away the pictures and the wind would carry off the music, as if to cleanse the village for the next celebration.

  One special symbol could be seen repeated throughout the artwork on the ground, the songs, and even the designs of the musical instruments. The symbol was a gnarled tree, made entirely of silver and covered in tiny, round leaves. Special silver chalk was made and used only for the purpose of depicting this tree.

  Legend had it that the silver tree grew from the very top of the tallest mountain in the range, and it provided the source of the villagers’ power. This was the prize that drew army after army up the mountain pass. They believed that if they could subdue the villagers and locate this tree, they would achieve invincible strength and riches. But no one had ever seen the tree themselves.

  The villagers believed in the tree, and they were terrified of it.

  Each year, one person from the village would be sent up the mountain to where the silver tree was thought to grow. And each year, that person would not return. No one knew what happened to them, but the villagers believed that this sacrifice would ensure their continued prosperity.

  Deciding who should be given up to the tree was the subject of intense debate. Some felt it should be a young person, to show that the village offered its greatest strengths. Others believed it should be someone old and wise. A few decided that it didn’t matter, since whoever went was simply going to perish from exposure on the mountain anyway. There was even a small group who did not believe in the silver tree at all, and felt that the whole exercise was pointless. What no one could deny, though, was that whoever went up the mountain was invariably never seen again.

  The one thing everyone agreed on was that the chosen person should go voluntarily. And so, each year, three or four people would come forward, and the oldest person in the village would choose. The chosen one would be given lavish gifts and outfitted for a journey with every kind of provision before being sent away, never to be seen again.

  One year as the villagers gathered outside to debate who would be next to climb the mountain in sacrifice to the tree, they were distracted from their task by an old woman calling to them from a ridge far on the opposite side of a great ravine. The villagers stopped their debate and stood dumbfounded as the elderly lady, bent forward with age, skillfully climbed first down into the gully and then up toward them.

  Her arms were strong, and she pulled herself along using tree branches and a silver walking stick. As she came closer, the villagers could see that she carried a heavy satchel on her back.

  Eventually she made her way into the village, her skirts leaving swirling shapes in the chalk drawings from the latest festival. Everyone moved back to let her pass and held their breath in anticipation. She continued walking, tapping the silver walking stick on the ground, until she reached the center of the crowd. There, she stopped.

  The old woman swung the satchel off her back and lifted out a great volume with a leather cover. She held it up for all to see, and then let it drop. The book hit the ground with a heavy thud, and a cloud of colored chalk flew up all around it.

  As the chalk settled the villagers leaned in to get a look. On the cover of this huge book were silver letters spelling the word, “Avenir.”

  “This is The Book of the Future,” the old woman said. “I was born long ago in this village, but I have spent my life traveling to other times. I have come back to tell you what I have seen, and to warn you.”

  The villagers were not convinced, but decided that even if the woman were crazy, she was a guest and they should listen politely.

  “When I was a girl, I was sent up to be sacrificed to the tree of silver,” she said, pointing toward the top of the mountain. “I was proud to be chosen. And I was afraid. But what I found up there was not what any of you would expect.

  “I climbed for several days. As I got higher, the conditions worsened. By the time I reached the summit, the wind was howling and I could not feel my fingers or my toes.

  “Just when I thought I might drop from exhaustion, I was blinded by a great light. I had to shield my eyes as I moved closer because the sun was reflecting in my face. It took me what seemed like an eternity to trudge upward through the crushed rock that covered the mountaintop. Every step I took, I slid backward. I thought, ‘this is it, it’s the tree of silver. I am going to die. This is the end of my journey.’

  “It was an old tree, gnarled, and twisted by its age. It looked exactly like the pictures I had seen painted on the ground in the village during the festivals. Like this one, here,” she said, pointing to a picture near her feet.

  “As I got closer, I saw that the tree had tiny silver leaves, and that each leaf had a little hole in the middle of it. I was surprised to see that each leaf was perfectly round. The leaves were just like coins, hanging from the tree. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  “And then, I could not resist—I reached out and touched one of the coins. It came off in my hands, and as I looked down at it, well, that was when my life changed.”

  The old woman looked up at all of the vi
llagers gathered around her. Nobody said a word. All eyes were fixed on the storyteller.

  “The next thing I knew, I was in a different place. I could tell that it was a city, but everything was different. The people were different, their clothes were different. They rode around on crazy wagons with black wheels, and there were lights everywhere. Everywhere I looked, there were lights. And noises that I did not recognize.

  “Nearby there was a small tavern, so I went in. I thought maybe someone would take pity on me, a girl all by myself.

  “When I went in, the grown-ups there glared at me and told me that children were not allowed. So I turned to leave. But a man behind the bar, the proprietor of the tavern, called out to me and asked me to come sit in his office in the back. I thought maybe I was in trouble, but I was all alone, so I did what he said. I walked through the smoky tavern, where there were moving pictures up on the walls, and I went into his office. I sat there on a chair until he was finished washing glasses.

  “When the tavern owner came in, he acted as if he knew me. He was very kind, and he smiled, and he offered me something to eat. And he looked strangely familiar; I thought he vaguely resembled my grandfather. I did not know whether to trust him, but I was lost.

  “That’s when he told me that he had been expecting me to come. He said that each year, someone would appear at his door looking utterly lost and out of place, as if they had come from the past. He told me that I had come through a portal, which I didn’t understand but I was too proud to admit it. He asked me if I had anything in my hand. I held it out, and there was the little round leaf from the tree, with the hole in the middle.

  “The man told me that every time someone new appeared, they always had one of these little coins in their hand. And that this coin was a portal through time, and that I had traveled to the future.

  “Well, as you can imagine, my face looked a lot like yours do now,” the old woman said, smiling at the skeptical expressions. “I did not believe him. But then he said something that made it impossible for me not to believe. He said, ‘I bet the last thing you saw before you came here was a tree made of silver, wasn’t it?’