Dreamwood (18 page)

So that was one mystery solved. It was Rambles and Charley—whoever those poor men were—whose bodies they'd seen. Lucy turned to Pete. He was listening so intently it was as if he'd forgotten she was there. But as she planted her knees on the ground to get comfortable, he gave her a quick nod. They should stay and listen and find out just who these men were. For the men hadn't figured out the river trap, but neither were they going mad from dreams—which meant they'd discovered at least some of the Thumb's secrets.

“No, it's the devil,” the man without a neck said. He talked in a thick, stubborn way, and Lucy didn't have to see his face to know he was as big and dumb as an ox. “There wasn't a cloud in the sky and then it floods. That is the work of a Lupine devil. There's only one thing to do with devils and that is burn them out. Burn them out completely.”

“Can't we have a fire?” said the anxious voice. “Your light is pretty enough but it doesn't warm a body, and I'm sick of cold food.”

“A fire,” said the cantankerous spitting man. “That's the first sensible thing I've heard. If we're burning things up, let's start right now, right here. I'd like a good bonfire myself.”

“No fire,” the man with the globe said, knifing through the men's grumbling. She'd heard that voice somewhere. Beside her, Pete stiffened—he knew the voice, too.

It was Angus Murrain, she was sure of it. She got to her feet, ready to rush forward. But Pete grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. He raised a finger to his lips.

Lucy didn't understand why they should listen instead of announcing themselves, but she humored Pete and settled back into a crouch.

“So you think there's truth to the old tales?” asked the man with the reedy, fearful voice. “The forest here hates fire.”

Angus answered wearily, “This forest is like any other. It's just trees, Silas. And trees do not feel. I've cut down enough to know.”

“But first Donner runs off mad in the night, then Rambles and Charley don't even notice the water coming. That's three men dead already,” said the fearful Silas. “It wouldn't have happened in an ordinary forest.”

“I'll tell you what's
not
ordinary—going without fire,” said the spitter. His was a grumbly voice, and Lucy thought if they did have a fire he'd complain of smoke or too much heat.

“I won't have a fire, Cranbull, and that's that.” The timber baron was losing patience.

“Because of what the girl told him,” Cranbull said in an aside, hocking spit again. “
She
told him about the hoodoo here, and part of it was no fire. So guess what, fellas, we're taking orders from a girl.”

“Her advice has kept us alive so far,” Angus said coolly. “I only hope we can find her in time.”

Lucy held her breath.
The girl.
They had to be talking about her. And he was trying to find her . . . save her.

She scrambled to her feet, no longer caring what Pete thought.

The men startled at the sound and the timber baron called out, “Who's there?”

“It's Lucy,” she cried. “We're here!” She ran forward, stumbling into the circle of men, who looked at her in surprise.

And there stood Angus Murrain—his size and strength were comforting; he'd shelter her against this horrid forest.

“Thank goodness we found you,” he said, crouching down to her level. Even in the dark, she felt reassured by his strong, handsome face. “You're not hurt? Are you hungry?”

She nodded emphatically. “I'm starving.”

“What do you mean, ‘
we're here,
'” said Cranbull; the spitter was gruff and broad chested. “Who's we?”

That's when Lucy realized Pete was still hiding in the shadows. Why was he hanging back? Lucy pulled away from the timber baron. “Pete,” she called. “Pete, come on.”

She stared into the blackness of the woods, feeling a tickle of anxiety. Since the first night on the Thumb she could not escape the fear that the forest would swallow them.

But after a moment Pete did come, kicking the tree roots, a sullen, closed look on his face. Lucy stared at him in confusion.

For some reason he didn't want to be rescued.

• • •

In the morning Lucy was thrilled to find corn cakes with jam for breakfast.

She'd slept well and woke early. Pete was still not up; he lay in the abandon of heavy sleep. The blanket he'd been given last night was all bunched, one bare foot outstretched. A foot that was just asking to be tickled by a feather or leaf.

But since last night—when she'd stepped forward and Pete lagged behind—something changed between them. She wondered if he would laugh if she tickled him, or if he would just give her the betrayed look she'd seen in his eyes when he'd watched her take a blanket from Angus. Now she left him and went to join the men.

Anxious Silas had a weaselly face that went with his sharp, nervous voice. He wore a greasy leather vest, and his rooster's crest of spiky red hair made him seem naturally combative. The man who'd talked of the devil was Jank, broad and slow, small-eyed, with a deep black beard that covered his curious lack of neck. He wore a red-and-white-checked shirt that gave him the appearance of a giant picnic cloth. Both watched her eat as if they thought she might steal from them.

“No coffee,” Cranbull griped to her as she reached for another corn cake. He had been the one in favor of fire last night. In daylight, gray showed in his fuzzy muttonchop whiskers, which clung to a jowly bulldog face. He was stout, and his suspenders curved around his chest like stays on a barrel. “Because
he
says we can't have a fire.” He glanced darkly over to where Angus sat, eating his breakfast and studying a piece of paper.

When the timber baron saw them looking at him, he smiled at Lucy and waved her over. He cut a dashing figure, with his dark glossy curls spilling over the collar of his chambray shirt. He wore soft moleskin trousers and fine leather boots. A column of morning light fell on him just so, as if to underscore how lucky they were to have found him.

“I realized as soon as you were gone that I never should have let you go by yourself,” he said, making room for her beside him. Lucy sat down, sitting cross-legged in her Lupine tunic and leggings. “I was beside myself. So I got a few men together to come find you.”

Pete, who'd finally woken up, shambled over to them, still barefoot. “Did you tell my parents you were coming after us?” Pete asked without so much as a
good morning.
His face looked pinched and his eyes squinty; clumps of his hair flew up as if while he slept his head had grown scores of stubby brown wings, all trying to take flight.

Angus's eyes flickered over him. “No.” He looked at Pete as if unimpressed by what he saw. “I heard some story about how you had volunteered to take Lucy down the coast toward San Francisco. And I decided to keep your secret safe.”

So Pete was not in trouble for lying to his parents. That was good. Lucy looked encouragingly at Pete, hoping he would see it that way. She remembered how Pete had stood up to the raven men, and how he'd crossed his arms in Governor Arekwoy's office, almost daring the Lupines to mess with him. For someone who got spooked by any old ghost story he certainly was cocky around people. And now she tried to smooth things over.

“You found us just in the nick of time,” she told the timber baron before he could draw the wrong conclusions about Pete. “We were in a real pickle.”

“We were doing all right,” Pete said. He did not sit down but continued to hover nearby, making vain attempts to control the chaos of his hair.

“For the moment perhaps.” Angus turned from Pete, who he obviously found lacking in manners, and back to Lucy. He ran a hand rakishly through his dark hair. “But luckily we're here now. And we have plenty of food. Plus, we have other items of interest as well.”

He indicated the paper he was studying, and Lucy leaned forward to get a better look.

“I was only able to find one map of the Thumb,” he said, smoothing the paper out on a mossy tree stump. “I had to make this copy from the Pentland Historical Society. The map they have is one of the few surviving documents from the lost settlement.”

Lucy loved maps, especially ones that had any hint of mystery to them, and she could think of no map more exciting than one from a lost settlement. She shivered deliciously as she bent over it, imagining that this crisply drawn copy was actually the stained and crumpled original, smuggled out from the doomed settlement with great effort and passed from hand to hand as secretly as a treasure map.

“And no one knows what happened to them?” she asked. She remembered the disquieting line from her father's notebook:
He killed them all.

Angus stretched out his long legs. “Any number of things might have done them in. Disease. A bad winter. But people in Saarthe don't want such a boring explanation. It has to be curses or evil.” He looked up to the sky, as if hoping somewhere to find the strength to deal with such idiocy. “The truth is, they were living on the edge of civilization, nearly cut off from the mainland. There doesn't need to be any mystical explanation for bad luck.”

Such a simple truth, but Lucy was struck by this. Her father always looked to the spirit world to explain trouble—all the invisible currents of grievances and emotions that made houses unhealthy, crops wither, and factory equipment fail. But maybe sometimes bad luck was just that and no more. She looked at the timber baron's proud face.
He doesn't let the unseen world govern him,
she realized,
he simply does what he sets out to do.
The thought was both thrilling and troubling—it felt disloyal to her father—and she bent her head to the map, trying to get her feelings back in order.

“The Lupines say the dreamwood spirit killed them,” Pete countered, putting his back against a tree.

“
Some
of them think that,” Lucy corrected.

Angus gave a tight smile. “Fortunately I don't put too much stock in stories like that,” he said dismissively. “And what happened a hundred years ago matters little to our business today.”

Pete shook his head. “I suppose that's what you think.”

Lucy couldn't understand why Pete was being so disagreeable. She pointed to a squiggle on the map she thought was the river.

“Is this where we are?” she broke in.

Angus leaned forward. “My guess is here.” He stabbed a finger at a spot two-thirds of the way to the tip of the Thumb. “And this should be the old settlement.” He pointed to a triple line enclosing some triangles.

There were other strange marks on the map, and Lucy was determined to puzzle them out. “What are these little stars?” They were scattered about the Thumb.

“I've no idea,” the timber baron said. “But my hope is they mark dreamwoods. The people who lived here used to harvest them. We should be closing in on one of these marks soon. But this map isn't drawn to scale. And so far, even with it, we've been wandering in the dark. Our compasses don't work, and even Silas, who could tell you which way was north after being spun around blindfolded, can't seem to get his bearings here.”

He looked at her expectantly, and Lucy realized in a heady rush that he was hinting that he needed help. Of course, he wouldn't come right out and say he couldn't find his way—not in front of the others. Their nervousness and unhappiness with the expedition was thick as smoke. But she could help Angus lead them. Her hand reached for the leather cord around her neck.

“Dang it!” Pete exclaimed suddenly. He hopped about on one foot, wincing. Lucy leaned out of the way, trying not to get stepped on; but it was a bit like trying to avoid a deranged jack-in-the-box.

“What's the matter?” She snatched her foot away before he could smash into it.

“I stepped on something.” Pete groaned and shut his eyes. He put one hand on Lucy's shoulder and leaned into her as if he'd fall over otherwise. “Can you help me back to my things?”

Lucy got to her feet, helping support him, while Pete made terrible huffing noises. She tried not to react to the sun-bronzed arm draped across her shoulders—an effort made easier by the fact that Pete continued to groan loudly in pain. “Come on, then.”

Angus watched impatiently. “You should think about wearing some shoes,” the timber baron pointed out.

“Good advice,” Pete called over his shoulder as he hopped on one leg.

Pete's arm was heavy around Lucy's neck, but it grew lighter the farther away they got from Angus and his map. And Lucy did not think Pete was a very good actor—his emotions flashed across his face too easily.

They reached his blanket and Pete collapsed onto the ground.

“So what was that about?” she asked as Pete made a show of rubbing his injured foot before putting on his shoes.

“Nothing,” Pete said innocently, looking up at her from where he sat, tying his shoelaces with excruciating slowness. But he had wanted to get her away from Angus. Why?

“What's the matter with you?” She put her hands on her hips. “Now we've got a real chance of finding my father—”

“We always had that,” Pete interrupted. He cocked his head in Angus's direction and lowered his voice. “It's not like we need him for it. You're the one with the compass. All he's got is that lousy old map.” He looked up at her and his face was suddenly earnest. “I think you should keep your compass to yourself.”

Lucy rubbed her temples. She remembered their trip to Pentland and the reverent way Pete had mentioned Angus Murrain's name. She sat down beside Pete. “I don't understand. I thought you looked up to him.”

Pete snorted. “That was before he wouldn't give Pa more time to pay him back. Instead he bought our house out from under us, and cheated us on the price.”