Spirit’s Key (4 page)

I keep moving forward anyway. I scream his name over and over.

I scream so loud I could wake the dead.

Only I don't.

It's just me. Deep in the woods. Alone.

*   *   *

I dashed into the woods so frantic I didn't pay very good attention to where I was running. But finally I manage to find my way out and home again.

When I walk through the door, Dad jumps up from the card table. “What happened?”

“I…”

“I thought you said you were on the way.” Dad's face goes from worried to angry.

“I was.” The clock says I've been gone two hours since I radioed Dad? My detour with Sky couldn't have taken that long.

“I hate not being able to
see
anything about you. About us. I…” Dad drops our house key on the table—useless in this case, like Sky's
Lost Dog
posters. He takes in my sweaty face and scratched-up skin. “Where were you?”

“I saw Sky.” I learned a long time ago that I can't lie to Dad. No half-truths. No leaving things out. Even if he can't see our future, he knows me too well.

Dad looks stunned. “Sky?”

I nod. “He ran off into the woods. So I chased him.”

“Oh, Spirit.” Dad's shoulders sag like he's incredibly sad. “You're floundering. Sky was special. I loved him, too. It broke my heart that you didn't get him back alive. But you have to face reality.”

I'm still stuck on the word
floundering
, because I can swim better than any fish.

“Sky is dead.” Dad pauses.

We stare at each other for what feels like a long time. The fan in the corner blows cold air down my sweaty back. I shiver.

“I know it,” I whisper. As if saying it softly will make it less true.

“Then you must know that you couldn't have seen Sky.”

“But I did,” I insist. “Why don't you believe me?”

And he doesn't. His eyebrows hide under his hair like he can't possibly imagine what I'm talking about. “Really, Dad. It was Sky. Well, Sky as a puppy.”

Dad jumps on this. “See? It couldn't have been Sky. It was just a baldie puppy that
looked
like Sky.”

“They don't all look the same, Dad. Not to me. I'd recognize Sky anywhere.”

“I know you would, sweetheart, but it just isn't possible. Animals can't be ghosts like people can.”

What? I'm stunned. “Why not?”

Dad pauses so long, I think he'll have a good explanation, but all he says is, “They just can't.”

“But how do you
know
they can't?”

“Because I've never heard of anyone seeing a ghost animal before. Our family has a long history, but nothing like this. I understand it must be frustrating not to have your gift yet, but making things up won't help it come. In fact, it will only create problems for us. You don't want people
here
to think we're charlatans do you? Please don't give them a reason.” Dad puts his hand on his head like the thought of the people on the mainland who didn't understand his gift causes him pain.

“I wouldn't lie, Dad.”

“I know you wouldn't. I just think maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”

This doesn't entirely make sense to me, because of course I wanted to see Sky. But I didn't ask for him to be a puppy.

“You're late for school. Mrs. Dialfield already called. She's very worried.
I
was worried. You can't scare your old man like this again. It tires me out.”

“You're not old, Dad.”

“I'm not as young as I used to be, so promise me you won't go chasing any more baldies into the woods? Real or otherwise?”

“But, Dad—”

“Spirit.” Dad says my name in his I-mean-business way.

“Okay.” I nudge the fan with the end of my flip-flop. It falls over, and I have to set it upright again.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I promise.”

“Thank you. I need to lie down. When you get home from school, wake me up.”

I nod, even though it's ridiculous that Dad would still be asleep by this afternoon.

He heads up the stairs. “I'll be in the blue room.”

Dad likes the blue room for naps.

“Oh, and can you drop Mrs. Borse's packages next door? She has a fit if she doesn't get them right away. You're already so late for school that two more seconds won't hurt.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

My arms and legs are covered in sand and bramble scrapes. Before I go to school, I'll have to wash up, so I choose the red bathroom. The red bathroom is a room you can be mad in.

 

6

T
HE
S
ACRED
B
IRD

Towers of provisions cover the red walls, and instead of finding bathroom regulars like toilet paper, medicine, or toothpaste, I find thirty-three boxes of macaroni and cheese (my favorite kind), ten flashlights (all with purple handles), twelve boxes of matches, enough dog food to feed Sky for years, and some yaupon tea from Mrs. Selnick. Some people barter for readings.

As infuriating as it is that Dad doesn't believe me about Sky, I can't say he doesn't think of me. And somewhere in our house is what I actually need: witch hazel for my bug bites, a washcloth, and some soap—and we probably have all this in large supply.

I give up on finding what I need. Instead I make some yaupon tea to cure my anger. I decide going to school mad is worse than showing up hours late and covered in dirt. I gulp the tea down as quickly as I can and head out.

Of course, it's impossible to stay mad when I know that no matter what disaster may strike, I'll be eating as much mac and cheese as I want in a room lit by purple flashlights.

Even though I hate the idea that animals can't be ghosts, maybe Dad is right. It's true I thought I was dreaming at first. And they say first impressions are usually right, so I must have been.

By the time I'm standing next door on Mrs. Borse's front porch, my anger has cooled from red to pink.

I bang Mrs. Borse's knocker a few times because she's hard of hearing. “Hello? Mrs. Borse?”

I don't expect her to answer; she never opens the door when I knock. Mrs. Borse only leaves her house if she's forced to by a government-issued hurricane evacuation team. Sometimes I see her open the door real quick to grab her delivery after I'm gone. I shouldn't be nosy, but I've watched her a few times from behind some honeysuckle bushes.

I drop the boxes on her porch, but I pause when I notice that the return address on the smallest one reads
Bragg's Guns and Ammo
. I am standing there wondering what Mrs. Borse is doing ordering ammunition when the door cracks open. I straighten up so fast I almost tumble backward.

“Hi, Mrs. Borse,” I croak. “I brought over your delivery from the boat.”

“Come inside. Quickly, child.” She yanks me into the living room and nearly slams my leg trying to get the door closed in a hurry. “I have to show you something.” She snatches the top box, the one from Bragg's Guns and Ammo. “Drop the rest of those packages at the door.”

Even though Mrs. Borse is inside the house with no plans to go out, she's dressed from head to toe in animal fur. As if, instead of living in a beach house, she lives in an igloo and is in danger of freezing to death.

But this is normal for Mrs. Borse. Letting me inside is not. She lets Dad in to do readings, but I have never before set one purple flip-flop through her door.

But, man oh man, have I wanted to! I've gotten enough glimpses of her through the curtains to know Mrs. Borse is the sort of person who inspires curiosity.

Her living room is a lot like her outfit. The walls are covered in deer heads and antlers, and I notice as we head up the steps that even the staircase railing looks like an animal horn. Maybe she sneaks out at night to hunt. That would explain the ammo.

As soon as we're up the stairs, she drags me to her bedroom and whips a sheet off an enormous birdcage. Underneath is a real live bald eagle.

I gasp, because I've never seen one this close. Or in a cage.

Her head is covered in stark white feathers so clean it's like she's had a bath. “How did you get her in here?”

“What's that, child? You have to speak into my left ear. Right one's no good.”

I yell the question into her left ear.

“Bird's a she? Well, I'll be.”

Wait, how did I know that? I start to say I'm not sure, I just said
she
because it was the first thing that popped into my head, but Mrs. Borse accepts it like gospel.

“She came in all on her own, straight through that window.”

A window by the bed is boarded up to replace the broken glass.

“She was stunned long enough for me to get her in this cage. My husband—God rest his soul—used to keep a parrot. He liked his birds to have roomy homes.”

“Amazing.”

“It's a thing of beauty, child. It was an eagle saved my great-grandfather. A storm got his boat, and he would have surely died. But an eagle plucked him straight out of the ocean by his belt. Carried him to this island in 1854.”

“Really?” Islanders tell such crazy stories I'm never sure if I'm supposed to believe them.

“'Course, child. Don't you believe in miracles?”

I dreamed Sky came back from the dead. It seemed like a miracle. “I believe in dreams.”

“Wonderful! A dream and a miracle are sisters—practically twins. And I certainly thought I was dreaming when I saw this sacred creature crash through that window. But sacred or not, a bird coming through my window ain't natural. It's only out of respect for her maker that I didn't toss her right back out, stunned as she was, and let her die.”

I nod. “That was … kind of you.”

“But now that this bird's awake I need help. Squawks all night long, she does. Putting her in this cage right next to my bed was a terrible mistake. She's too big for me to handle by myself. And you with that baldie—a miracle if I ever saw one—trained the devil right out of him, you did.”

There wasn't any devil in Sky, but I understand what she's saying, so I try not to interrupt.

“I haven't left this house since the hurricane of 2000. You wouldn't remember that. But you almost inspired me to do it. If you could just get the devil out of all of 'em.” Mrs. Borse strokes her fur coat like this is a miracle so big it requires a moment to ponder.

“Now, I need you to help me with this bird. If you can train the devil out of a baldie, surely you can get this sacred creature to straighten up and fly right. She's trespassing on my property. I thank my lucky stars I thought to order myself some ammunition last week. If you can't get her out of here, I plan to shoot her.”

“What? No! You can't shoot a sacred creature.”

“Precisely the reason I'm asking for your help. But I'll shoot her if I have to. I get cranky without my sleep, and this bird coos a racket. Only been here a night, but she's already outworn her welcome.”

The eagle's yellow beak and huge talons look breathtakingly sharp. I see why Mrs. Borse is afraid to let the bird out by herself. I hesitate.

“You have the healing touch with beasts. I saw you save that baldie.”

“You mean when Sky had Lyme disease?”

She nods.

When Sky was sick, Dad said if I helped him, he wouldn't hurt me. But what about now? “What does my dad say about this?”

“You're the one I'm asking. You going to help me or not?”

I want to get Dad, but there's no way I'm leaving Mrs. Borse with the bird and the gun.

“I need this eagle out of my house.” Mrs. Borse picks up the rifle resting on the wall by the bed.

I watch in horror as she loads the gun. Her eyes are icy under her warm fur hat. She cocks the rifle. “Save her or don't save her. It's up to you.”

The eagle and I lock eyes. If I make a path for her, maybe she'll fly out the way she came. She doesn't want to be locked up. The solution could be that simple. “I'll need to take the boards off the window.”

Mrs. Borse backs up. “Do what you have to do.”

There's a hammer on the nightstand, and I use it to pry the nails out of the boards. I stack them against the wall and turn the birdcage to face the window. It's on a chest, so I'm careful not to get myself too close, because I don't want the eagle to claw me through the cage. It's a straight shot. All I have to do is open the cage door and hope the bird doesn't come at me.

“One, two, three!” I swing open the door. The cage tumbles backward, and the eagle flies out willy-nilly-crazy in every direction but the window. The objects on top of the chest go flying. Medicine bottles, a hairbrush, a framed photo of the deceased Mr. Borse holding a giant fish—everything smacks into the floor.

Mrs. Borse shrieks and points her gun. “Not my antique lamp!”

The eagle seems to enjoy the suggestion and goes straight for it, smashing the pink-flowered base into a million pieces and sending the lampshade rolling toward the bed.

Mrs. Borse takes aim at the bird, and I throw myself toward the gun. I push it up in the air, causing Mrs. Borse to fire a shot through the ceiling. The eagle goes mad and dives up and down the room, knocking things all over.

I bet I can guess how Mrs. Borse went deaf in one ear. The shot nearly broke my eardrums.

The eagle and I lock eyes again, because she's headed right at me. I stand my ground and let her come. I don't duck. I don't move. I try to use my eyes and my mind to speak to her like I always felt Sky did with me.

Home, Eagle. Fly home.

I think this command so hard I visualize the eagle flying through the wide, empty sky, the freedom I imagine only a bird has. I picture her diving down into a big nest in a tree where her eagle family is waiting.