The Edge of Strange Hollow Page 2

  “What are you doing?” he mouthed up at her.

  She pointed across at the Mogwen.

  Mack shook his head.

  Poppy nodded and lifted her net gun from her lap.

  She could hear his nose-sigh from all the way up the tree.

  She scooted farther from the trunk to take aim, her body rocking as she balanced on the narrowing branch. She forced herself not to cringe as the buzzing of her ward grew louder in her ears. Slowly, she lifted the net gun to peer through the crosshairs and sighted a beautiful male Mogwen singing the bass line.

  The gun gave a twang. The net careened toward the bird, and he squawked a deep cry, lifting into the air as it wrapped around his branch. Poppy let out a swear word as a single black whip, longer than the rest, looped up from the thorn tree, wrapped around Poppy’s ankle, and yanked.

  She toppled from the tree.

  Mack dived to catch her, and she landed on him, knocking the wind out of both of them. Another whip struck the ground next to their faces, and Poppy rolled over, tugging to get her leg free as the thorn tree reeled her in.

  Mack, choking and gasping for air, grabbed under her arms and scuttled backward, pulling until Poppy was suspended in the air, with Mack on one side and the thorn tree on the other.

  “Lose the boot,” Mack grunted.

  Poppy tried to bend her knee, but her leg was pulled taut. “They’re my … favorites,” she ground out. Her knee-high leather boots had thick soles, and thick leather—and cute little skulls on the sides.

  “By thorns, Poppy! Lose the boot!”

  “I thought you were strong! Pull like you mean it, Mack!”

  He gave her a yank that bent the thorn branch toward them. “Harder,” Poppy hollered. “It’s loosening.”

  Mack grunted again. “Your arms will come out of your sockets if I pull any harder.”

  “They’ll heal! I’m not losing these boots! Wait! Move me forward.”

  Mack’s heels skidded forward an inch. He tugged back again. “Forward? Toward the thorn tree? No way! You’ll be killed!” He yanked again. “Thorns, Poppy! We’ll both be killed!”

  “My knife’s in my boot. I can cut the whip.”

  Mack’s grip loosened a little and Poppy stretched to just reach the wooden handle of her knife. She pulled it clear and swiped across the whip.

  They fell back, but this time, Mack pulled them out of range of the thorn tree.

  Poppy sat up and examined her boot. There were thorn scratches all over the leather, but no holes. She patted it with a smile, and returned her knife to the ankle holster inside. “Good boot.”

  She turned to look at Mack. He was lying on his back, staring up at the canopy and breathing hard. “You okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean … I could have dealt with it … but thanks.”

  Mack’s gaze shifted to meet hers, then returned to the treetops. “You should have waited for me.”

  “I missed the Mogwen.”

  Mack scanned the trees. “You’re lucky they flew away instead of attacking us.”

  Poppy pressed her lips tight. “They’re faster than I expected.” She hopped up and brushed herself off, then held out her hand to Mack to help him up.

  He was barefoot, as always. The tight spirals of his hair—the same tawny brown as his skin, hung low over his coppery eyes. The points of his ears didn’t give him better hearing, exactly, but they did pick up on vibrations that came through his feet. Today Mack had on a pair of jeans, and a green T-shirt with a hand holding a bunch of flowers on it.

  He pointed at her T-shirt. “‘They Might Be Giants’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Poppy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s my mom’s. I think she got it at the last solstice trade.”

  “So … it’s a human thing—from outside the fog?”

  “Probably,” Poppy agreed, rolling her shoulders to work out the ache.

  “It’s a sea monster, though … not a giant.” Mack shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “And there’s only one. It should say, ‘It might be a sea monster,’ not ‘They Might Be Giants.’”

  Poppy waited. She knew where this was going.

  “You don’t think humans outside the fog think giants are … are sea monsters, do you?”

  “No. I doubt it.”

  Finally, he got around to the point. “I wonder if my grandfather would have known about this.”

  Poppy put one hand up on Mack’s shoulder in solidarity—united in their quest for the unknown. Ever since Mack had found out that one of his grandparents might have been human, he was as obsessed with learning about human things as Poppy was about the Grimwood. The grandparents in question had apparently had a whirlwind romance, then the grandfather had disappeared, and probably died, before the question could be resolved to Mack’s family’s satisfaction, apparently. The whole thing had been making his brain itch ever since.

  “But there aren’t even sea monsters or giants or elves … or any of the wood folk out there—past the fog, right?”

  “Nope. Don’t think so.”

  “So…”

  “I don’t get it either.” Poppy frowned. “Things outside the fog are different from in the Hollows. It could mean anything.”

  The buzzing in her ears from the warding was starting to hurt. She squeezed her fists—open, closed, open, closed.

  Mack caught sight of her hands and his expression turned stern. “You know what I don’t get, Poppy? I don’t get why we’re hunting Mogwen.”

  She sighed, and looked back toward the thorn tree. A flash of red caught her eye. “No way,” she said under her breath, then gave a little hop. “No! Way!”

  “What?”

  Poppy didn’t answer.

  Now was the time for action.

  A single Mogwen feather lay at the base of the thorn tree. She’d have to cross the boundary of her ward, but she could do it. “Mack, take my pack.” Poppy shrugged out of her backpack and pulled her knife again.

  “Poppy … what are you…” He followed her gaze to the feather. “No way. Don’t do it.”

  “I’m doing it.”

  “Poppy, that’s a thorn tree. Seriously.”

  “It’s already done.” She launched herself forward. Two steps. Three.

  She dived, grabbing the feather from the ground as she rolled back up to her feet, running. The whip cut the air behind her.

  She dodged left, out of the tree’s range as the pins and needles turned to burning. Pain lanced through her and she threw herself back across the boundary with a scream that was half anguish and half victory.

  She lay on her back panting, the feather in her hand, as sweat rolled down her neck. A harsh laugh bubbled out of her. “See? No problem.”

  He crossed his arms. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was really dangerous.”

  Poppy shot a smirk at him from the ground. Mack had never been a take-chances kind of guy. She understood that.

  He scowled down at her. “It’s just a feather, Poppy.”

  She couldn’t stop her smile. “It’s not just a feather. When my parents see this, it will change everything.”

  Poppy rose to her feet and gave him a friendly pat on the back as she shuffled past him. “Come on. Let’s go see what Jute’s got cooking.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  They moved toward the edge of the forest, where the afternoon sunlight was beginning to turn gold. As they walked, Poppy told Mack about her plan to finally get her parents to listen to her. She knew Mack was mulling things over from the way his eyebrows knit together. Her best friend could be stodgy, and a worrywart, but she still didn’t like to upset him.

  She cast an uncertain look at him as she rubbed at a scratch on the side of her neck. The thorn tree had been faster than she expected—almost wily, like it knew she couldn’t resist the feather. Poppy stepped out of the trees and exhaled as the ward her parent
s placed on her fell away. She gave her body a shake, like a dog coming out of a cold river.

  As they moved into the bright meadow that surrounded Poppy’s house where it looked down over the village of Strange Hollow, Mack finally said what was on his mind.

  He tugged her to a stop. “Just … if things don’t go your way with your parents … promise me you won’t do anything reckless. Think first. And promise you’ll listen, especially if I tell you something’s dangerous. Promise me that, and whatever happens—as long as it doesn’t put other people in danger, you can count me in.”

  She looked up into his guileless face and knew her relief showed. “Of course! I absolutely promise.” The breeze shivered over her skin, and she tipped her chin up, sniffing the air.

  “Because you’re not always the best at—”

  “Do you smell food?”

  He scowled.

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled. “This feather is going to work.” She tried not to think too hard about what would happen if her parents didn’t react the way she hoped. She had read in an older journal that blood wards could be broken, but that it would hurt. A lot. She pushed the thought away.

  Her house stood waiting in all its contorted, twisted glory, confident of their return, and as proud of its odd beauty as a cat in the afternoon sun. The front of Poppy’s home was the small cob cottage that her parents had built before she was born. It held the front door, and a small window of colored glass to either side. But above the door and around the cottage, stretching behind and three stories up, were all the rooms that the forest had grown for them. All of it—from the first floor up to the turret that was Poppy’s bedroom, was made from thick tendrils of roots. It was as if the forest grew arms and hugged their home against its branches, clinging there like a dear friend.

  The way her mother told it, as soon as her parents made the choice to enter the Grimwood and begin hunting the cursed objects that grew in the forest, the Grimwood had grown them a new house.

  Understandably, her parents and Jute had slept in the meadow for a week before they decided to move back in and see what would come of it. They still had no idea, really, why it had happened, or who was responsible, but they had decided it was a thank-you, and moved in.

  Not for the first time, Poppy wondered if the Holly Oak had something to do with making their house of roots. The Holly Oak was the oldest creature in the woods, and according to her parents’ journals, revered by all the creatures of the wood.

  Of course, after the house grew, everyone in the Hollows began avoiding her parents. They found it suspicious and strange. And when she was born, their fear stretched to include Poppy.

  The smell of Jute’s dinner made her stomach growl, and she was eager to show her parents the feather. She was just about to hurry Mack along when he caught a glimpse of some Strange Hollow kids setting up a game of capture the flag down across the mile of hilly meadow into the valley. He sent her a pleading look.

  Poppy hesitated. Mack was fascinated by human games—well, by anything human. Of course, he wanted to watch them. She sighed and pulled out her ponytail. Her parents were safe at home now, and she could put off her victory a few more minutes for her best friend. Jute wouldn’t mind if they were late for dinner. “Fine,” she said.

  Mack’s grin was worth it. Without a word he flopped down on the grass to watch.

  Poppy snorted, and flopped down next to him.

  She didn’t blame the people of Strange Hollow for being afraid of her family. Or, at least, she understood. The house growing overnight had jump-started the breach, but it wasn’t the only thing. Everyone else avoided the forest, but Poppy’s home was made of it. Most families had lost someone to the Grimwood over the generations, but her parents went in and out of the forest all the time. It was practically their morning commute. Naturally, people assumed her parents were in league with the wood. It didn’t matter how many times they tried to explain that their work was in service to the Hollows.

  Poppy had given up on the idea of ever having the Grimwood and being accepted in the Hollows. The Grimwood was in her blood, somehow, just as Mack’s mysterious human grandfather was in his.

  Mack watched, spellbound, as the kids ran around the worn, man-high standing stones that dotted the landscape. Poppy could hear their laughter echoing across the valley, as one team made a break for the other’s flag.

  She pulled out her journal. She had copied her parents’ more intriguing notes, and tried to keep track of what she saw in the Grimwood herself. So far, she’d drawn pictures of seven different species of tentaculars, seventeen different birds, and three mammals. She hadn’t gotten to the insects yet, though she had caught a glimpse of a picker a few weeks ago, ambling through the wood. The huge insects were like person-size stick bugs, but with strange human eyes and sad green faces.

  In the middle of the notebook were the notes on maledictions. MALEDICTIONS YEARN TO BE USED, she had copied in her father’s bold capitals.

  Maledictions grow out of the soil in a thorn grove as ordinary-looking human objects—a jar, a pen, a fork, a book.

  We aren’t sure how the maledictions get into the Hollows. The pickers might move them from the thorn groves to the Hollows, but this is unconfirmed.

  The thorn trees DO appear to have a symbiotic relationship with the pickers. We know it is the pickers that lead the victims of maledictions from the Hollows into the thorn tree groves where the trees will eat them.

  In return, the thorn trees do not seem to eat the pickers—though they eat every other living thing that comes within reach.

  We have also observed the pickers eating the soil at the base of the thorn trees.

  Her father’s notebook, which she’d snuck a peek at just before her parents left, had held some new intriguing hypotheses.

  Can a powerful creature change a malediction for its own purposes? What is the Soul Jar?

  Poppy rubbed at the words “Soul Jar” where she’d copied them into her own journal. She wished she could ask her dad more about this.

  Her thoughts flashed to the one time she had asked her parents her truest question. She had been almost ten. It was late—the sound of crickets so loud in the summer heat that it was even hard to hear her own thoughts. She’d lain awake listening for more than an hour, and finally got up to steal another look at one of her parents’ journals.

  She had been shocked to see the light on. They were back from their latest adventure, and hard at work, each of them hunched over their desks in companionable silence. She had stood watching them from the doorway for some time before her mother looked up and saw her.

  “Why, Poppy Sunshine! Why are you awake at this hour? Didn’t Jute put you to bed?”

  Her father looked up, curious perhaps, to hear her answer.

  “No—I mean, yes. He did. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “I see,” said her mother, the lamp light so bright against her dark hair that it cast shadows over the desk.

  Poppy moved closer. “What … what are you doing?”

  The corner of her mother’s mouth had lifted. “Putting a malediction in stasis. Come and see.”

  “Jasmine.”

  “It’s all right, David. She should know how to protect herself.”

  Poppy had hurried to her mother’s side, her heart fluttering like a moth in a jar. Her mother held up her hands so that Poppy could see the long-sleeved black gloves. “Never touch an active malediction with bare skin.”

  “It will have you in a blink,” her father called, unbending his long legs from under his desk and moving to stand behind Poppy.

  “Now,” her mother said, reaching into a box to hold up a comb—pretty, but simple. She glanced at Poppy’s father. “If you’d be so kind, dear.”

  He rose and picked up the silver sewing needle on her mother’s desk. Poppy watched, barely daring to breathe as he pricked his finger and let three drops of blood fall onto the comb.

  She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Ste
am, or black smoke, maybe. Something. Instead the comb just sat there looking somewhat revolting. Her parents shared a look.

  Her father cleared his throat and reached out to pick up the comb with his bare hand. Poppy stifled a gasp, snatching at her mother’s cool hand.

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s your father’s blood. The malediction can’t hurt him now.”

  Her dad held the malediction and spoke clearly, so that the breath of his words swept across the comb’s teeth. “You will harm none. You will harm none. You will harm none.” He turned and deftly threw the comb, end over end, into another open wooden box at the end of his desk. A soft glow throbbed from the depths of the box.

  Poppy frowned. “That … that’s it?”

  Her mom let go of her hand. “It’s in stasis! Undone! That’s it, my blue-eyed girl. It’s finding them that’s difficult.”

  “Nothing more powerful than blood in the Grimwood.” Her father grinned. “Whatever you say takes hold. Salt and iron will help keep some things away of course, but a blood ward is the only other type of ward that actually works.”

  “Plenty of creatures know it too.” Her mom stared past Poppy, her thoughts lost in the wood. “Nasty witches— and the good ones too, of course. Faeries. Some of the smarter monsters.”

  Her father shook his head, and her mother let out a delicate snort. “We told people years ago that their so-called wards were just codswallup, not that they listened to us.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, her dad sighed. “Their wards make them feel better. That’s what they do best. Actually keeping them safe? That’s up to us.”

  David and Jasmine looked at each other again and something mysterious passed between them. Poppy could swear that sometimes her parents had whole conversations without saying a word.

  Her father ruffled Poppy’s hair before he moved to drop back into his chair, his face vanishing into his book. Her mother blinked, and Poppy could see she was about to return to hers as well.

  She hadn’t seen them in nearly a week and, desperate to hear her mother’s voice again—to keep either of them talking to her—she had asked the first thing that popped into her head.