“Don’t you even say thanks?” fumed Billy. “I saved your life, for Pete’s sake.”
Sadly, she swung her face toward him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thanks,” she whispered, then turned away again.
For a long moment, Billy looked at her. Then, with a disgusted grunt, he rose to his feet. He stepped over to the chain saw, started to bend down to retrieve it, then caught himself. He straightened, glancing again at the mournful girl seated at the edge of the grove. A frown crossed his face and he said something under his breath. Then he turned and walked off sullenly into the forest.
A few moments later, a diminutive figure stole quietly out of the trees to Kate’s side. Feeling herself suddenly embraced, she faced the person kneeling next to her. Blinking to see more clearly, she found herself looking straight into a pair of warm, ebony-colored eyes.
“Aunt Melanie,” she said weakly. “It’s you.”
“It’s me, dear,” answered the white-haired woman, hugging her. At last she drew back, her shell earrings clinking softly as she moved. “I’m so glad you’re all right. The walking stick kept you safe, didn’t it?”
Kate could only nod.
The dark eyes studied her knowingly. “I wish I could have been with you.”
“You were,” answered Kate. Then she blurted, “The Ancient One. Billy—”
“I know, I know.” She brushed a hand through her white curls. “But he’s stopped now. Frank and I saw him heading for his truck as we were coming back here to try to find you.”
“How—how could he?” Tears again filled her eyes.
Aunt Melanie looked to the ground. As she started to speak, she noticed Kate’s swollen knee. “Your leg!” she exclaimed. “We should get you to the doctor.”
“It hurts,” sobbed Kate. “It hurts so much.”
Aunt Melanie nodded, knowing full well that Kate did not mean the pain in her leg.
Just then a pair of heavy leather boots crunched toward them on the needles. A gaunt-looking man bent down to them. “Is she hurt?”
“Her knee, Frank.”
“Let’s take her back to town. Doc Harris can put anything back together.”
Aunt Melanie glanced toward the fallen redwood. “Almost anything,” she whispered.
afterword
FOR Kate, the next year flew past with the speed of a fast pitch. Her knee healed rapidly, and the Bulldogs’ first-string shortstop was soon back on the field. But in contrast to prior years, softball was not Kate’s sole diversion from classes. The school play, the Language Club, and the Time Travel Book Club (which she co-founded) also required lots of attention. She barely had any time to toss sticks with Cumberland in the yard, or even to write an occasional letter to Aunt Melanie.
Not that she didn’t often wonder about Lost Crater, about Laioni and Kandeldandel, about the new park Aunt Melanie’s letters described, about Jody and Frank and Billy. Sometimes, too, she woke up in the middle of the night, frightened by a dream about a giant tree crashing down on top of her. Yet just as often, she was overwhelmed with a craving for fresh huckleberry pie and spice tea. So it was with genuine enthusiasm that she accepted Aunt Melanie’s invitation to visit her again during June. She did not need her parents’ encouragement to say yes, as she had last year. This time, however, she packed her waterproof boots.
Once she arrived, she felt almost as if she had never left. The days were filled with fresh oatmeal cookies on top of homemade pie, the moist fragrance of spruce trees outside the cottage, the familiar musty smell within, the feeling of snuggling inside a soft quilt before the fire, laughter at Aunt Melanie’s mischievous jokes, and of course the occasional peppermint candy. One evening Frank and Jody came by for supper, and Frank was coaxed to play his harmonica late into the night. After they left, Aunt Melanie read a poem that Jody had written about the pain of losing loved ones, a poem that Kate felt she could have written herself.
Kate and her great-aunt took walks together. They played Pooh Sticks on the bridge. They ate and ate, and ate some more. They talked freely, about the town’s changes, about cooking with local herbs, about times good and bad.
And they talked about Kate’s adventure. About Laioni, about Kandeldandel, about Gashra. The Touchstone. Fanona, whose voice Kate could still hear in her memory. The floating island of Ho Shantero. The Chieftain and Chieftess. Parching seeds the Halami way. The Stick of Fire. The Dark Valley. Sanbu. Monga. Nyla and her six Stonehag sisters. Whether Tinnanis still inhabited Lost Crater. The Slimnis. Arc. Thika. The Ancient One. And so much more. Although Aunt Melanie listened closely to each of Kate’s descriptions, she seemed to pay special attention to any details regarding Laioni.
“You would have liked her,” said Kate before slurping noisily from her mug of hot chocolate.
The white-haired woman smiled mysteriously. “I’m sure.”
“I couldn’t believe how much she was like you.”
“We’re all cut from the same cloth, you know,” said Aunt Melanie. “Makes no difference whether we were born five years ago or five hundred years ago, whether we live on this side of the ocean or another.” She scrutinized Kate thoughtfully. “I imagine the same thing even holds true for tree spirits.”
Suddenly Aunt Melanie tossed aside her quilt, rudely awakening Atha, who was curled up by her side. “That reminds me. I almost forgot. There’s something you left behind last time you visited.”
She darted out of the living room, trailed by Atha padding softly behind her. Soon the sound of boxes and furniture being slid around, plus a few angry grumbles, filled the cottage. Finally she returned, bearing two dilapidated sneakers, ragged and torn. One of them sported luminous green laces, while the other’s laces were burned as black as charcoal.
“My sneakers!” exclaimed Kate. “I thought I’d lost them. I can’t believe you kept them for a whole year.”
“Just thought you might like to see them again.” She added with a grin, “Though for the life of me I’ll never understand how you could have let those nice green shoelaces get ruined.”
“It’s amazing, really. That the thing that brought me to my senses when Gashra was doing his best to trick me—was those stupid laces.”
The elder nodded. “Now that’s an impressive connection across time and space. Your grandfather would have loved to hear about it.”
Kate laughed out loud. “That’s for sure.”
“By the way, how did your hand heal?”
“Just fine, except for this little scar.”
Aunt Melanie took a peppermint from the abalone shell, popped it into her mouth, and offered one to her guest. “Here. Have one for the road.”
“The road? Are we going someplace?”
She crunched down on the peppermint, then swallowed. “Yes, dear. We’re going up to Lost Crater.”
“Really? Is there still time today?”
“Just enough. The road’s been paved. Of course, if you’d rather use the old ladder again, we could wait until tomorrow and go in that way.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Let’s take the road.”
Aunt Melanie smiled. “Somehow, that’s what I thought you’d say. Let’s go, then. There’s something in the redwood grove I want you to see. A surprise.” She gave Kate’s hand a squeeze. “And don’t worry. This time I’ll remember to bring matches.”
SOON Kate found herself walking with Aunt Melanie along a newly completed trail that started at the hole blasted one year ago in the wall of the crater, descended over the rocky slope and through the swamp, then wound its way deep into the Hidden Forest. Not so hidden anymore, Kate reflected, thinking of the large asphalt parking lot where Trusty sat next to a dozen other cars. Presently they came to a large painted sign saying:
Welcome to Cronon’s Crater Park, containing the northernmost stand of ancient redwood trees in existence. Please remain on the trail. Exploration of other parts of the crater is strictly prohibited until scientific studies are completed.
As they moved d
own the trail, Kate drank in the rich aromas, abundant sounds, and lush green growth of this forest. Mist curled through the branches above; needles padded the ground below. With every step deeper into the virgin woods, she felt embraced by the vibrant array of life around her. Embraced, it almost seemed, by friends. Yet she also felt queasy, even a little bit frightened, to confront the sawed-off tombstone of the great redwood.
At one point she heard a soft laughter beside her and turned to Aunt Melanie. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh,” she replied, “I was just thinking about that silly Chieftain. Imagine thinking peppermints are such a great delicacy.”
“I knew you’d get a kick out of that.”
Aunt Melanie nodded. “Almost as much of a kick as I get from owning a pack with a genuine arrow hole in it.” She swiveled slightly to reveal the prominent stitches in the material of the blue day pack. “Awfully glad it wasn’t you instead.”
“So am I,” Kate replied.
Abruptly Kate halted. She stood again at the edge of the clearing, facing the towering grove of redwood trees. Upward they climbed, like columns supporting the dome of the sky. A rush of reverence filled her, along with a whisper of peace she had not felt for a year. And something more, something strange, almost like a sense of gratitude lingering among the boughs.
Then, in the center of the grove, she saw the stump. The rest of the massive tree had been removed, so that its remains jutted out of the ground with unnatural severity. As Kate moved closer, she saw several small signs affixed to the stump. One of them, positioned to face the trail, read: Height: 363 feet. Circumference: 27 feet. Weight: 513 tons. Age: 1,423 years. On the face of the stump, signs marked particular tree rings on the cambium or heartwood. Said one: Charlemagne crowned Emperor, 800 A.D. Said another: Norman conquest of England, 1066 A.D. Then, moving outward toward the bark: Eruption of Brimstone Peak, 1452 A.D.; Fire scar, 1583 A.D; Declaration of Independence signed, 1776 A.D.; Severe fire scar, 1810 A.D.; Earthquake damage, 1847 A.D. Last of all, at the outer edge of the trunk, was this sign: Felled by loggers, 1992 A.D.
Turning to face Aunt Melanie, Kate asked, “Is this what you meant by a surprise? These signs?”
The white head moved slowly from side to side. “Look again.”
Scrutinizing the stump once more, Kate noted the intricately drawn rings, some so close together they could barely be distinguished. She scanned the thick band of ridged bark encircling the wood, the burly roots at the base. Yet she could not find anything that could have prompted Aunt Melanie’s interest.
Suddenly she noticed something else. At the far edge of the stump, lifting its tiny head skyward, sprouted a single young seedling. It stood barely a foot tall, yet its branches were lined with new-growth needles, no less green than a pair of shoelaces she had once worn.
She glanced at Aunt Melanie, who smiled at her gently. Then she stepped over to the seedling and bent lower to touch it. Running her finger down its length, all the way to the delicate, hairlike roots, she could feel both sturdiness and suppleness in its fibers. The young redwood held itself with unmistakable dignity, seemingly aware of what had stood before on the same spot.
As she straightened up, Kate caught sight of a small, rust-colored owl resting on the lowest branch of a neighboring tree. He studied her with wide brown eyes above flowing whisker-feathers, looking for all the world like a great-great-great grandson of Arc. The owl fluttered his wings slightly.
Then, from another direction, Kate heard the sound of an owl hooting deeply, richly. It hung eerily in the air, like the call of a distant flute.
T. A. Barron, The Ancient One
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