Young Writers Society

Whisper didn’t get back to sleep that night; she was too bewildered and even a little scared. Finally she got up around six, hung the key about her neck, and went downstairs.

Her father was in the living room with a mug of steaming cider on the coffee table and a big book of poetry he’d found in the library. He raised his eyebrows upon seeing Whisper up and dressed at six in the morning.

“I think you’ve lost track of the week, Whisp. School doesn’t start until tomorrow.”

“Oh ha ha,” Whisper replied blithely. “Is the kettle still hot?”

“It should be. Seriously, Whisper, why are you up so early?”

She didn’t want to tell him—not yet, not until she’d made sense of it in her own mind. “I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to explore the grounds today. Want to come?”

Mr. Spring grinned. “You bet! D’you think we’ll get hopelessly lost?”

“No. Tori had a couple of really big balls of twine. We could tie the end to a fence or the peach tree and just unroll it while we walk.” Mr. Spring had used the bar in the corner of the living room, so Whisper hadn’t had to go into the kitchen for her cider. “Should we get Mom to come?”

Mr. Spring thought about it, chewing his cheek thoughtfully as he stared off into the distance. “No, I don’t think she’d like us straying from the path. We’ll just leave a note saying we’ll be back around noon.”

“That doesn’t give us much time!” Whisper yelped, abandoning her cider and racing to the stairs. “I’ll go get the twine!” She rushed into the basement, which was packed with forgotten memorabilia and the junk of ages. All of Tori’s things were at the surface of the mess, so it only took her a moment to grab the two balls of red cord. She had just put her foot on the bottom step when she heard it—a great, drawn out sigh, rasping slightly and ending with a rattle.

Shivers ran down Whisper’s spine as she automatically held her breath, straining her ears to see if she could hear anything else. Had it just been her imagination? Heart pounding, she told herself firmly that all old houses made odd noises. Turning her back on the dark basement, Whisper escaped up the stairs to the safety of her father’s presence.

They made it out the door a mere fifteen minutes later with water bottles and granola bars in Whisper’s school bag, and of course the string. Whisper was simply in her evening blue sweater, jeans, and walking shoes, her father in a jacket and hiking boots. They tied the twine to the peach tree, which stood just a little ways from the edge of the yard, picked a direction, and began walking.

There was something totally incredible about the redwood forest. Magic hung thick in the still, silent air, heavy with moisture and the scent of wood. Whisper felt an odd sense of anticipation tight inside her chest. What’s going to happen now? she wondered.

Mr. Spring and Whisper traveled together in amiable silence, speaking only to point out something they wanted the other to see. Whisper couldn’t resist climbing all over the trunks of fallen tress, either, so Mr. Spring took the string from her. “You’ll get it all tangled,” he chuckled.

She came back down to him, wading through the sea of ferns and those odd plants that carpeted the ground—the ones with the heart-shaped leaves which were vivid pink when turned over. “This sure beats being a tourist!” she said. “We’d actually have to follow a path if we were in the park.”

“Only someone like you would find that boring, Whisper,” her father replied, rolling his eyes.

About twenty minutes later, Whisper caught her father’s arm. “I hear a river!” She veered off to the left, pulling him with her. Soon Mr. Spring could hear it too. They trudged on with gusto, Whisper occasionally racing ahead so she could examine something that caught her interest. “Here’s the river!” she yelled when she suddenly came to a break in the trees, through which she could see burbling water.

Mr. Spring jogged to catch up with his daughter. “Oh wow,” he said when he stopped next to her. “It looks man made.”

It did, rather, like a canal that had been carved from a vein of stone. There was no mud flowing within the crystal clear water, either. It did not run straight, but the stone sides of the river always seemed to be perfectly parallel. And yet….

“It’s completely—“ Whisper began, then stopped herself. “It’s not man made,” she finished lamely, because the words that had sprung to her mind made no rational sense. It’s completely carved of Old Magic.

Mr. Spring raised an eyebrow. “Well, I dunno. Hard to believe something so flawless could be the work of nature. But still, this is an odd place.”

It isn’t the work of nature, Whisper thought with queer certainty. Just not the work of man, either. She examined the scene closely, her eyes sliding past the river. It was very beautiful, with the remnants of morning mist slowly dispersing and dappled shafts of butter-yellow light dancing on the water and bobbing ferns. The yellow light was a relief, brightening the overpowering richness of the green. A soft sea breeze whispered through the foliage, and a great, mossy, sprawling maple stirred. It was trees like that maple that broke up the monotony of the poker-straight redwood giants. The maple lacked any real trunk and had broad branches jutting out in all directions like a haphazard web. Then—Whisper was beginning to grow accustomed to strange sounds and voices—she heard a call inside her head. Do you see me? it asked. Whisper swung round, staring hard into the bushes behind her. She did see, just for a moment. There was a pair of huge, tawny gold eyes staring at her from over the top of a blackberry bush. For a moment they seemed disembodied; then, slowly, Whisper realized they belonged to a strangely wild face with skin the same deep blued green of the surrounding forest.

“Whisper? Is something wrong?”

Her father’ voice made her blink, and then the face was gone. “N-no,” she said in a distracted voice, searching for something to say. “Are those blackberries?”

Mr. Spring came over to examine the bush and whooped triumphantly. “They are! Whisp, have you got anything to put them in? We could pick a bunch and take them back to your mum.”

“I think I had a plastic bag to put the granola wrappers in.” She shrugged off her backpack and unzipped the main pocket. “Here we go.” She shook out the grocery sack. “Now it’s just a pity we don’t have those gloves Mom uses for tending to the roses.”

It was prickly work all right. The bushes were coated in sharp thorns and all the best berries were in the hard to reach center. Whisper and Mr. Spring dove in determinedly, driven by a vague image of blackberry cheesecake. “We might as well have tried to catch a bunch of feral cats,” Whisper laughed as she washed her stained, stinging hands in the cold river. Mr. Spring held up a half-full bag.

“It was worth it, I think,” he answered, smacking his lips with a purpled tongue. “Come on, we’ve only an hour to get back.” He turned to where he’d set down the string—but there was nothing there.

“That’s odd,” Mr. Spring said, searching the ferns for the ball. “Even if it rolled off it should have left us a trail to follow….”

Unease prickled in Whisper’s stomach. “It can’t have gone far,” she muttered half-heartedly, going onto her hands and knees and joining him in the search. “There wasn’t even all that much left to the ball…but I can’t find even a hint of red string….”

Whisper stood up then, staring suspiciously into the trees. Mr. Spring threw his hands up in exasperation. “We’ll never make it back quickly without that string! Gad, this place is strange. I think we came through here, Whisper. We might as well start walking.”

“No. Follow me.” Whisper took off down the side of the river, her father coming along behind her with that bemused expression on his face.

Whisper didn’t know how, but she knew exactly where to go. The river bent suddenly to the right but she held her path, and soon they were back in the trees. They came all at once to a massive boulder and when Whisper swung round it there was an old path, with bits of broken paving stones. “Whoa,” she said, stopping abruptly. “I wonder how long this has been forgotten. It must have been beautiful when it was new.”

Mr. Spring stepped out onto it as well. “An old stone path! Pity it isn’t yellow brick. Well, all the same, it has to lead somewhere.”

“Not where we want to go,” Whisper replied confidently. She left it and continued through the forest, her dad right behind. He was shaking his head as though he knew it would do him no good to try arguing with his daughter.

-

Whisper got herself and her father back right on schedule. She seemed to have been making a beeline towards the house, or as much so as was possible; Mr. Spring said jokingly that perhaps she was a witch. Mrs. Spring said it wasn’t funny.

Whisper wasn’t paying any attention to her parents. She was sitting on the window seat, an elbow propped against her knee and her chin in her hand, her eyes glazed over as though she were in another world entirely. She didn’t blink or twitch and her eyes never moved. As if Whisper had been turned to stone…after a while her parents noticed and stood watching in silence.

“Whisper?” Mr. Spring finally asked. She didn’t stir a muscle; indeed, she seemed to not even be breathing.

“I haven’t seen her do this since we moved to the city,” Mrs. Spring said nervously, waving a hand in front of Whisper’s face.

“Don’t worry about it, Anne,” Mr. Spring replied easily. “Let her daydream. Things aren’t going to be the way they were…before. Whisper is a brave girl, after all.” He spoke as though Whisper wasn’t there. She might as well have not been. Mrs. Spring sighed anxiously before shaking off her persistent dark mood with a smile.

“Let’s see about that cheesecake, then. I can’t believe you picked so many blackberries without any protective gear!” She glanced back at her daughter—and then she saw the bronze key dangling from Whisper’s neck.

Anne Spring’s face went deathly pale. “Anne?” Mr. Spring asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“That key,” she breathed. “Whisper? Whisper?”

Finally, Whisper seemed to notice someone was saying her name. She blinked, then turned to look at her mother. “What?”

Mrs. Spring was trembling, twisting her hands together. “That key was Tori’s…sh-she was wearing it the day she disappeared…how did you get it?”

Whisper’s mouth had fallen open. She was an honest child and the thought of lying was as painful as the thought of trying to explain her dream of the previous night. “I don’t know how!” she finally said blankly and honestly. “I woke up this morning and it was just sitting in my hand!”

“That’s impossible!” Mrs. Spring looked lost. “Tori told me…right before she left, she told me she was wearing all of her keys. It looked so ridiculous with so many layers of chains and old keys around her neck…”

“She must have forgotten this one, then,” Mr. Spring interjected gently. “It’s okay, Anne. Calm down.”

A couple of tears escaped Mrs. Spring’s eyes, but she laughed at herself. “Of course, that’s the obvious answer…I’m sorry….”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can take it off if you want.” Whisper bit her lip, more confused than ever.

“No, it’s fine. I’m being ridiculous. It was just a shock….”

Mr. Spring embraced his wife. “Whisper, shoo,” he mouthed at his daughter, who grinned nervously and fled the room, happy to go back outside. She needed time to think, anyway. Aunt Tori had been wearing this key when she disappeared? Come to think of it, the white dress she’d been wearing in Whisper’s dream hadn’t been found when Whisper had gone through Tori’s old things. Could Whisper have been the last to see her aunt alive?

But that doesn’t make any sense, Whisper! she told herself sternly. Aunt Tori was dead before you were born!

Frustrated, Whisper sat down on the porch steps, resting her chin in her hands and letting out a great huff of annoyance. “How can this place drive me nuts when I love it so much?” she asked aloud. “Voices, dreams, footsteps—and there’s got to be more going on than just a ghost!” But even stranger than the things she’d heard and seen was how familiar everything was. Whisper knew this house and the surrounding land by heart and yet she could not remember it.

Finally, Whisper went back inside. Her head was beginning to ache and her stomach was growling, and last night’s lack of sleep was starting to catch up with her. Whisper lingered in the parlor for a moment, afraid of facing her upset mother, then took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs. Spring seemed to be quite cheerful, actually. Whisper’s father was sitting at the breakfast table, working on paper and bills. Whisper smiled at him and he grinned back, apparently understanding how grateful she was. Mrs. Spring noticed Whisper and went to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her quickly. “Sorry for scaring you, Love,” she said in a deep voice, the voice she used to use when Whisper was little and had woken up from a bad nightmare.

Whisper smiled warmly, her eyes looking very soft and mature for a moment. “You didn’t scare me, Mama. I’m happy you’re feeling better.” She rested her head against the crook of her mother’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away. Mrs. Spring smiled at her.

“You’ve gotten so tall, Whisper. It’s hard to believe you’re fourteen already. You’re still so energetic, too….”

“Yup!” Whisper replied victoriously. “And I shall do everything in my power to remain so. Which reminds me, I have to go finish fixing up my room. We’re still having seafood tonight, yeah?”

“Of course! And I’ll make up the pie to go with it. We’ll have you stuffed by the time you make it to school tomorrow. Besides, you can use a little more meat on your bones,” she added, a critical eye on Whisper’s skinny arms. “You’re growing to fast to keep on any padding. By next year you’ll be as tall as me, I bet.”

“That would be weird.” Whisper rummaged around a cupboard and pulled out some crackers. “I’m just going to go up and finish putting away the last of Aunt Tori’s old things. Call me down when you need me.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Spring watched as Whisper strolled out into the living room, munching on the crackers. “She’s a hard worker, isn’t she?”

Mr. Spring nodded. “Very. It’s a good thing, too, or else she’d still be climbing every tree she sees. Of course that doesn’t mean she didn’t try while we were going through the forest!”

This made Mrs. Spring frown again—not an upset frown, but a thoughtful one. “I wonder how she was able to find her way back. She wasn’t allowed to wander around when you came here with her before, was she?”

“Well, we tried not to let her but she still got into the forest somehow. Still, that doesn’t account for such knowledge. Whisper doesn’t remember anything about when she was that young, after all. Perhaps she just has a great sense of direction.”

“I’ll bet your right.” Mrs. Spring looked relieved. “Of course it would be nothing more than that.” She settled into the comfort of such normal things and continued working.

-

That night, after a massive dinner of seafood, Whisper went out into the backyard. There was a shed tucked away in the corner of the yard with lots of old, seasoned firewood. Her father had checked the flue in her fireplace and confirmed it was useable, and now she was eager to have her own fire going while she worked on memorizing the symbols Tori had used for writing. Whisper breathed in the air, touched with the faintest tang of sea salt, and bounced down off the back porch.

Then she stopped dead. Something red had caught her eye—something that was sitting just feet away from the stair of the porch. Curious, she bent over to pick it up, and suddenly felt as though something strange were floating around in her stomach.

It was the missing red twine from their walk, and it had been rolled back into a perfect ball.