Dreamwood (9 page)

“Of course.” Pete threw up his hands. Then he shook his head as if he had the regrettable duty of informing her of basic facts. “But that's like asking if I know about dinosaurs. Yes. And they don't exist. At least not anymore.”

“This isn't
dinosaurs,
” she said in withering tones. “Dreamwood used to grow on the Thumb.” She gestured toward the forest, an inky black mass stamped against the indigo sky. “What if it's still out there?”

A tiny shiver of excitement ran down her spine. Maybe Pete felt it, too. He came around the bench to stand next to her, facing the rustling nighttime forest.

“People around here do tell stories about it,” he admitted. “Old-timers especially. The people who used to live on the Thumb had plenty. But no one I know's ever seen any. Pancake Walapush—you don't know him but he's an old rascal—liked to say his granddaddy had some. But if he did, they'd be rich and he was as poor as dirt. So it can't have been true.”

His forehead creased as he thought about it. This was all the encouragement she needed.

“My father told Angus Murrain the cure for Rust was on the Thumb, right?” She was pacing now. Her thoughts made her feel that she could fly. Like a kite catching the air.

“Ye-esss.” Pete crossed his arms and sat back on one of the bench's arms.

“And Devil's Thumb is the only place where dreamwood grew.” She was sketching it with her hands—the Thumb, the tree, the points that—
boom, boom, boom
—all fell into place and made it have to be true. “This wood with incredible healing power.” She stopped in front of Pete. He had to see how this fit together. She took in a deep breath. “
That's
the cure my father went to the Thumb to get.”

Silence.

Then Pete hiked his shoulders in apology. “I don't know, Lucy. It seems pretty far-fetched.”

He didn't believe her. For a moment she was crushed. The air went out of her and she was falling back to earth. Pete
would
go and poke holes in everything.

But it was only for a moment. What did Pete know, anyway?
She
was the scientist in the making, the one who could read a vitometer, the one who had experienced firsthand the power of a few sips of dreamwood tea. Whereas all Pete had were a few stories from a person named Pancake. She was right, he was wrong. Realizing this made her feel better immediately.

“I'll just have to bring some back to prove it,” she said, clicking her heels together. “
When
I bring my father back.” She picked up her vitometer from the bench and headed inside.

I
t didn't matter that Pete didn't believe her. Now she could simply go about her preparations without having him as a distraction. Her biggest problem was that she had no money—and anti-dreaming drops (as she discovered when she went back to Mr. Lyman's shop) were outrageously expensive.

She couldn't ask the Knightlys for help. They were going to have to sell their house and move to a smaller place in town. In fact, Angus Murrain was coming that very day to sign the papers; he was the new owner. Anya had told her so that morning, blowing her nose behind a great lace handkerchief and pretending her tears were from cutting onions.

Of course Lucy felt terrible about what was happening. But Anya had given her an idea.

Lucy waited in the parlor for what seemed like hours, watching the door of Gordon's study while he met with Angus. Some men came by and carried out the old grandfather clock on a hand truck. They removed most of the furniture from the parlor but told Lucy she could stay in the chair she was sitting in. By the time they were done it was the only chair left in the room.

“I suppose no one's bought
you,
” she told the deer heads on the wall. Presiding over the empty room they looked gloomier than ever.

At last the door to the study opened, and Gordon came out, pale and sweating. He leaned against the doorway as if he needed the support.

“Thank you, Angus, you've been more than decent,” he said faintly. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and went away with a heavy tread, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Lucy waited for him to go, then slipped through the door.

Angus Murrain was gathering up papers spread on the desk in front of him. Against his powerful frame the graceful rosewood desk and chairs appeared as flimsy as the furnishings in a dollhouse. He wore rich clothes, beautifully cut; everything about him spoke of his success.

“Mr. Murrain.” She used her strongest voice, already knowing that he was someone who valued strength.

He looked up in irritation, not expecting the interruption. “Yes,” he said sharply. Then his posture relaxed as he recognized her. “I remember you, you're Shatterhand's bar ornament. I didn't expect to find you here.”

“I've been living here while I continue my father's research,” she said.

“Really?” He gave her a winning, sidelong smile. “And have you discovered anything of interest?”

He continued to shuffle papers as he asked this. But Lucy wanted his full attention.

She put her hands on the desk in front of him. “Do you still say you'll pay a reward to anyone who can find a cure for Rust?”

He looked up, surprised. “I do.”

Lucy pulsed with excitement. She sat down in the chair opposite him as if they were having a proper business meeting.

“I know how to earn that reward. All I need to bring you the cure is an advance on that money.”

The timber baron laughed, not maliciously, but with a note of admiration. And Lucy took heart things would go her way.

“All right,” he said, “I have to confess I'm interested. I'd like to hear more, Miss Darrington.”

Lucy lifted her chin and tried to look as relaxed and confident as Angus. “My father is a great scientist, and he was doing experiments on Rust. What do you think he found?”

He adjusted a golden cuff link. “I don't know.”

“The cure for Rust is . . .
dreamwood.
” There. She'd said it.

Angus didn't react. Instead he went almost frighteningly still. Finally, after a few long moments he tented his broad fingers under his blocky chin. “So, the one thing that can cure it is the one thing we don't have. How does that help me?”

“Well, it does, see.” She couldn't sit still. She jumped up and now she was telling the story. “Everyone believes dreamwood is gone. But what if
they're
wrong?”

His deep brown eyes followed her as she stalked about the room. Maybe she wasn't being businesslike, but he was really listening—and it gave her hope. “What if dreamwood still exists? And what if someone has secret knowledge, secret information that would let them go after it?”

Angus leaned forward, intent. His fine wool morning coat couldn't conceal his broad lumberjack's shoulders. “What kind of secret information?”

Her hair had come loose again and she brushed it impatiently out of her eyes. “How to find it. How to survive in the forest without going crazy or getting killed. If you lend me that money, I'll go get some for you.”

The timber baron settled back into the chair, which looked too small to bear his weight. His eyes glinted with interior thought.

“Well, that's an interesting idea,” he said, playing with a handsome gold-plated fountain pen. “The truth is, I have heard rumors about dreamwood surviving in that forest. And if tales are true of the golden wood's powers, perhaps it could save our trees. But I'd like to hear why you think you're able to find it, when so many other men have gone to the Thumb and failed. Men who were bigger than you and stronger than you. Although”—he smiled again—“maybe not smarter than you.”

Lucy tingled at the compliment. She sat back down in her chair and leaned forward. “That's just it. Being big and strong doesn't matter. You just need to know enough science to be able to find dreamwood. Plus, I've spent my childhood in haunted places, so I don't plan on getting spooked.” She lifted her chin. “In fact I'd say I'm better qualified than anyone.”

His handsome face grew serious. “That may be, but I'm loath to send a child into the haunted forest. What if by giving you this money I'm signing your death warrant?”

“You're not,” she said quickly. She didn't think that way, why should he?

“You're new to Saarthe, Miss Darrington. You don't know our forests. It was perhaps that same misplaced confidence that led your father to Devil's Thumb. And now he's lost. Whatever he met there waits for you as well.”

Lucy snorted. “If I'm going to let
you
scare me I might as well give up right now.”

He chuckled. “Very amusing.” He stretched his arms behind his head, thinking, while Lucy prickled with nervous energy. At last he spoke. “It's true that we tend toward superstition in Outer Saarthe. But I'm a man who likes to think for himself. I'm a rational man . . . A fair one, too . . .” He gave an apologetic look at the Knightlys' study as if regretting that he now owned it.

“I liked your father a great deal,” he said. “We came from different backgrounds, but I thought we understood each other.” He paused, and when he continued there was a slight catch in his voice. “I was orphaned at an early age, so I know what it is to make your own way. To break free of the constraints others want to put on you.”

Yes,
thought Lucy,
that's it,
feeling somehow that Angus was speaking not only about his childhood, but about her own secret thoughts and hopes.

“Which is exactly why you should invest in my expedition,” she concluded for him. “My father always said it was important to make his own way, and he passed that on to me. He trained me on his tools and methods and his way of thinking.” Her voice trembled; she
hoped
she was convincing. “If you want that cure, I'm your only chance.”

“I see.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I suppose I'd be foolish to pass up this opportunity.”

Lucy held her breath.

The timber baron clapped his hands together. He was decided. “All right then, I'll give you fifty dollars. You could buy a horse with that. It should be enough for . . . What kind of supplies did you say you needed?”

“Food,” she said eagerly, and now sensing that she'd won, she couldn't contain herself. “You can't eat anything that's there or make a fire. And you can't dream while you're there, either—it's too dangerous—so you need a potion to stop yourself.”

“And you've figured all this out?” Angus said, sounding impressed. “You're a remarkable young lady.”

Lucy swelled with pride. She wished Miss Bentley—who always threatened that Lucy would not amount to anything if she would not behave—could hear this.

“If you do find dreamwood—and of course I hope you do—you'll be a very rich young lady, too.”

She hadn't thought of that. The idea came at her as a shock, for of course she had only thought to find her father. Though she supposed—after seeing how the Knightlys were suffering—that she did want to cure Rust. Without her even realizing it, a pleasant picture had formed in the back of her mind of her return: She and her father had restored the forests, they were celebrated in Pentland. Maybe a band would play in their honor—a brief image came vividly to life of the Pentland bandstand, people clapping, her father making a speech, free lemonade for everyone. But money . . . riches? She swallowed on a suddenly dry mouth.

“I'll get the reward,” she said tentatively, “won't I?”

“Of course. But that's nothing compared to how much you would have if you brought any dreamwood back.”

More
than a thousand dollars? Lucy reeled at this thought. This went beyond her experience at bluffing and into a realm of pure fantasy. In fact it frightened her, and she didn't know what to say.

Angus was watching her closely. “Some of that would be mine, of course.” He smiled gently. “Let's say I'd take half. As a return on my investment.”

Lucy took a deep breath, feeling something momentous was occurring. The head of Pentland Timber Company trusted her enough to treat her as a business partner. But after all, she thought, why shouldn't he? In the end it was a simple thing. She had no doubt her father would find dreamwood on the Thumb. By finding her father, she'd find the golden wood. She'd already said as much to Pete. But Angus actually believed her.

“Of course,” she said, still feeling a bit dazed.

“I think it's customary at this point to shake hands,” he said, rising from his seat.

“Oh . . . right.” She was too excited to think straight.

Her hand looked very small in comparison to his. Feeling the great strength in his grip, she had a moment where she feared he would crush her. But he shook once and then released her.

Now she could not wait to go.

She nearly ran to the door. There was so much to do. And she wanted to get started immediately.

“Miss Darrington,” he called after her. The timber baron had a rather bemused smile.

“What?” she asked, turning around.

Angus held up his wallet. “You forgot your money.”

• • •

Lucy was in her room, packing her rucksack, when she heard a knock on her door.

When she opened it she was surprised to find Pete on the other side. His auburn hair was mussed, and there were circles under his eyes.

“What were you talking about with Angus Murrain?” he said, striding into the room. There wasn't much space for the two of them, and Lucy found herself backing up, almost knocking over the mangy remains of a stuffed otter. One benefit of leaving the Knightlys was the certainty that wherever she went would have less taxidermy.

“Nothing,” she said. It wasn't that her deal with Angus was secret. She just felt it was private—just as her packing was private, too. And here was Pete stomping around and peering inquisitively at everything. She tried to block his view.

“And what's that you're doing?” He gestured at her rucksack.

“Packing.”

To her surprise, he blew out a deep breath and flopped down on the bed. “I thought about what you said. About dreamwood still being on the Thumb.” He stared at the ceiling and Lucy looked around the room helplessly.

“You know, I
was
in the middle of something.” She tugged on the shawl he'd half sat on.

Still looking at the ceiling, Pete announced, “I'm coming with you.”

This was the last thing she'd expected. For a moment she was too shocked to respond.

“You don't need to chew it over so much.” He sat up violently. “Now you're making me feel low.”

Lucy blinked. “Just hold on . . .” She paced about the small rectangle of floor. “Of course I have to think it over. It's dangerous.”

“See, that's why I
should
come.” He leaned back on his elbows and dug into his pocket. Out came the black protection stone he'd shown her in Pentland. “I know you don't think it's worth anything, but I do have
this.
”

Her father always reminded her to be polite, even when she disagreed with other people's ideas. But it was so hard. She tugged on her dress—that lump of rock just reminded her how different she was from Pete. She didn't feel like having someone around who was going to insist his superstitions were just as valid as her science.

“You need more than some folk cure for haunts,” she said, looking down at him. “And going to the Thumb requires special supplies.”