Some Kind of Happiness (4 page)

She wanted to see the world and discover its secrets. Curiosity burned inside her and kept her strong.

One day a great forest came into view. The orphan girl's heart stirred to see it.

“I wouldn't go in there,” warned an old traveling musician, playing his violin beside the path.

“Why not?” asked the orphan girl.

“Too many questions,” he grumbled, “and not enough answers.”

The orphan girl thanked him and continued south, down the forest road. The next day she bought an apple from a farmer.

“You're not going to the Everwood, are you?” asked the farmer.

“Of course I am,” the orphan girl replied.

The farmer shook her head. “Then you're a fool. People who go in there don't come out.”

This did not particularly trouble the orphan girl, for she had no one to leave behind.

“I thank you for the warning,” she said, and continued down the road.

On the third day the orphan girl came to the forest's edge. A witch sat high in the trees, knitting dreams.

“Looking for something?” the witch asked, peering down from her perch.

“Adventure,” the orphan girl answered promptly.

The witch's smile was full of holes. “Then you've come to the right place.”

The orphan girl felt a tiny fear. A thread of darkness hissed in the witch's voice.

But a tiny fear was easy enough to push aside. The orphan girl was used to ignoring feelings that pained her.

So she thanked the chuckling witch, clenched her fists, and pushed through the brambles into darkness.

“W
HAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN
here?”

I jump to my feet and whirl around. Gretchen stands a few steps behind me, staring.

At least she isn't Grandma. Or Avery, who watched me at dinner last night like I was a puzzle for her to decipher.

Avery's hair makes me nervous. Unless it's in a shampoo advertisement, hair should not be that shiny.

“Hello?” Gretchen waves her hand in front of my face. “Earth to Finley?”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hi. What are you doing out here?”

“Um. Nothing?”

“Is that a question?”

My face grows hot. “No. I was just looking around. I woke up early. I was afraid of using the wrong fork at breakfast.”

Gretchen stands beside me on the riverbank. “Don't worry about the forks thing. Avery says that's one of the Hart family pretensions. It's not something that matters in the real world.”

“The real world?”

“The world outside Hart House.” She squints at me. “Do you know what
pretension
means?”

A black-and-white grid flashes before my eyes, and I hear Dad's voice mumbling over the Sunday
New York Times
crossword. Thinking of his voice feels like someone has reached inside me and twisted.

Pretension.
Ten-letter-word for “snobbery, a claim to importance.
”

It can also mean “false.”

“It's like when you're snobby about something,” I explain.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I get that.” Gretchen puts her hands on her hips and faces the woods. “So you're just out here looking at everything?”

“Yeah, I guess.” My mouth feels like a machine that isn't quite working. “It's pretty out here.”

“Huh. I never really thought about it.”

Gretchen plops down onto the riverbank. I sit beside her, prepared to run if need be. She did kick me under the table last night, after all.

“I can't believe you came out here by yourself,” Gretchen says.

“You never go out to the woods?”

“Grandma's never forbidden it, exactly, but she doesn't like us being out here where she can't really see us. Mostly when we come over, we help her clean the house.”

“That doesn't sound very fun.”

“It's not. But Grandma likes things to look nice. So it's like we all come over, and the aunts sit in the kitchen and drink, and Grandma puts us kids to work. She's all ‘you must
learn to respect what you have' and ‘people expect us to look a certain way.' ”

I giggle. She does a pretty good Grandma voice.

“So what do you like about it?” she asks. Our feet swing over the water. Gretchen wears red galoshes over her pajamas.

“The woods?”

“Yeah.”

“Well . . . it's complicated.”

“Finley, we're Harts. We share blood, you know. You can tell me.”

What does that even mean, being a Hart? It has to be about something more than blood; otherwise Hart House wouldn't feel like it is the wrong size for me. Maybe I should start a new list: What It Means to Be a Hart. If I can figure that out, maybe I'll be able to survive the summer.

We share blood.
Kind of creepy, really.

I take a deep breath. “I like it because . . . it's the Everwood.”

Gretchen frowns. “What's that? Like Narnia?”

“It's a real place,” I clarify, “not imaginary, and not in another world. It's in our world, but you can only find it if it wants you to find it. I've been writing about it forever. Since I was seven.”

“And you think this place is it?”

“Maybe,” I say. “It looks like it always has in my head, but even better. I had some of it right, but I also got a lot of things wrong. Now I see how it all really looks.”

“Like what?”

“Well . . . that's the Green.” I point up the hill of the pit, toward the bright green lawn. “You know, for festivals and things. And that's the Great Castle.” Now I point to Hart House. “It sits right at the edge of the Everwood, guarding against trespassers.”

“Is there a king and queen?”

I think for a second. “No. The Everwood has never had a king or queen. It's really old, and it's been hidden away for a long time. Only one who is truly worthy can be ruler of the Everwood, and no one has ever been worthy enough.”

“What makes a person worthy?”

“Only the Everwood knows that.”

Gretchen nods, leans back on her elbows. “So does anyone live at the castle?”

“Of course. Someone has to, until the king or queen arrives. The two ancient guardians live there, all alone.”

“That's sad.”

“Not really. It's their solemn duty.”

“So how old are they?”

“Think of the oldest thing you can imagine, and that's them. Their duty is to watch over the Everwood and guard its secrets until the rightful ruler is found.”

These words spill out of my mouth as if they have always been there, waiting to become themselves. I have written dozens of Everwood stories, but now everything is different.

Now I am actually
here
.

“Are they the only people who live in the Everwood?” asks Gretchen.

“Oh, no, lots of other people live there. There are witches, and barrows—these digging creatures with huge mouths like shovels. They live underground, and you have to be careful where you step, because they can reach up and grab you. And there are fire-breathing salamanders with poisonous drool, and fairies that will play tricks on you if they decide they don't like you, and sometimes there are knights, if one gets lost during a quest—”

“Oh!” Gretchen shoots upright, her hand in the air. “Me! I want to be a knight. Can I?”

“What?”

“A knight! I'd be a great knight. Would I get a horse? Would I fight dragons?”

My thoughts spin out of control.

What does Gretchen mean, can she
be
a knight? The Everwood is not a game. It is not a thing you play at; it is a thing that already exists. You can't simply become a part of something that doesn't belong to you, something you've only just learned about.

I find myself wishing Gretchen had never come out here. Then she would never have found out about the Everwood, and it would still be safely mine.

Now that
she
knows, who else might soon know? And what will they think of me? The Everwood has only ever belonged to me. We understand each other.

If I swear Gretchen to secrecy, will she agree?

I wonder if Harts are good at keeping secrets. I am good at that, but then, I don't feel like a real Hart.

Maybe blood doesn't matter at all.

“Please?
Pleeeease?
” Gretchen clasps her hands under her chin and pouts.

She looks so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. It feels strange, and wonderful, like jumping out of deep water to breathe. I have not laughed for days.

“Okay,” I say. “You can be a knight.”

Gretchen pumps her fist into the air.

“But be warned: As a knight, it will be your duty to help the ancient guardians protect the Everwood from evil.”

“What kind of evil?”

“Invaders. Highwaymen.” I look around, and then whisper, “Pirates.”

Gretchen scoffs. “Please. I could take on a whole ship of pirates with one hand tied behind my back. Without armor, even.
Blindfolded.
”

“Not even the most valiant heart, good lady, can know every wonder the Everwood holds. Both gentle . . . and dangerous.”

What has come over me? I don't normally talk to people like this. The only time I use my Everwood voice is around Mom or Dad, and they're only halfway listening anyway.

Gretchen jumps to her feet. “Okay, so if I'm a knight, what does that make you?”

“I'm . . .” I pause, flushing. “I'm an orphan.”

That is who I have always been, in all my stories. Dad used to read to me before bed every night, and we read about a lot of orphans. They were often strange in some way—they had unusual powers or ugly scars, or carried terrible secrets inside them. But they always turned out to be heroes in the end.

I like that idea, of the strange, lonely character being the most powerful.

Gretchen makes a face. “Being an orphan doesn't sound fun at all.”

“It isn't about
fun
. It's how the story goes.”

“Okay, if you say so. It's your game.”

“It's not a game!” The words explode before I can stop them.

Gretchen blinks at me, and I wonder if she will laugh at me and leave, or get mad, or think I'm a freak, or . . . what? Do I care?

Maybe it would be for the best.

But Gretchen simply kneels. “Forgive me, oh fair orphan child! As a knight I have awful manners and do not always think before I speak.”

Warmth rushes through me; maybe I will start laughing again. Gretchen is not making fun of me or running away. She's . . . staying. She's smiling. She has a decent English accent.

What now?

“You are forgiven,” I declare. “After all, I am but a humble orphan child, and you are a great knight.”

“Well, not yet,” she says, in her normal voice. “I have to prove myself first. So should we go?”

“Go where?”

She throws out her arm toward the woods on the other side of the river. “Exploring! Questing! Not sure how we'll cross over, though.”

I search for a moment and then point down the river at a tree trunk–sized pipe that stretches across the water, its ends buried in the riverbanks. “We'll cross over the First Bridge.”

“Well . . . technically, we're not allowed to go near that pipe. Grandma doesn't think it's safe. . . .” Gretchen trails off, watching me closely.

I hesitate. Breaking Grandma Hart's rules on my second day here doesn't seem like a good idea. But the call of the Everwood is not something I can ignore, and now that Gretchen is beside me, waiting, I don't want her to leave.

I think I want her to understand.

I certainly don't want her to think I'm afraid of crossing a pipe.

Maybe it is important for me to impress Gretchen. If I do, I will have passed some sort of test, and my cousins will accept me.

“If we explore fast and get back before breakfast,” I say slowly, “maybe no one will ever know?”

Gretchen grins. “And a knight wouldn't care about breaking rules, would she?”

“Not if it was for a noble cause.”

“I'm in. Let's do it.” Gretchen runs toward the pipe, her galoshes kicking up clumps of mud.

For a moment I imagine Grandma Hart peeking out a window, and I freeze with fear. But it's too late; I have a responsibility to accompany Gretchen. No one should enter the Everwood alone, especially not a knight who thinks she can fight pirates blindfolded.

“Orphan girl!” Gretchen whisper-shouts, ready to cross the bridge. “Hurry up! I need a guide!”

A guide. Because no one knows the Everwood like I do.

Because the Everwood
wanted
me to find it.