The Drowned Forest (14 page)

Twenty

My hand is swollen and purple like strange fruit. The scabs keep breaking, oozing blood that stains my shorts. Tyler spent the night here, tossing on the living room floor. Even though he couldn’t really do anything, he wanted to stay close by. At least it’s Saturday, so none of Stratofortress have to go to work. Ultimate went to Britney’s, though, and LeighAnn and Max have been in their bedroom all morning. When I hear Max crying, I go to see if he’s okay. Before I can ask, though, LeighAnn pushes me back out into the hall.

“Getting dangerous keeping you around, Sesame Street,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

LeighAnn studies me.

“Sorry,” I say again, quieter. She won’t kick me out, but LeighAnn isn’t my friend right now, either. The man she loves almost died because I’m an idiot. She gets two
cans of Mountain Dew, a box of tissues from the bathroom, and disappears into their bedroom again.

Why didn’t I stay in the circle? What did I think I could do?

I go nudge Tyler with my foot. “Hey, wake up.”

He jerks up with a gasp, looking all around. “Wh—what is it?”

“We have to talk to Auntie Peake. Figure out why the prayer didn’t work.”

The drive out to Decatur stretches by in dead silence. We go to Morningside Nursing Home and find Auntie Peake sitting up in bed like last time. I tell her what happened, but she just shakes her head sadly. “The prayer would have worked for any lost lamb of Christ.”

“Well … it didn’t.”

“Then maybe your friend, maybe in her heart, wasn’t as Godly as you think.” Auntie Peake won’t look at us while she says it.

“No, no. Holly was the best person. She loved God even after He took away her parents.”

“Isn’t there something else we could try?” Tyler asks. “Another prayer?”

“Any prayer’s power comes from faith. Faith in the Lord and love for Him. If your friend didn’t have that, no amount of praying will help her. I’m sorry.”

I tell her all the good things you did, Holly, how wonderful you were. I tell her how you wrote
FEAR NOT
across your guitar. Auntie Peake just shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter if she was a nice person, it only matters if she believed in the power of the Lord. Faith can move mountains and wash the most sinful soul clean. But if your friend doesn’t have it, down at the very bottom of her heart, then there’s nothing we can do to save her. I’m sorry.”

“No!” I shout. “You didn’t know her! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Then one of the staff comes in and says we have to leave. Now.

I stomp out to the truck. On the road, I keep shouting. “Where does she get off thinking she knows Holly?”

“I don’t know,” Tyler answers softly.

“She won’t help us anymore because she doesn’t think Holly had faith? You know what it is? The old bat’s probably just embarrassed because her stupid magic didn’t work, and now she’s trying to blame it on Holly, blame anybody but herself.”

Tyler nods. “Maybe. Maybe if we find another root-worker, they can help us.”

“Stupid old bat. But … ” I pick at a scab, and my anger fades. When it fades, I’m left with doubt, with a question mark like a rusty fishhook. “But what if she’s right? What if Holly didn’t have any faith left?”

“Of course she did. You just yelled at an old lady for five minutes about how Holly played music at church, had
FEAR NOT
on her guitar.”

“I know she said she did, I know she acted like she did, but … what if, down at the bottom of her heart, Holly really didn’t love God anymore? What if it was all an act?”

“Why would she act like that, then?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s just, for weeks now, I’ve been trying to figure out how Holly loved God after all she’d been through. And maybe the answer is, she didn’t. I mean, we’ve been through a fraction of what she went through, and you don’t love Him anymore, right? I don’t love Him.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud, said it to anybody but you, Holly. I start to choke up and struggle to voice the rest of my thought. “What if she didn’t have any faith, and that means we can’t help her? What if she’s just going to be trapped in the drowned forest forever?”

“Hey, hey, no, no. We’re gonna find another root-worker, okay? We’re going to figure this out, okay? Okay?”

I don’t answer. Tyler keeps promising it’ll be okay, but he doesn’t believe it. He just wants me to stop crying. Hot tears spill down my cheeks as fast as I can wipe them away. I turn my face to the window and watch the trees pass. The pines along Highway 31 rise as straight and narrow as the path to Heaven.

Tyler says, “What about your professor that interviewed all those people? Maybe we can find the rest of his transcripts.”

“Frazier? Yeah, maybe.”

“Or … we could go back to Holly’s house.”

That makes me turn back to face him. “What? No way. What for?”

He shrugs. “Maybe we’ll see something we didn’t see last night.”

“And maybe Holly’s still there. Or else her neighbors see us and call the police. What do you think is there?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not quitting on Holly yet. Maybe Auntie Peake’s right and there isn’t anything we can do, but I’m not gonna just take her word for it and give up. I’ve got a whole list of bad ideas to try before I give up.”

That makes me snicker, less because it’s actually funny and more because I have to laugh at something.

Tyler says, “I’ll drop you off if you—”

“No, I’m in.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and pull myself together.

“It’s past lunchtime,” Tyler says. “Maybe if you had some food in you, you’d feel—”

“No. If we’re going to do this, we do it now.”

We head back to your house.

Tyler drives past it and around the block before pulling into the driveway. No police or anything. The front door stands wide open now, but the neighbors will ignore it—everyone hoping somebody else will handle it.

The swallows chatter in the pear tree, watching us pass. I throw stones into the branches to drive them away. Inside, the muggy heat sticks to my skin. “Holly?”

You still lie trapped inside the magic circle in the living room. Max’s work boot left a sharp imprint in the muddy flesh.

“Holly?”

The mud-pie thing has dried up and died. A wide crack in its chest is full of blood-red sunlight. You’ve tried to come back to your old life so many times, but the drowned forest keeps gobbling you back down. You’ll come tonight too, won’t you, Holly? You’ll try to resist the river’s mojo, but it will win, over and over and over, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you or save you. The drowned forest won’t ever let us go.

Tyler touches my arm and says, “Come on, Jane. Let’s look around.”

I nod, pushing the thought out of my head. We search your house, eyes sweeping past the same photos that have hung on the walls for years, and, by the sink, the same blue-striped glasses I’ve sipped from a thousand times. It hurts to see this house ruined. The sight makes my jaw tighten and my stomach hurt. The wainscoting is warped and split, and stains darken the drywall. Last night, I didn’t notice that the glass face of your me-maw’s curio cabinet has been smashed in anger or confusion. Each of the ceramic figures from inside lies smashed to pieces against the far wall.

In your bedroom, the clay bodies—hollow as cicada skins, worthless as memories—hide their faces from the corruption they brought here. The beautiful sea-foam green paint peels from your walls. I remember helping you pick that color out. It looked so good in the morning sunlight. But everything here is rotten now. Everything is crumbling.

Except the guitar.

One of the bodies still clutches the Dreadnought’s neck. Breaking the fingers—they crumble away in mine—I take the guitar. The strings have rusted and snapped, and mud streaks its base, but the neck and body seem intact.

“Tyler, look. Holly carried this up from the bottom of the lake, but it’s not warped or rotten or anything.”

“Huh. Maybe the lacquer protected it.”

“Lacquer? Look around. Everything Holly touches rots. Lacquer couldn’t save it. It’s got mojo, Tyler. Enough mojo to survive the drowned forest.”

He crouches down and traces a finger across the abalone stars inlaid down the fretboard. “Okay, so how does it help us? How does it help Holly?”

I shake my head. “Don’t know.”

“Well, let’s take it and get out of here.” He stands up.

The sun is starting to set. Carrying the guitar, we head back to the truck and drive to Stratofortress’s house.

Ultimate has returned from Britney’s, and the band is sitting together in the living room. They look wrung out and hung out, eyes red from crying, pot, or both. Max asks, “Whatcha got, Jane?”

I hand the guitar over. “Check it out. It’s an antique, I think.”

“Yeah, this is one of the classic Dreadnoughts. See the inlays along here, little stars? And, see, it has the old-style logo.” He traces the faded gold script behind the headstock,
C. F. Martin & Co. Dreadnought
. “This the guitar from the house?”

“Yeah.”

“What?” LeighAnn snaps around. “You went back? Why?”

“I think this guitar is important. I’m just not sure how. But do you think you could make it play again?”

Max turns it over, gently testing the joints. “As long as the soundboard isn’t broken or warped, it should play fine. Otherwise, it’s a fancy piece of junk.”

He swabs dry mud out of the machine heads and re-strings it. Then everybody holds their breath as he balances the guitar on his thigh. Hands scabbed from meeting you last night, he dips Band-Aided fingers into the gray blur of strings, plucking out the intro to “Folsom Prison Blues.”

A bird flutters in my chest. The guitar is scratched and dirty, but its voice is strong. The soundboard is full of rich harmonics. Stratofortress sings together. Shaking off the horror of last night, they come alive again, full of blood and noise.

I stand apart, but touch Tyler’s elbow. “You never told them Mr. Alton won that guitar from Johnny Cash, did you?”

“Naw.” Tyler laughs. “You know what a champion liar he was. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I didn’t. But then, how come the first song Max plays is a Johnny Cash song?”

“Well … wow. But how?”

“Part of its mojo.” I shrug.

After Stratofortress finishes their sing-along, Tyler takes the guitar and plays a few tunes. I sit and listen, trying to figure out what the guitar means, and if we can use it to save you.

Thuck.

Something hits the window. Hobbit and Cookie howl their heads off. I look out but can’t see past my own reflection in the darkening glass. Tyler stops playing and asks, “What was that?”

Thuck.
The swallow leaves a star-shaped crack in the glass.

Cupping my hands to the window, I see the broken little bird splayed in the dirt. Another swoops up through the air, swallowed by the night. And there you are, a shadow among the scraps of light filling the alley. On our side of the fence, the dogs bark and snarl.

“Guys, she’s here!” I yell. “Holly’s here! Guys!”

“How?” Tyler asks.

“The swallows. She sent the swallows to find us.
They’re all over the backyard.”

“Oh God, what about Hobbit and Cookie?” LeighAnn rushes past me, heading for the back door.

“Wait! LeighAnn, wait.” Max bolts after her, grabbing the handle of the sliding glass door and not letting her out.

“Let go!” She punches him. Hard. Max doesn’t move, just keeps yelling, “Wait a second!”

Animal yelps pierce their argument. Shoving Max aside, LeighAnn jerks open the door. The fence is rusted through, and the stamped-down dirt sprouts little flowers wherever you step, Holly. Cookie tries to bite you, and we watch you slap him. He paws at the tendrils spilling from his muzzle and won’t stop crying.

LeighAnn screams. Hobbit crawls away with his tail folded against his belly. But you don’t care about them, do you?

“Tyler? I heard you playing. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Tyler hisses to me, “I have some more chalk and lime in my truck. Keep her busy.”

“How?” But he’s already gone.

“I think something happened to Pa-paw. I think … ”

You turn. I follow your gaze to see LeighAnn creeping along the side of the house toward Hobbit.

“Holly!” I jump off the patio, rushing to the center of the backyard. “It’s me. I’m here.”

You look back toward me. One eye is a smooth blue-gray stone. The other’s an empty hole. “Jane? Why do you keep hiding from me?”

“I know. I’m sorry.” In my peripheral vision, I see LeighAnn grab Hobbit and run to Max. “But … but … ”

Tyler rushes up and starts pouring the powder. The wind catches it, carrying it off in a long white veil before it hits the dirt.

Your voice is a muddy sob. “I need help, Jane. Stop playing stupid games!”

We stumble back from your open arms. Ultimate jerks me back. He has his cymbal stand in his other hand, its three steel legs slashing forward.

“Jane. Please. I’m sor—”

Ultimate knocks you down, pins you on your back. One of the stand’s legs cuts deep into your throat, and your words are rough and breathy, “Jane, d … don’t go.”

“Go! I got this.” Ultimate grabs the chalk and lime from Tyler. “Get Jane out of here.”

Tyler takes my wrist. I cry, “Holly, I’m sor—”

“Get her out of here!”

Tyler is pulling now. Despite everything, it still hurts to
turn my back on you. I manage, and we run back into the
house. Max and LeighAnn are ahead of us; LeighAnn carries Hobbit.

Tyler says, “We have to bail. Get in the van. Max, the keys! The keys!”

“I know!” Max yells back.

Tyler pulls me toward the front door, but I resist. “No. The Dreadnought.”

“Screw the Dreadnought! We have to—”

I tear loose and rush back, grabbing the old black guitar from the floor. It’s the one clue we have.

“Jane! We have to go!”

Out the front door and into the van. LeighAnn is half out of it. She won’t let go of Hobbit. Pressing her face against his fur, she moans, “Cookie. Oh, God, Cookie.” Ultimate comes jogging around the side of the house with most of the cymbal stand, two of its three legs rusted away. As Max starts the engine and snaps on the headlights, there’s a rush of wings—dozens of swallows scattering from the light. They land in high tree branches and the eaves of the roof, shrieking at us as Ultimate jumps into the van and we pull away.