Spirit’s Key (7 page)

“Stories that aren't real?” I guess.

“Legends are the realest kind of stories, told over and over by people for generations. My grandfathers and grandmothers told my mother and father, and they told me, and now I'll tell you.”

“Okay,” I say, skeptical. When I first got Sky, kids tried to tell me some of these stories about the baldies, but I thought they were making fun of me, so I didn't listen.

Mrs. Borse settles further into the couch, and I lean in despite myself.

“My great-great-grandmother of many ages ago was sick with smallpox. Late one night, she was called from her sleep by a howl in the wind.
Come to me,
the howl said,
and you will be cured of this illness that plagues you.
” Mrs. Borse slaps her chest. “She was very sick, but I come from strong stock. And my great-great-grandmother wanted more than anything to be well again, so she followed the howl into the depths of the darkness.
I am here!
she cried.
Make me well, as you promised!
But the howl was a devil baldie, hiding in the shadows. All of my great-great-grandmother's evil deeds, every sin from her entire life, flashed before her eyes, and she knew she had been tricked.
No, please,
she cried.
I will be good, I promise. Please let me go.
But the devil baldie leaped out”—Mrs. Borse throws her hands in the air—“and ate her.”

I wait a bit, because I'm not sure the story is finished, but Mrs. Borse doesn't go on. She watches me carefully.

Finally, I say, “But how could your great-great-grandmother tell anyone what happened to her if she was dead?”

“Well…” Mrs. Borse frowns and scratches under her hat. “Huh. You ask too many questions, child. I was so frightened when my grandfather told me that story the first time, I shrieked and got a whuppin'! It didn't scare you?”

I shake my head.

“My mind isn't what it used to be. Maybe I'll tell you another one sometime, if I can remember how it goes.”

“There are more?”

“Oh, there're plenty. There's the one with the man and the watch, the one with the woman and the lighthouse, the one with the sailor and the moon. Nearly every family on this island has a history they can tell you about the baldies.”

“They sound like ghost stories.”

“They're scary. That's for sure.”

“Ghost stories aren't real though,” I say, but even as I do, I think of Sky.

“Well, this is real enough and strange, too. It belongs to you.” She hands me a piece of paper.

“This is what flew in through the window?”

She nods.

It's the packing slip from my mainland pet store order, listing Sky's dog food and the pheasant. Also printed in a bordered box, labeled
Gift Note,
it says:

Great gifts require great talents

Great talents require great sacrifice

Great sacrifices require great time

We hope you accept and enjoy

The great gift

Granted you by the Greats

“Did you type this on here?” I show her the printed message.

“Got better things to do than keep up with gift giving. If I missed your birthday, I'm sorry.”

She rises, makes a sliver in the door, and pushes me toward it. “You go on now, okay? It's time for my nap.”

Outside, I study the lines on the packing slip. My birthday was six months ago. Who would bother to send a gift so late? And I can't think of anyone who would send dog food even on the right day. Never mind write such a weird message.

Great gifts require great talents

Who would think dog food and a stuffed pheasant were
great
gifts? Not that I don't appreciate them, but it seems like whoever sent this might be talking about more than what was in the box.

I have more questions than answers. Who are the Greats? What great talents? And then I want to know.

Sky. Are you my great gift?

 

11

M
Y
G
REAT
G
IFT

Since I left our door unlocked, I feel fine stepping inside the house. Dad's right about my sickness being connected to my key. I check on him to see if he feels better, but he has the blanket pulled over his head. I pull the curtains closed so the sun won't be in his eyes if he throws off the covers. Then I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and tiptoe to his office to use the computer.

The computer is buried in the back of the room behind a pile of supplies. Dad has been stockpiling since we moved here, preparing not only for every disaster he couldn't see but also, I realize, for one he could: losing his power and his income. I'm relieved to see we can eat for a while. Jobs are hard to come by on an island this small, and it might take a long time for me to learn to use my power well enough to make money.

I turn on the computer and sit on the stack of boxes Dad uses for a chair. I enter the number from the slip to look up my delivery order.

The gift note is printed on the computer screen, along with the items ordered, just like it is on the paper in my hand. If Mrs. Borse typed the message, she also hacked into this order site. It seems like a lot of trouble for her to go to, and I'm pretty sure Mrs. Borse doesn't even own a computer, since Dad helps her place her orders. I think the order was placed by someone else. Someone who wanted Sky to have food and a toy in the afterlife. Which is pretty nice if you think about it.

I phone the number on the slip, and after some annoying music, finally I'm connected to a live human.

“Yes, I'm trying to see who placed an order I received.”

“Order number?”

I give him the number.

“Your name, please.”

“Spirit Holden.”

“Thank you, Ms. Holden. This order was placed by Holden Spirit.”

“You mean Spirit Holden?”

“Yes,” the man on the line says back.

“But I didn't place the order.”

“Are you Holden Spirit?”

“No, I'm Spirit Holden.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Holden Spirits placed the order.”

“Spirits? Did you say
Spirits
with an
s
?”

“Yes.”

“Can you spell it, please?” I grab a piece of paper and a pen.

When the man finishes spelling, I've written
Holden Spirits.

I stare at the words, and then I reread the gift note on the packing slip.

Holden Spirits.

The Greats.

My ancestors?

Great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers? They're Holden Spirits. The Holden Spirits who hold the family gift.

I hang up the phone. I'm sweaty and my head is spinning. I go to the kitchen and stick my head in the freezer.

After a minute, I can think clearly again.

Maybe I should hold my key until it tells me why all this is happening. Dad says even though he can't
know
things with his own key, Grandmother could. Maybe I can, too. Great gifts require great time. Maybe great gifts also require great practice. If I have the power inside me somewhere, maybe it's time to draw it out.

I go outside, because I don't want to get sick in the house, and then I take the key from my pocket. The heavy metal lies still in my palm until a jolt of nausea strikes powerful enough to make me drop it. It thuds onto the porch right near a crack, almost falling under the house. I pick it up and try again—this time on the dirt road, where it'll be safe even in my butterfingers. I hold on until I throw up.

Despite seeing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich in liquid form on the road, I don't
see
anything. I don't
know.

Maybe I'm like Dad. Maybe I have to hold someone else's key to
know.
No one's asked me to do a reading, so I give up on this idea in favor of seeing something I know I can. Sky. I rub his tag, and he appears, his tail wagging so hard his whole body shakes.

“If you're my gift, are you here to help me do readings, buddy? Do you know the future?”

He has the stuffed pheasant in his mouth. He drops it and grins.

“You think that's funny, huh?”

Sky picks up the toy bird again and runs away with it, wanting me to chase him.

“Come back, Sky! I don't feel like playing!” I'm still a little queasy.

He stands for a minute, waiting for me to come, but when I don't he runs back to me.

I try to pet him, to say
Good dog,
but my hand waves through him. Like he's a ray of sunlight.

I can touch the pheasant but not Sky. They look equally three-dimensional, but my hand continues to slide through Sky whenever I try to pat his puppy head. He's young and healthy. His fur looks so soft. It's hard to believe he isn't real. Or real in the way he once was. I'm disappointed. I want to hug him close. Feel him lick my face. But it's pretty exciting that he's here now. That it's me and Sky again. Together. Like it should be.

I run toward the house to get the kibble from the delivery box. If I can't pet him, maybe I can reward him with a treat. If the Holden ancestors sent it, I wonder if there's also something special about the bag of kibble. For a piece of kibble, will Sky tell me the future?

I figure Sky will follow me in the house like he usually does, but as soon as I hit the porch, he stops short. He sits, patient.

“Come,” I command.

He paces back and forth in front of the steps like he can't go any farther.

“Come, boy. Come.”

More pacing.

“Stay,” I say instead, putting up my hand.

He waits while I run inside.

I come back out with the kibble. Sky stands up and wags his tail. He knows he's about to get fed. I hold a piece of kibble in one hand, always the dog tag in the other, and make him sit again. He obeys. But when I hand him the kibble, it falls on the ground like it didn't even touch his lips.

Sky pushes it with his nose, tries to bite it, but the kibble doesn't move an inch. He stares up at me as if he's asking, too. Why isn't the kibble magic like the pheasant?

“I'm sorry, boy. Maybe ghost dogs don't need to eat. I don't have all the answers.” I fold the bag of kibble and leave it on the porch.

Sky runs off toward the beach. A swim seems like a great idea, so this time I follow.

Sky can run a lot faster than I can, even when I'm not feeling queasy, so he stops every now and then and looks back—waits for me to catch up.

Such a good dog. My heart soars. It's me and Sky. Off to the beach. Together again.

 

12

A D
EATH AT
S
UNSET

I follow Sky to the beach where the old pier once stood. Yasmine and Gomez knock their pink rubber ball between the paddles like it doesn't bother them they nearly died in this spot. Gomez catches sight of me and misses the ball.

“You dummy!” Yasmine yells. She scoops up a crab from the sand. It dangles from her hand, and she chases her brother with it. They run this way and that over the sand. She catches up to him, and Gomez snatches the crab away and throws it at her. She screams bloody murder.

I look down and Sky is tugging at my shorts, or trying to anyway. I can't feel him. I can only see. He wants to pull me toward Yasmine and Gomez, like he sees that pink rubber ball and thinks it looks fun. “No,” I say. “I don't want to play with them.”

He keeps trying to tug me toward the ball.

“Let's go swimming!” I say. I kick off my shoes and run for the ocean, clothes and all.

Sky stands on the beach, not following. He stares at the Hatterask kids.

“Come, boy. You love swimming,” I insist.

Finally Sky follows me into the ocean. He doesn't make a splash, so I make one big enough for both of us. I don't care that Yasmine and Gomez will think I've lost my mind. I love swimming with Sky.

It's still hard to believe he would go swimming alone. “Why'd you do it?” I ask him. But he just keeps looking back at Yasmine and Gomez like they have a juicy treat he can't resist.

“Ignore them,” I say firmly. I crawl into the waves, determined to get as far away as possible. I squeeze Sky's dog tag tight in my hand, willing him to come. Reluctantly, he follows.

We swim way out, diving under the waves until we get to where it's calm and still, like a lake. We pass where the pier would have ended, where Yasmine's screeches are too far to reach us.

I flip onto my back and float. I relax, but I'm careful not to lose my grip on Sky's tag. The cool water curls around my hair and into my clothes. Sky dog-paddles around me. His wet-dog odor is strong. But he doesn't look wet, and his body doesn't make waves. I don't need the raft. I don't have to worry he'll get tired and drown.

The sun is setting. The red and orange light up the ocean like a fire. The clouds turn into purple silhouettes. They float above like a moving quilt. It's a perfect moment.

So perfect it takes me a few minutes before I hear Sky's barking. My head rests deep in its water pillow. Even in the stillness, the ocean laps noisily in my ears. When I finally hear, I know Sky's been barking awhile, because his jaw strains open so wide I can see the back of his throat. It's his guard-dog-danger bark.

I sit up in the water so fast I nearly drink in the whole ocean. I cough it up, but Sky's left me, like he just couldn't wait any longer for me to get a clue. He swims to shore as if the red and orange waves are flames he must escape. I follow, one hand a tight fist over Sky's tag. My arms and legs burn. I haven't swum this fast, well, ever. I'm not sure if we're running from something or toward it, but the water is in my way. The water is between me and Sky. I work hard to close the gap.

Sky hears better than me, always could. But as I stand up in the shallow waves, I hear it, too. Shrieking. Bloody murder for real.