Halfway Dead (5 page)

“Fair enough, but, well . . . ” He dragged his feet, so to speak, until I quirked a brow at him. “They make the following things: decorative wares, furniture, high-end food gifts, some sort of nautical stuff, I’m not really sure what, and a huge variety of kid’s toys. I work exclusively for the food divisions, so I’m not entirely sure about all of the other details. Like I said, it’s a big company, and I’m usually out in the field. Or in a city, somewhere.”

That was quite a variety. The list didn’t exactly ring of evil, so I thought it over for a minute, tapping my teeth with the aforementioned chipped nail. “So are you a real investigator, or do you always enlist locals to help you solve your problems?” I grinned at him, wondering if he would see me as mean or just feisty. I hoped it was the latter. I’m a white witch through-and-through, I don’t do vicious.

He smiled, telling me that he took my comment in stride. “It seems arrogant to assume I know more about a place than a local would.”

Point one for you, young man,
I thought. “All right, so far, I’m listening. Tell me about this picture. What should I be squeeing over?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Back here, this ring of giant trees?” He indicated the huge trunks beyond Tyler’s hapless face. “They’re worth a dump truck full of money.”

“Stop right there.” I held up a hand as anger flushed my face. The last thing I was going to do was help someone log illegally in the pristine forest behind my own home. “You’re well past ballsy if you think I’m going to help you—
”

“I don’t want them to cut down,” he interrupted.

“You don’t?” I was quelled for a moment. After chewing that over, I said, “Okay, then what?” I admit, I was stumped. C’mon, that’s hilarious. Fine, whatever.

“Not at all. I want to find those beautiful trees in perfect health, and I want to
leave
them in perfect health. My company wants that so much, they sent me with instructions that if I harm anything in the forest, I shouldn’t bother coming back.” At my incredulous expression, he nodded quickly to confirm his statement. “Seriously. I really need to do this, since the company owner has plans that are . . . well, they go beyond simple profit.”

“Now you’ve really got my interest. What’s more important to your company than money?” I asked.

He waved around us in a sort of recognition at the mountains. “These trees. They’re sort of holdouts, like a lone soldier on the ramparts, that kind of thing.”

“What kind of trees? I asked, taking the phone and looking closely at the screen. There were only massive trunks visible; the leaves were clearly high above the canopy.

“Chestnuts. American chestnuts, or
Castanea dentate
if you want to be really specific.” He grinned at how underwhelmed I was by this revelation.

As a witch, I know plant life, but my interests are primarily focused on smaller herbs, roots, and berries. I use the occasional common tree, but nothing truly exotic. Gran hadn’t mentioned a chestnut in any spells, and it seemed like the species was just unused in our own familial magic. “I hate to seem unimpressed, but excuse me if I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is there something special about your company that it should care about these trees?”

“It isn’t the company that cares so much as the CEO, and you’re right, there’s nothing special about Pickford Holdings. Not really, anyway,” he allowed, then looked slightly abashed at revealing the company name.

I twitched a little, saying, “I don’t really do the whole coy-mystery-guy thing. Is it your company? And if so, why are
you
sitting here in Halfway, trying to talk a stranger into tromping through the woods to find some magic trees?” I was a little curious, though.

He cleared his throat. “Well, ah. It isn’t
my
project. The CEO is sort of a, I guess you would say tree hugger, and she wants to find the American Chestnut to do some good in the world. Kind of a plant-based karma thing.”

“So she sent her . . . son?” I asked.

“Grandson,” he corrected, “and yes. Because of this idiot Tyler Venture, we have a picture of the last living stand of American Chestnuts. A blight killed off about four
billion
of them last century, and with it went a huge part of rural living.”

“You grandmother grew up poor?”It seemed logical to ask.

He smiled at my insight. “She can tell me, in detail, how rats taste, and how long it takes to boil grass and a handful of flour. Three of her siblings died in a rough house next to a quarry in rural Pennsylvania. She knows poor like I’ll never see, and she’s getting on in years. When she saw this picture—don’t ask me how, but she did—she recognized the trees immediately. Over dinner she told me of having nothing but chestnut flour and milk from a goat, mind you. The whole family of eleven lived off that for an entire fall. It’s part crusade, part her chasing some dream of her youth, maybe.” He smiled ruefully, adding, “I think she knows that her years are short, and she wants to restore something beautiful. These trees, which she assures me are magnificent, are her way of reaching back into the past and keeping something good from a starved time.”

I felt myself liking this unseen lady. “So, are we to believe that four, uh, billion trees died, except for a handful that this dope Tyler Venture stumbled upon out on the backyard of Halfway?”

He laughed at the improbability. “In a word, yeah. They’re some kind of anomaly, a genetic twist of fate. If they can be seeded across their former range, it will change the composition of the forest to what it once was. They were the king of the woods, and now they’re gone. I think they might be worth finding.”

He spoke with more conviction than a simple employee, and I could feel the passion underneath his enthusiasm. He wasn’t a zealot, but he was more than a drone. I found my curiosity growing.

“So, you propose that I take a stranger, who might have a closet full of human heads, into the deep Adirondacks in order to find a lost variety of tree? In order to fulfill a sense of altruism, based on his Grandmother’s really crappy childhood? Does that about sum it up?” I asked.

“You left out the part where I have a fetish for women’s hair or something like that. Maybe I drive a van with
Free Candy
painted on the side.” His grin verged into an open laugh.

“Two questions come to mind, may I ask them before this craziness goes any further?” I needed a bit more information before I could tell him he was nuts.

“Go ahead, please.”

He seemed to earnestly listen.
And another point for the handsome feller.

“Why me? There are about a billion guides in the park, many of whom have legs that can cover more than my own limited natural range.” I wiggled my feet to draw attention to my lack of height. I’m comfortable admitting that I’ll never be able to reach things in upper cabinets.

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I don’t want a guide. I want a local. I saw you at the diner and talked to a few people in town. Your reputation as a naturalist is excellent. What was your second question?”

“Hmph. Okay, you are aware that I work, so you must have a plan for this search to be a rather precise journey, I take it?” I asked. This was the kicker; I wasn’t going
anywhere
for a week that didn’t have room service and a beach.

Major raised a finger as if I’d scored a point. “Excellent question. The answer is, I’ve gotten some expert advice based on the series of pictures. I have a pretty good idea where to go, but I need some assistance. To be clear, this is strictly a confirmation trip, nothing more. I want to take pictures, nip a leaf or two, and ping the location with my GPS. That’s it. You have my solemn word, for whatever it’s worth, that I will not harm any tree in any way. Period.”

He seemed truthful, but I have a lively sense of distrust. “And what about the people who come after us? Will
they
be doing any harm to the woods?”

“Absolutely not. Anyone who follows us will value those trees like they’re made of platinum. I wasn’t kidding around when I said they’re valuable. The effects of restoring the American forests to a former state of glory present an almost incalculable opportunity for wealth. That’s on top of the serious appeal that doing something so noble might have with the general public, let alone our customers. I don’t think I’m even capable of understanding all of the repercussions that might result. The death of these forest giants wasn’t a natural event, it was brought about by man. This is a chance to undo a great wrong.” He folded his arms in conclusion, and I noticed his muscles ripple under the skin. He was no cubicle wonk. That much was certain.

“Okay.”

He relaxed into a broad smile.

“I’ll do it, but I need to do some research first. Do you have any information about this supposed secret grove? I’ll need it before this goes any further.”

He nodded once, an affable grin still on his face. “Thanks—just, well. This makes things easier.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I said I would, but it doesn’t mean I will. If you have some idea where we’re going, I’ll need to confirm it first. Then, if it seems like I’m not being dragged to a pit filled with vampire badgers or something like that—
”

“Good gravy. Vampire badgers? Is that a thing? Even a local legend?” He looked around in mock alarm, but there was a hint of actual wariness when his eyes swept over the expanse of the forest.

“Well, no. Not that I’m aware of, and if there
was
a local legend like that, I’d never leave my house, thank you very much.” I shuddered. Some things should never be contemplated. The marriage of an undead and a badger being one such thing. Eww.

“Sorry, you were saying? You’re going to research whether I’m a stealthy, heinous murderer who wants to eat your toes or something, and then what?” he asked in the voice of a judge. At least he had a sense of humor.

I sniffed. “Exactly. I’ll need to see your photo ID, and then I’ll need until tomorrow afternoon to get ready.”

“One day? That’s fast. Okay, so let’s say I pass muster with your—who will be doing this deep research on my darkest secrets?”

“That would be the crack staff at our local public library. Nothing escapes the penetrating gaze of that institution. Think of them as a sort of council on everything that happens from Raquette Lake to Utica. Plus, they’ve known me since I was a bump in my mom’s belly. They won’t steer me wrong. Now, you were going to spill whatever proprietary information your company has about this potential grove of chestnuts?” I leaned back to give him my most serious gaze. I was going to go on this little jaunt as long as he wasn’t currently wanted for mass murder, and even then it was possible. I can handle myself. Some guy with new hiking boots and a great smile wasn’t going to scare me one bit.

He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know if it’s much help, but we got reference to a place that was a complete dead end. Just a name, maybe, but it sounds to me more like a place.”

“Which is?” I invited.

“Thendara.” And I felt my stomach drop as I pasted a smile on my face, keeping everything I knew under that stupid grin.

I’d practically tripped myself escaping Major’s presence in order to get to my Gran’s house.

We needed to talk.

When I first came aboard the family business, I spent an entire summer walking beside my Gran, listening to her weave stories of our long family history. It wasn’t as dramatic as one might think, given that we’d been witches as far back as the time of Brian Boru. He was a high king who unified Ireland nearly 1000 years ago, and apparently an all-around badass considering he was killed in combat at the age of eighty-five. In fact, we seemed to be the quietest practitioners of witchcraft in all of history. We behaved. We paid our taxes. I don’t recall one single instance of my family being at the head or tail end of some uprising, unless you count a minor affair in France over the outrageous cost of pastries. To be fair, exorbitant cake prices would probably raise my hackles, too, but given that this was a one-time event in the late 1800s, I think it’s safe to say we avoid drama.

Except for one incident.

Thendara no longer exists. It was never truly anything more than a name, and at that, it was the source of a grim mystery in my family that went back to the year 1839. I was breathless when Gran let me in. One look and she led me to her kitchen table while pouring boiling water into two mugs. Tea first, troubles second. It was her way of letting me gather my thoughts. It worked. When she wordlessly handed me my cup, she raised one white brow in question. That was enough for me.

“Thendara.” That was all I said, and her mobile face didn’t even twitch.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. Her hands were aged, but still strong, with long fingers that she wrapped around the mug. The aromatic steam hinted at something that was intended to create calm.

“Hey! You had the water on when I got here . . .” I pointed at Gran accusatorily. “How did you know?”

“You’re my own flesh and blood. And I’m a witch. A damned good witch, child, and I know everything that happens to you.” She sipped her tea, then grinned. “Three different people called me to say you were sitting with a man, gazing at the lake. The conversation seems to have ended with you looking rather stricken.”

“That’s exactly right.” I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. The whorled plaster was broken by square beams, and I thought I could see some kind of story there. It was tantalizing, and I fought not to get lost in the myriad of cracks.

“Who is this man?” Gran asked firmly.

“He wants me to find something. To help him find something, actually. His name is Major Pickford, and his family owns some giant company that makes all kinds of things,” I said.

“What kinds of things?” Gran was curious. It was the mark of a great witch. She was never content with the information at hand.

“Well, food stuff. Furniture. A variety of products, but none of that seems to matter. Major’s grandmother owns the company, and she runs it, too. She grew up crazy poor and wants to do some good in the world, which led to him being sent here on this . . . whatever it is. I guess you’d call it a hunt.” I told her the entire story in exacting detail, pausing as she asked for clarifications leading up to the moment when he said Thendara.

Gran steepled her fingers, and the gesture lent her even more of an air of power. She was really three women; my grandmother, of course, but also a sage and a mother in her own right. The three faces were closely connected, and all of these people flickered in her eyes while she considered my report. After a long contemplation, she asked, “Do you have the picture? The one that led Major’s people to this spot?”

I held out my phone, the image hovering on the screen. Gran looked at it with a scrutiny that was unsettling if you were the subject; she let her eyes investigate every aspect of the image. She did not hurry.

“Those stones behind the trees, do you see them?” she asked. When I nodded, Gran placed her hands on the table, fingers drumming lightly. “That is not a random pile of rock. In fact, it isn’t really rock at all.”

That was new to me. I thought I could recognize ordinary rocks. I was wrong.

“What Major Pickford has stumbled onto is a ruin,” Gran said. Her voice was soft and distant. She was in the grip of a memory.

“What is it, Gran?” I took her hand as the first tingle of concern began to crawl up my neck. There was something sad here; I could feel it coming.

She shook her head lightly, chasing ghosts. “Do you know why Thendara is no longer a place?”

“I thought a distant relative was killed there. I haven’t heard the story since I was little; you always just used it as a sort of cautionary tale about the forest. I sort of thought it was so long ago, that it had passed into the realm of legend.” I raised my shoulders slightly. I was reaching all the way back into my oldest memories to recall the nuance of
how
Thendara came to be a dirty word.

Gran pressed her lips together in a grim line. “A boy. There was a boy who was a blood relation to our family, and his father took him to scout the route for a canal that was being built. It was supposed to transform the mountain communities; each little town would be linked to Lake George in the east, and the Great Lakes in the west.”

“You mean they thought they could connect to the Erie Canal? Here?” I waved around. The mountains weren’t exactly soaring, but they were almost certainly too high to consider building a manmade waterway through.

“That very thing.” Gran sighed, wistful and with a degree of condemnation at the folly of man. “This relative of ours, a man named Bentley . . . well, he was an engineer who would build the locks for the canal. His word was considered law regarding the course of the canal, because he was the only person who could accurately plot a route that wouldn’t run straight into bedrock. That sort of hitch would kill the project in its infancy. Bentley was a genius with stone, and he had his oldest boy with him in hopes of teaching him the family trade, as it was.”

“What was his name?”

“Erasmus. He was twelve, more than a boy. A young man at that point,” Gran said heavily.

She fiddled with her cup for a moment, then continued. She wasn’t nervous; there was nothing on the planet that could discommode my Gran, but she was processing something. I could see shadows flicker in her eyes, and then she sighed again, but less gusty, and pointed at my phone. “That picture is not some random assembly of broken rock. It’s the site where Bentley began to survey and place holder stones for the building of the lock system. I’m sure he wanted to assure himself that the small ravine was stable enough to hold such a structure.”

There were well-preserved locks throughout New York; some of them could still open and close to raise the water level and let boats float merrily on their way, higher in elevation and none the worse for wear. Locks were a brilliant feat of engineering that made hills something to go over rather than through; they let barges laden with goods traverse more than 3300 miles of canals during the nineteenth century. You could still see them here and there, their doors long gone, but the sturdy stone walls upright and resisting the inexorable tug of root and weather. It said a lot about my ancestors that they would even attempt to build a waterway through the enormity of the Adirondacks, but something stopped them.

Gran took my hand. “Bentley came out of those woods a shell of a man. He’d been missing for a month; the half-dead creature that emerged on the shore of the lake was no longer the engineer who people looked to for guidance in a modernizing world. He was a pale echo, and his son was gone. He told everyone who would listen not to go looking for the boy, but families around here were thick as thieves. They plunged into the woods with axes and knives at their belts, and three more men vanished before the search was called off completely.” She looked at me with the weight of her years, and I could feel all of the stored wisdom directing me to listen. “We McEwans do not scare easily, if at all, but there is something at Thendara that is unnatural, and it has killed. It will kill again, and if you seek this place of trees, then you’re being led directly to a secret that I hoped would never appear again. At least not while I am still alive.”

That last bit shocked me; I couldn’t fathom a time in which Gran was not a fixed point in my world. “You’re not leaving this planet. I forbid it.” I tried to be playful, but it ended up sounding petulant.

“Not this year. Not for many years,” she assured me. “Do you know the secret to our longevity as a family, Carlie?” Her eyes measured me. This was a semi-serious test.

“Skill?” I guessed. I knew it had to be partially true. Sloppy witches were dead witches. We were far from sloppy.

She nodded appreciatively. “You’re somewhat correct. Yes, we must be skilled, but above all else, we must be free of pride.”

“Pride? I thought that being a white witch meant I served, not conquered. Don’t the two go hand in hand?”

“They do, but pride is stealthy. I speak of the type of pride that makes a young woman venture into the deepest wood with an unknown man. They seek a grove of ancient trees that are, by some miracle, the only living examples out of several
billion
chestnuts. To add another layer of intrigue, the location is near a crime scene that houses something bilious enough that we’ve avoided it for nearly two centuries. Am I painting a picture that’s easily visible?” She smiled again, and this time, it was cool and professional.

I inclined my head. She was right. Put in those terms, my little walk in the woods sounded outright stupid.

“But you are young, and you are strong,” she began, “so before you imagine that I forbid such a thing, you must find out if there is any information you can leverage to your cause. Then if you are still inclined to go off the map to where the dragons are, you will have my blessing. And my help.”

I sat quietly as the clock over the kitchen table clicked with infuriating regularity. “I’ll start in the records room at the library.”

“Good. And do call if you find anything, won’t you?” Her tone held a note of warning.

“Promise.” I kissed her cheek and left, wondering what awaited me in the cool deep of the forest. Whatever it was, I decided that Erasmus would be avenged or found . . . preferably both. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I looked out over the mountains and knew that somewhere, there were lonely bones waiting to come home.

My campaign to bring Erasmus back to the light would begin immediately. Even though the connection stretched into history, when it came right down to it, we were family.