"I wanted to mend the fence today."
"You can mend it tomorrow." Peter dropped down from the wagon to remove a branch from the trail. He tossed it aside and squinted at the horizon, slapping the dirt from his palms. "A storm's rolling in," he said. "We ought to turn around if we don't find it in the next hour or so."
Lena sighed from her roost at the reins. "It'd be just our luck if someone already got to it."
Something caught his eye. "Nah, the flats go for miles," he replied, crouching. "We'd have seen them longsince."
"What are you doing?"
Peter returned, hands cupped. "Look, a sparrow."
Lena leaned forward, nose crinkled, and the motion freed the hair from behind her ear. "It looks dead," she mused. "Put it back."
"It's breathing."
"Aye, that's nice. Put it back."
He deigned no reply, eyes low on the trap step. "There are snakes in the grass," he said, reclaiming his place at her left. "I don't want it to become someone's dinner."
"Everything needs to eat, brother."
"I know that."
She started them off again. The horses snorted in protest, clouding up the crisp autumn air. "They call men like you a glutton for punishment."
"How do you figure?"
"Seems kind of pointless, don't it? Getting attached to some doomed little critter."
The wind picked up, an indication of weather to come, but they carried on regardless. Clouds wheeled in with the late afternoon, dragging shadows across the plains. Peter had always been fond of the rough country, of the open space and the solitude.
Lena was different. She thrived in the towns, where the people were many, and found it effortless to blend in with the flurry of shops and shipyards. The farther they roamed from town, the greater her anxiety became.
"Is that a forest?"
Peter glanced, driven from his thoughts. "What?"
She stood and pointed with the reins, steadying herself on the hood of the wagon. "There."
"No." Black— it was the first word that came to mind. "Can't be."
"We've never gone out this far. I'm heading us in."
Peter had to catch himself on the rib frame when she sat and turned them off the trail. "Mind the burrows," he grumbled. "We'll be out here all day if you snap another wheel."
The jostling ride smoothed out some as the grass became sparse and the prairie setts became easier to avoid. Peter watched the black region expand before them, struck by a sudden sense of unease. The land was predominantly flat, relieved here and there by dead, crooked trees. The air was rich with a fierce combination of charred wood and earth.
A forest, she'd called it. And it might have been, in another life. But it was less a place of growth than it was a place of death. The sparrow twitched in Peter's hand.
Well into the dark, desolate world, they pulled up alongside a massive skull. Its lower half was swallowed by soot, as if it were surfacing just to eavesdrop. They stared at it for a few long seconds before Peter debarked for a closer inspection. He left the bird behind and hunkered down, brushing dust from an admirable brow. The thing was monstrous.
"It's not human," he called back. "Just look at the size of these eye sockets."
Above, Lena asked, "A howling?"
"I don't think so."
"Then what?"
"Beats me," he said. "Something big." Peter raked at the soil between his feet. It streamed loosely between his fingers. "I can't imagine anything growing here."
"Peter." Lena had risen, gaze drawn elsewhere. "Peter, look— near the lake."
A thread of smoke was running into the sky. "It's close," he said. "Walking distance."
She fumbled to gather her things. "We're going to make a fortune."
"Don't get carried away," Peter said, returning to his feet. "It'll see us through the off-season, but we're far from wealthy. Watch your step."
She took his hand and lithely hopped down. "Thanks."
Thunder rolled in the distance— a groan of the gods. "We always could keep it for ourselves," he pointed out. "There are four of us, after all. It'd be nice to know where dad is sometimes."
"We need the money, Peter." She hooked an arm through his as they walked, holding him firm to fight off the cold. She studied the side of his face until he looked at her square. "Are you still angry about what happened yesterday?"
"No."
"I've never seen you yell at her like that."
It had been a gutless quarrel, triggered by gutless actions. "I'll apologize when she gets back," he said, unenthused and partly begrudging. "A week or two apart'll do us good."
"She didn't mean anything by it," Lena murmured. "She worries, is all. You know."
"Worry, enough. If mom were half as devoted to the farm as she was to my love life, we wouldn't have to wander around looking for fallen stars like this."
"For what it's worth, I didn't like the Hollyhock girl to begin with."
"Aye, you made that abundantly clear when you lopped off her hair with the garden shears."
"She shouldn't have been standing so close to me while I was trimming the brambles."
They unexpectedly arrived at the landing sight, cutting their stroll and the argument short. Rather stupidly, Peter said, "Oh."
It was one of the dead, crooked trees all about, but this one was largely unharmed by fire, leafless and thick-bellied, gnarled and whorlish, no taller, perhaps, than an upright bear. All about its base there grew sinister fungus, frozen mid-grope like dead men's fingers. A crow cried out at its twisted summit.
It was a pedestal for their prize. The purpose for their midday exploit had lodged itself right at the top of the tree, reflecting what glimmer remained of the sun whilst burning with its own inner light. The mangled ground was strewn with splinters: an upshot of the collision.
Lena was the first to speak. "Can you reach it?"
"Too high."
"That's a first."
"You'll have to get on my shoulders."
She was rootling through her pockets when he came up beside her. "Damn gloves," she seethed to herself. "I'll spit nails if I've forgotten them."
"They're tucked in your waistband."
"Oh, aye." She wormed her fingers into the stiff leather, flexing them as she surveyed their lucky catch from below. "We'll get at least two shells out of it," she said. "Three, if we're lucky."
Peter dropped to a knee at her gestured instruction. "How long?"
"Hard to say. I've only done this once before."
He winced when she employed his head for balance. "It'd be nice if we could get it on the market next week," he said. "We have dues."
"Can't rush perfection."
Peter rose at a wobble. "All steady up there?"
She irritably felt all about for a handhold. "Get me closer."
"Go at it from the right."
Lena batted at the bird. "Shoo, crow," she hissed. "The rock's spoken for."
It hopped to avoid her, screeching.
"Shoo, I said."
Peter watched it take to the air. "Glad we're not a superstitious bunch."
"Superstitions are for vagrants and simpletons." She made a sharp sound when bark scraped along her forearm. "Curse all," she said. "The thing's wedged in."
"Want to switch?"
She twisted at the scalding star until it shifted. "Aye, there's an idea," she said. "I'll just hoist you up on my brawny shoulders, hardy buck that I am. Fork over your knife."
Peter felt for the hilt. "You're in a mood."
"I'm sitting on my brother and there's steam in my eyes. You'd be in a mood, too." Lena took the blade from him and drove it between the rock and the wood. The tree creaked as she hauled every which way on it. "Dirty rotten pain in my— "
The star abruptly hissed free of the cavity.
They spat the same vulgar oath at once. Peter lurched to avoid a nasty burn, through branded soil, vying for balance, and Lena skated down his back to retrieve the fallen knife. She blew shavings from it and asked, "Have we got shovels in the wagon?"
"Aye," he answered, working a kink out of his shoulder. "Two, I think."
She sniggered at the sight of him. "Your hair's all wild."
"You were using me for a saddle horn."
Her affectionate gaze suddenly darted to something behind him, and Peter turned, sensing another irrepressible chill. It took just a moment to identify the subject of her distraction.
Sunlight had settled into the cracks of the thick-bellied, whorlish tree, just enough to illuminate a murky hollow at its core. It was there, kicking off the spark of life— a glimpse of tawny flesh.
Lena seized his arm. "You see it, too, don't you?"
"Don't grab at me."
"Do you think it can hear us?"
"If it could hear us, it would've woken when we were cursing in its ear." Peter shook her off and took a step closer. "Get the shovels."
"Go get them yourself."
"I'm older than you."
"Aye, by a minute."
"A minute's a minute."
"But what if it attacks us?"
"Then we'll have two shovels."
She scowled and returned the knife. "Fine."
The crow circled overhead. Peter glanced up at it as her footsteps grew faint, gauging the speed of the racing clouds. He then stepped forward, over the steaming lump of star, and forced his knife into the crack of the tree, intending to wrest it further apart.
A wealth of insects instantly flooded out. Peter recoiled in startled revulsion, forsaking his knife to stomp in a frenzied dance of annihilation. The tree was engulfed in moments, alive with movement.
As requested, Lena returned promptly. "Gross," she said. "What'd you do?"
Peter furiously shook out his coat, embarrassed. "Nothing."
"Check for ticks. Those heads bury fast."
"Give me a shovel."
He must have said or done something wrong, or maybe his expression was off, because Lena was suddenly very serious. She threw the shovels down. "Let's leave it alone, Peter."
"I think it's a person."
"I do, too."
He met her eyes, the same blue as his. "You'd leave someone out here?"
She didn't answer, but the last thing he needed was a dose of practicality, especially seeing as he was facing down what amounted to a swarming pillar of insects, so, before he could think better of it, he picked up a shovel, took a breath, and hacked the fissured wood apart. When he deemed the biting edge deep enough, he quickly ducked beneath the shaft and heaved at it from the other side, arms straining, shoulders aching. The useless earth sucked at his heels.
Lena shouted his name just as the shovel snapped in two. Peter staggered, but didn't go down. He dissuaded her worried advances. "I'm fine."
She slowed. "The shovel broke."
"Thanks, I noticed that."
At long last, the clouds triumphed over the sun. Peter rounded the eerie tree, deafened by his own laboring breath. He made it a point to keep Lena positioned behind him, but her grip on the back of his coat made it clear that she was perfectly happy to stay where she was, shielded to some measure while they made their uneasy approach.
An arm had fallen through the breach, badly bruised and limply slung. Insects were scuttling down the length of it, dripping from wilted fingertips like rancid beads of water.
Lena peered around him. "Alive?"
Peter reluctantly checked the dangling wrist for signs of life. The skin was feverish, the pulse even more so. "Alive," he verified, swallowing heavy. "Somehow."
Those wilted fingers curled. The whisper that followed was unintelligible, but Peter didn't need to understand it. He tore at the open wound of the tree, scraping palms on shredded bark, crushing unlucky centipedes. Lena appeared after a few moments to assist.
The stranger looked a few years younger than them, teetering on the cusp of adulthood, and was coated in so many layers of dirt that he flaked and crumbled at every touch. The unresponsive state of his face made it seem as if he'd been in a deep, inebriated sleep.
Peter switched places with Lena. "I need you to support him from below while I snake him out," he said, showing her. "Like this. Can you?"
She nodded. "Ready."
He reached into the hollow and tried in disgust to ignore whatever it was that had crawled into his hair. Blindly groping, he muttered, "Come here, you."
The stranger was remarkably light for his size. Once they'd carried him safely to the ground, Peter jumped on the opportunity to shed his infested coat. He spat another curse when the buttons eluded his trembling fingers. He could feel bugs scuttling down his back.
Lena was crouched with the stranger. She poked at his cheek. "Hello, in there," she called. "Rise'n shine, tree fella. There's rain on the way."
Peter pitched his coat at the ground, haunted by ghosts of the lingering pests. "Wish you'd wake me like that," he muttered, wringing his neck, checking his hand. "Most I get is my shutters thrown open and a holler in my ear."
"Get up on time if you don't like it."
"I'm not an early riser."
"Some farmhand you are."
Peter didn't retort. He couldn't find it in him. He rubbed his face and mirrored her squat, gesturing to their more immediate concern. He said, "Try again."
Lena leaned over, one hand cupped at her mouth. "Anybody in there?" she sang, purposely louder than before. "It's almost dinner and you couldn't look thinner…"
Peter snorted. "You're being so polite about it."
"Aye, so? How would you do it?"
He deliberated, elbows on his knees. After devising and discarding a few ideas, Peter offhandedly pinched the boy's nose, blocking off his passage of air. A few tedious seconds passed, a long enough time for him to glance at Lena and hazard, "Speaking of dinner— "
They gave a start when the boy gasped awake. The muted daylight must have seemed very bright, because the first thing he did, with a hiss of pain, was throw an arm up over his eyes. Then he lurched forward, legs akimbo, and sat there hunched between them, just breathing. It was several long moments before he lowered the arm and stared at his palm, fingers curling one by one. He uttered a sound, not quite a word.
Peter made an involuntary movement, one that would have gone undetected under more ordinary circumstances. The stranger took inevitable notice. Very slowly, his eyes slid sidelong, and they were an incredible, impossible, inexcusable green.
Peter blinked back at him, caught in bewildering crosshairs.
But the woodling just dimmed. "You again," he said, as if he'd expressed that particular sentiment countless times before. He resumed the study of his hands, whatever it was that he saw there. "But this is new. Maybe something I ate."
"Do you know where you are?"
The question inspired him to glance around, to falter, which gave rise to a moment of paralyzed silence. He made a soft sound and struggled to stand.
His bruised arm was quick to buckle under the additional weight, but Lena was there to keep him steady. "Take it easy," she said, dipping her head to see his face. "How do you feel?"
A spear of lightning brought grotesque clarity. The kid's eyes were too wide, fixed on the tree that had entombed him. A spider crawled out of his ear. "It's not real," he whispered. "It can't be."
Peter stood, uneasy. "Lena," he said. "Get away from him."
The crow shrieked, and the sky opened up in a timely cloudburst. Unseasonably warm rain filled the quiet with temperate applause. "It's a dream," the stranger said, one hand at his face. Another shock of lightning lanced out of the great above. "A dream."
Peter barked, "Lena!"
The vacated tree split right down the middle and crumbled apart like so much black coal. The loud, unexpected nature of it made Lena jump up with a yelp of surprise. Peter hauled her a distance away.
The boy made a last-ditch effort to stand, but the heavy collapse to his knees was his last. He sat there amid the elements, arms at his sides, knuckles to dirt. He wasn't talking anymore. Perhaps he'd renounced his hopeful mantra.
Resounding thunder passed them by. Heavy rain eased to a shower.
Then, without warning, color began to permeate the scarred forest tissue, expanding into every direction, the stranger at its heart. Fresh grass, it was, slow enough to trick the eye. Flowers blossomed in pinwheels of dew. Ferns unrolled and reached for the sky. And then the trees… they split the damp soil and came all at once, shaking the very earth beneath them.
Lena took an old seafaring oath— a mutiny. They ducked and watched the canopy spread.
Through it all, the boy never moved, not even once. Rainwater bounced off of his shoulders as the woodland flora grew high above them. Had the rain been snow, the snow been ash, he'd have been none the wiser. And Peter, too; he spent a brief eternity in wordless wonder— even when it was over.
But he eventually had to venture forth. Peter sidestepped the young foliage and ducked beneath a few obstructing boughs, pulse loud in his ears. It took a second or two for him to work up the nerve to reclaim his tentative squat by the stranger. "Oi," he said. "Can you hear me?"
The boy didn't so much as glance. "It's real."
"Where did you come from?"
"The other one asked me that, too."
Peter frowned a little. "What other one?"
Water fell from the tip of his nose. "I should be dead."
Peter's earlier anxiety was beginning to fade. He repositioned, taking a knee. "It's going to be dark soon," he said. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"
The boy touched his belly, the only indication that he'd heard the question. Instead of answering, he lifted his hand to admire a caterpillar's journey across his knuckles. In drowsy awe, he murmured, "It all looks different."
"What's your name?"
The hand sank into his lap. "Ethos."
"I'm Peter."
Ethos finally looked at him. He spoke softly, as if he feared that he might be overheard. "Are there bugs crawling out of my skin, Peter?"
A gruesome notion. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Aye, I'm sure."
A rattling sound drew near. Lena was slowing the wagon to a stop. "Let's get him out of the cold," she called, and she clambered down with a blanket. "Is he calm?"
Those peculiar eyes had closed. Peter snapped fingers by his face. "He's sleeping again," he said, with a nervous laugh. "On his knees, no less."
She draped the blanket over him. "His arm looks busted."
"Yeah." Peter picked him up with a grimace. "Get the flatbed," he said. "Make space."
Lena quickly unhinged the rear panel. "What'd he say to you?"
"Nonsense, mostly," he said. "Move that feedbox."
She pushed it aside. "He's probably in shock," she muttered. "People say strange things when their minds aren't right."
Peter slid him inside and locked the hickory panel back into place. He paused there, gripping the frame, and watched Lena scoop up the star with their surviving shovel. "We can't tell anyone else what happened out here," he said. "It's too much."
She hobbled toward the wagon. "Aye," she agreed. "The last thing we need is some filthy godling bringing attention to our family. The Abelsons already question us."
"He called himself Ethos."
"Get over here and move your sparrow out of my way."
Peter complied, tossing his jacket over a wheel. He threw back the lid to the driving chest and gave her some berth. The bird weighed nothing, and a glance yielded empty, beady eyes. "Oh," he said, in disappointment. "It died."
"What?"
"It died," he repeated. "The sparrow."
Lena closed the lid of the chest and gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. "It's just a sparrow," she reassured him. "Nature took a course, is all. Let's get out of here."