Wonder Light (2 page)

Lonehorn Island's jagged shore reached for
Blue Molly
. Mr. Murley slowed the little boat down, and Twig cringed in anticipation of a rough meeting with the menacing black rock, but Mr. Murley began a wide turn. They skirted a point of cliffside, and there, sheltered on both ends by jutting rock formations about thirty feet high, was a sandy cove.

“Here we are—the lee of the island, our shelter in the storm.”

Fine sand and a sturdy dock built onto the beach quieted Twig's fears, at least about never making it ashore. But the freshly built dock reminded her that this island wasn't accustomed to human inhabitants—at least not living ones.

Mr. Murley secured the boat and helped the girls out, then heaved out the suitcase.

A neat little boardwalk made its way from the dock to one side of the cove, along its edge, where soft sand met hard rock. Casey picked her way up the beach in a careful, wary way.

In front of her, Mr. Murley navigated the path with the suitcase. “It's a bit of a climb,” he said between labored breaths. “We've got a freight dock on the other end of the island, where it's flatter, and an access road. But this beach is much closer, a straight shot to Cedar Harbor, so I keep
Blue Molly
docked here.” He looked over his shoulder with a grin. “If I'd known about this,” he said, nodding at the suitcase, “I would've left the truck on the other side and taken
Blue Molly
the long way around. I'll bet we could fit you
and
Casey in here.”

Twig almost smiled. The suitcase was ridiculous, and poor Mr. Murley had to lug it she had no idea how far. She glanced ahead, at the top of the rocky incline above the beach. Small red-barked trees with twisting branches clung to the rocks. But beyond them was the evergreen wood. The path would take them into the thick of that wood, into the misty, shadowy heart of the island.

Behind Twig was the crushing of the waves. Beyond the water was Keely, waiting to go home, to the home that could never be one for Twig. A past with ghosts she knew all too well, that were all too real. Ahead was Island Ranch, whose ghosts were rumor and wisp. Maybe she'd dare to hope that they weren't real, that this really could be a beginning.

“The truck's just up this way,” Mr. Murley said. “It's not far.”

They'd reached the top of the rocks, overlooking the beach. Mr. Murley's smile was warm, but he glanced at the trees with a trace of uneasiness. He held out a strong hand for Casey and she took it. Twig quickened her step.

Casey stopped suddenly and pointed to the sky. “Mr. Murley! Your bird!”

Mr. Murley let go of the suitcase handle and fumbled in his pocket. Twig searched the sky but saw only drizzle.

Mr. Murley aimed his phone upward, then jerked it toward the trees. “Got it! I think this is my best one yet.”

He showed the picture to the girls. It was little more than a bright green blur of wings, disappearing into the darker evergreens, but Casey said, “Oh! Taylor's gonna like that one.”

“We have a mystery bird here on the island,” Mr. Murley explained. “It's become a hobby of mine, trying to spot it. And I seem to have sucked one of our girls, Taylor, into it too. She's determined to identify it for me.”

The boardwalk gave way to a gravel path that wound through thickening woods. Just a couple of turns along that path, and the only reminders of the openness of the water were the mist and the lichen floating from the branches like ghost hair.

Something shifted in the trees, a shadow within the shadows.

A deer? No, Twig knew the movement of a deer. At the old house in McKenna, whenever Mom's friends came over, Twig would skid down the ravine beyond the broken-down cars, away from the laughter that grated her ears. The river's reassuring song, washing everything else away, would sometimes be interrupted by the soft-snap footsteps of a fawn and doe. They'd look at her with their big brown eyes like Casey's, then go on working their way through the riverbed, accepting Twig as part of the woods.

The island's woods were different—denser, darker, deeper, powerful, and alone. Black-green evergreens wrapping themselves in shadow. And this movement was different too. Careful like a deer, but much bigger and paler—ghost-white.

Twig realized she'd stopped walking, that Mr. Murley and Casey were slipping out of view. Mr. Murley must not have noticed her absence, with the grinding and thunking of the bulky suitcase on the mud and gravel path.

There was a distinctive thump from the woods just behind Twig, and she froze.

A large white animal was barely visible through the tangle of early spring bramble, through the softening and shifting haze of the morning mist. A horse. The thump must have been its rider dismounting. It had to be Mrs. Murley or one of the other girls. But the chill creeping along Twig's spine, under her shell, told her otherwise.

Part hidden by the wood, part blurred by mist, the human figure stepped forward. The mist shifted and a ghostly pair of pale brown eyes locked with Twig's. Fearless, determined, searching eyes. Just the eyes and a messy pile of light brown hair were visible. A ghost boy.

The ghost boy slipped back into the trees. He moved like something that was used to being unseen, that was hidden as a manner of being, and not out of fear.

“Twig?” Mr. Murley called. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Murley was coming back for her, with Casey and the suitcase in tow.

Twig's eyes flicked at the woods again. A flurry of movement, then nothing. She ran to Mr. Murley's side. Mr. Murley looked down at her, concerned. Feeling silly for running to him, Twig pulled back. Casey caught her eye. She looked at the woods and then back at Twig. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned harder into Mr. Murley's side.

“Well,” Mr. Murley said, “good thing I didn't lose you already. Mrs. Murley would never let me hear the end of it.”

Twig hurried ahead, not quite running. The path widened to a gravel circle. A truck was parked there, pointed toward a dirt road. Twig hurried straight to it and climbed in, scooting over for Casey.

The boy's eyes kept glaring at her in her mind, unflinching, no matter how she tried to blink them away. He was one of the island's ghosts; he had to be. But that was stupid. There were no such things as ghosts. Mom believed in ghosts, but Mom was
Mom
.

“Glad you're anxious to see your new home,” Mr. Murley said as he entered the truck.

Anxious was an understatement. Right now Twig didn't care if it really was a prison; she wanted some walls between her and these woods and the ghost boy and his horse. A ghost horse. Just like the stories.

***

When they reached the end of the road, the sky opened up over a clearing and Twig could see the house in front of them, just like the pictures on the website—a big rambler painted a yellow whose sunniness could hardly be dampened by the drizzle. A white porch wrapped around the building. On one side of the house was a carport and a tractor shed, and on the other was a barn-red stable. Beyond the buildings lay the pastures—six acres of pasture, according to Island Ranch's website—all enclosed and divided into sections with split-rail fences.

The ranch looked welcoming, so long as Twig didn't glance at the forest that hunched over it, dark and hungry.

As they pulled up to a gate at the driveway entrance, a girl about nine years old came running out of the stable. Her hood flapped and her boots stomped. She waved and opened the gate.

The pony pastures were already fenced in, so what was the gate for? Maybe to keep the ghost riders out. Twig shivered, then assured herself it must be to keep out deer. She followed Casey out of the truck, and the other girl met them in the driveway.

Mr. Murley hefted her suitcase from the truck bed. “Twig, this is Janessa.”

“Hi.” Janessa smiled and extended a hand.

“Hi.” Something about Janessa caught Twig off guard and made her forget, until the word slipped out, that she had plans to say absolutely nothing. She remembered just in time to keep her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets.

Beyond the carport, the clouds shifted and a thin ray of sunlight peeked through. It felt different in the yard, with the gate shut securely, though it was silly to think a gate could shut out ghosts, could shut out the wild determination of the island. But even Mr. Murley seemed to truly relax now that they were home.

Home. Even without the hauntedness of the island, could this cheery yellow house, in its peaceful bubble of fenced-in pasture, really be home for someone like Twig?

Twig inched out of the shelter of the carport. The yard smelled like ponies, like they'd always been here, but the buildings still smelled of fresh paint.

Janessa ran ahead to the front door, dark brown frizz springing out of her braids with every bounce. Casey looked up at Twig uncertainly, as though she weren't quite sure what to do with her, but she stuck close by Twig's side. The fear of the woods had left Casey's eyes, and a rush of relief filled them, convincing Twig that she knew something about Ghost Boy.

Janessa threw the front door open, and the aroma of pancakes and bacon ushered them in, causing Twig's stomach to do a new flop that was more hunger and happiness than anxiety. She stiffened her shoulders back up and told herself she'd better not let herself relax so easily. Who knew what these people were really like?

The front door opened to a spacious entryway. A strip of indoor-outdoor carpet stretched to a row of shelves and coat hooks over wooden benches.

Mr. Murley held out his hand to Twig—for her jacket. Twig blinked at him, hesitating, then made her decision. She shrugged off her shell as if it were nothing, as if it hadn't kept everything that threatened to fall apart inside of her together where it belonged this morning. She let Mr. Murley take it and hang it up, but she kept her mini-backpack on. She removed her shoes, then the soppy socks. The floor was nice and warm. Everything was warm. Stupid as she knew it was, she wanted to forget about Ghost Boy, to forget about Keely, to forget about Daddy and everything else, and she wanted to like it here.

When Twig looked up, a small woman with fluffy, shoulder-length dark hair was standing in front of her, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down from where they'd been pushed up around her elbows.

“I'm Mrs. Murley.” She didn't try to shake hands; she went straight for the hug—quick but warm and soft. “We built this home for six girls, and now that you're here, Twig, it's complete. Welcome home, honey.” Twig made herself pull away, but Mrs. Murley pretended not to notice. “Girls!” she said. “Twig is here!”

Two girls ran into the entryway, and another lagged nonchalantly behind.

Taylor, Mandy, and Regina each introduced themselves, each offered her a hand to shake, and each gave her a knowing look when she didn't return the gesture. Mandy's smile looked more like a scowl, but the rest of them seemed okay.

“You're the oldest now.” Regina tossed her heavy ponytail over her shoulder. Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked Twig up and down. But apparently the Murleys had already drilled enough manners into her to prevent her saying what she was thinking—
You
sure
don't look it
.

“You're just in time for breakfast,” Mrs. Murley said.

Janessa smiled a great big smile. “On Saturdays we eat late, but we eat big.”

“You ladies go ahead and get started,” Mr. Murley said. “I had a bite before I left.” And he wheeled Keely's suitcase down the hall.

Twig followed the others through a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and a massive stone fireplace on another, into an open dining and kitchen area.

Casey stayed right at Twig's elbow until the other girls all began pulling out chairs and sitting at the table. Then she pulled one out and stepped aside. “Here's your seat, Twig.”

A great big mug was set there, its contents completely hidden by the pile of whipped cream oozing over the rim. Steam curled up from it like crooked fingers, beckoning Twig with rich, chocolaty promises.

“Thanks.”

Twig scooched her chair in and sat on her knees in order to be taller. The table was heaped with platters of pancakes and ham and bacon and potatoes. Sliced strawberries. Orange juice and milk. But no one was eating. Twig stopped with her hand halfway to her fork. What were they waiting for?

“Is it my turn?” Mandy's short blond curls sprang out with an exuberance that defied her saggy posture and her droopy eyes.

“No,” the girl called Taylor said, “it's mine.”

Mandy grabbed one of Twig's hands, Casey the other. Twig cringed. She slipped free of Mandy's grasp, and Mandy didn't fight it. But Twig peeked at Casey out of the corner of her eye—Casey, who was squeezing her hand tighter. Twig let her hold it.

Taylor bowed her tightly braided head. Her prayer was short and serious. When she said, “Amen,” Twig grabbed her fork and stabbed the biggest pancake on the platter. She hadn't had pancakes in ages.

Janessa seemed to be the talker of the group. She babbled on about the girls' ages and their ponies and what they were studying in school and whose chores were whose. Twig didn't pay much attention. There was some kind of thick apple cider syrup that kept begging her to pour more on; it was just about the best thing she'd ever tasted besides the hot chocolate, and she was busy cramming cider-soaked pancake into her mouth and wondering what someone so disgustingly cheerful as Janessa was doing here, on Lonehorn Island.

Twig raised her head to take a swig of hot chocolate, and Janessa locked eyes with her. “I'm a thief,” she blurted, as though she'd read Twig's mind.

“Ja
nessa
.” Taylor frowned. “Do you always have to do that?”

“Oh,” Twig said. Not reading her mind then. She swallowed a thick, chocolaty mouthful. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She had plans to sleep with her mini-backpack under her pillow anyway. The rest of her stuff, she didn't care about. Except the jacket. She liked that jacket now. But she didn't see how Janessa could get any use out of that without getting caught.

“That's in the past now,” Mrs. Murley said without a blink.

“Janessa has to tell everybody new who comes what she did.” Regina rolled her eyes.

Janessa shrugged. “Everybody has to tell, eventually.”

Janessa's eyes flicked to Twig. Twig had never said it, what she'd done. Would saying it over and over again make it shrink somehow? Maybe that was why Janessa did it. Or maybe it was just to challenge each new girl. Twig took another bite of pancake, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

“I almost killed my stepsister,” Twig said. “Could I have some more hot chocolate, please?” There. Now nobody had a chance to try to get her to tell.

Regina snorted. “Is that supposed to scare us?”

Twig shrugged. She supposed it should've scared them if it were true.

“Regina,” Mrs. Murley said sternly.

“Sorry.”

“Here.” Casey passed Twig a big white pitcher. “Hot chocolate.”

Mr. Murley joined them at the table. “Second breakfast,” he said cheerfully. “I must be turning into a hobbit.”

A couple of the girls giggled, but Twig didn't get the joke. She poured her hot chocolate, and the girls passed food and talked about ponies, like everything was normal. Like Twig was normal. Well, none of them were normal, or they wouldn't be here. And the Murleys weren't normal either, or they wouldn't be giving all these messed-up girls ponies to ride and hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles.

On a haunted island.

“We're the only ones here?” Twig aimed her question at Mrs. Murley. “On the island?”

To Twig's horror, the other girls stopped talking. Mrs. Murley smiled, and Twig knew that Keely had told them about the not talking thing. This was more than just a quick thanks or a snippy remark or a request for more food. It was an honest-to-goodness question, the kind that threatened to start an actual conversation.

“Just us girls and Mr. Murley.”

“No boys?”

Mr. Murley raised his eyebrows over his mug of coffee. Janessa giggled. Regina let out a sulky breath and rolled her dark eyes. She was a year younger than Twig, but Twig could tell she wanted to be older.

“No boys,” she said miserably.

“Except for the wild boy,” Casey said, barely above a breath.

So Casey had seen Ghost Boy, only she called him
the
wild
boy
. Twig recalled the wild, searching eyes.
Wild
seemed to suit him just as well.

Regina mumbled something about wishing there really were a wild boy, but Mrs. Murley said, “Casey, hon, we've talked about that.”

“I'm not telling stories,” Casey said.

“I like her stories,” Regina remarked.

Mrs. Murley smiled again. “So long as everyone understands that they're stories.”

Casey shut up, but she looked at Twig knowingly. Her eyes said,
You
know
he's real. You've seen him too.