Wonder Light (8 page)

Rain Cloud let out an impatient breath, making Twig's hair tickle the back of her neck.

“Be good. I'm almost done.” Twig patted him absently, then went back to darkening the shadows beneath the wild violets she was sketching at the edge of the meadow.

Maybe she'd send this one to Daddy too. Yesterday she'd gotten a letter from him, telling her he'd gotten her drawings, all of plants growing on the island. She'd felt like the old Twig he'd loved.

But was that who she was anymore? One day he'd come back and he'd realize she was still the snapped-in-half Twig. The Twig that had seen and done too many bad things. Then what?

“Aaah!” a shriek from the edge of the woods interrupted the quiet footsteps and laughter of the girls in the meadow, the nickers and tail swishes of their ponies. “Look!” Taylor said.

Twig dropped her sketchbook and plunged through the ferns with Mrs. Murley and the other girls.

“Ew!” Janessa scrunched her eyes shut.

Mandy reached for Casey's hand. Regina looked pale.

At their feet were the remains of a raccoon. But that wasn't all. Around it, the brush had been trampled. Leaves were marked with blood.

“What do you think did it?” Taylor asked Mrs. Murley.

“Maybe we have a mountain lion here on the island,” Mrs. Murley said.

Stomach churning, Twig bent down and examined the ground. It wasn't marred by paw prints; it was gouged with the distinctive pattern of hooves—cloven hooves. Taylor knelt next to her.

“A deer?” She looked questioningly at Twig.

Twig shrugged, but her heart was pounding. She took a big step back. “Come on. Let's get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Regina said. “This is gross.”

Twig ran for the open sky and the tall meadow grass. She stuffed her sketchbook in her backpack and mounted Rain Cloud.

Maybe when they got back, she'd try to slip away to Ben's hollow and look for him again. She'd only checked for him there once and found the hollow empty. Then she'd worried that she would be followed there and he'd be discovered.

The hungry howls had died down after the night Wild Light was born, but they'd come back a few nights ago. Distant, but for how long? Now she knew that Dagger wasn't gone. But was Ben? Sometimes she thought about riding Rain Cloud off the trails and looking for Ben. Rain Cloud minded Twig now, and Twig rode well enough too. But Rain Cloud wouldn't veer off the path into the woods. None of the ponies would, not for Twig or for anyone else.

Sometimes, when she was standing at the stove stirring the syrup and watching Mrs. Murley drop pancake batter onto the electric skillet, she wanted to tell her about Ben. She imagined Mrs. Murley's concern, her sending Mr. Murley after Ben, then Mr. Murley bringing him inside, where it was warm. But something told her Ben would not be found. And he wouldn't come if he were. For so long, Twig hadn't wanted to tell people things. Now she had people she wanted to tell, and too many things she had to keep secret instead—the truth about what had happened to her stepsister, Emily. The unicorns. Ben.

June

Twig leaned against the corner of Wild Light's stall, balancing her sketchbook against her chest. “Stay right there, girl. That's good.”

Wild Light was grown enough that Twig had to lift her chin up a little to look into her eyes. She was strong and sleek and beautiful, and still pure white, except for her pale silver-gray mane and tail.

Twig had learned that when it came to drawing, white was more than just white. Slowly, gradually, she shaded the shadows that defined Wild Light's shape. Twig took her gum eraser from the pocket of her shell and rubbed at a highlight that had gotten smudged, to make it whiter again. She blew off the eraser bits, stuck the ebony pencil in her mouth, and used her fingertips to blend the soft, dark graphite and smooth the edge between shadow and highlight.

Wild Light's ears perked up, and she nickered—her nicker that meant,
Hello
.
Hello,
friend
. Twig heard the stable door shut. She frowned. She'd been concentrating so hard on her drawing, she'd missed the sound of it opening. Who would be out here this late? Mr. and Mrs. Murley knew she was in the stable sketching. Maybe it was later than she thought and they'd sent one of the girls to get her. She lowered her pencil and peered over the stall wall.

Ben's light brown eyes stared back at her. She dropped her pencil in the wood shavings.

“Hi,” she managed to say.

“Hello.” He pushed the hood of his cloak back. His hair was longer now, though the ends of the waves looked like someone had sawed at them with a knife. “I come in here at night sometimes, to see her. When no one else is here.”

“Me too.”

He gestured at the stall door with his head. “Can I come in?”

“Oh.” Twig tucked her sketchbook under her arm and reached for the latch, but he opened it himself first.

Wild Light went right to him and nuzzled his head. Ben laughed softly and rubbed her neck. “Wild Light,” Ben whispered in her ear. “This Twig girl wasn't born a herder, but she'll make you a good enough rider just the same, I think.”

Herder? Rider? Twig wanted to ask Ben what he meant; she wanted to ask him so many things. But his attention was focused on Wild Light. He whispered to her and listened to her soft, breathy answers, and Twig knew better, after these months at Island Ranch, than to interrupt that sort of conversation.

When he and Wild Light were done talking, Ben plucked the pencil out of the bedding and handed it to Twig. “Can I see?” He gestured at the sketchbook.

Twig shrugged. Before, she would've refused. Now that she was used to the girls peeking over her shoulder all the time, she felt only the slightest knot in her stomach as she folded the sketchbook cover back and held it out to Ben.

He studied the drawing and one corner of his mouth turned up. She'd drawn Wild Light leaping, dancelike. She'd been sketching her at play in the pasture most of the day, and now she'd come in here with her for a closer look, to fill in the details on her final drawing—the drawing she was going to send to Daddy. It was something more than flowers and leaves this time. Something new.

“It's amazing,” Ben said, “but something's missing.”

Oh. “What?”

Ben passed the sketchbook back to her. He reached his hands up to Wild Light's head, worked his fingers through the silky mass of her forelock, and rubbed them in a circular motion.

A white tip poked through the forelock. Slowly, it lengthened, turning as it did so, like a twist of rope unwinding. It was pure white.

“Her horn! I kept expecting it to pop out like magic, but it never did.”

Ben smiled a crooked, impish little smile, looking, just for an instant, like a very different boy. “I told you, it's not magic. It's retractable. See how her head curves up a little higher than your ponies'? There's an extra space there. The horn is hollow. Most of it slides within itself, and it pulls back into that space—the cornal cavity.”

Twig's mouth dropped open.
Cornal
cavity?

“Don't worry,” Ben assured her. “I can coax it back down.”

“I did that,” Twig recalled in a whisper. “After her mother died. I saw you do it with Mys—with Wind Catcher.”

He nodded. “They only extend their horns when they're around other unicorns, but they'll let a rider draw it out or ease it in if he asks right.”

“Why'd she let me?”

“She trusted you,” Ben said, as though that were obvious.

Twig felt a brief flicker of pride but quickly checked it. Wild Light had been so new to the world then, so alone and afraid, she probably would have trusted anyone.

Twig put her hand on the side of the horn; she was afraid that if she touched the end of it, she might accidentally push it, and it would go down again. She traced the slight ribbing that spiraled around it with her finger. It was so smooth, almost sharp. Ben let her admire it in peace.

After a minute, she stood back and opened her sketchbook to a fresh page and she sketched just the horn. It wasn't so bad, drawing with Ben there. He was quiet, and he looked at Wild Light, not at her.

“I'll add it to the drawing of Wild Light tomorrow,” she said. “I'll show you—if I see you again.”

“You'll see me. Soon.”

Then he took her hand and placed it on the tip of the horn. “Go on. Just a little push.”

That was all it took, just a gentle, steady pressure, until the horn disappeared into Wild Light's forelock, and she was something unnameable again.

“I'd better go,” Ben said. “Indy gets impatient.”

“He probably worries about you,” Twig said, then blushed and ducked her head quickly, afraid she'd revealed her own concern.

“Of course he does,” Ben said matter-of-factly. “There's enough to worry about. For anybody,” he added.

Twig looked back up, but this time Ben was avoiding her eyes. “I have to go too,” she said. “To go in.”

“I'll see you.” Ben pulled his cloak around him and swept out of the stable into the night, alone. At least he had Indy. That was something. Much more than she'd realized it could be before she'd gotten to know Wild Light.

As Twig headed back to the house, she considered adding the horn to the drawing in her room tonight. Casey wouldn't complain if she turned on her flashlight. Once the drawing was done, she'd be able to see Wild Light as she was meant to be, whenever she wanted.

No, the Murleys were waiting to look at it, and all the girls wanted to see it. If they saw that picture of Wild Light with her horn, would they think Twig just had an imagination, or would that be just what it took for them to understand what Wild Light really was? She couldn't risk that.

She could draw Wild Light with her horn, but she'd have to wait until after she showed them the drawing without it. Then she'd have Mrs. Murley make some copies of the drawing with the printer, and she'd use one of them, along with her sketches of the horn, to draw a new, complete picture of Wild Light with her horn.

Twig knelt on the cool, wet sand beside the other girls. They were writing their names in the sand with their fingers. She traced the outline of a unicorn instead. Even in the mid-June sun, the sand was cold and it hurt when it ground too far under her nails, so Twig headed for the tree line to find a stick.

Mr. and Mrs. Murley knelt on a blanket on the dry sand farther up the beach, packing what was left of the picnic. With their schoolwork done for the year, they'd all decided to take a hike after their morning chores, rather than riding.

They'd climbed up to Bald Peak, the highest point on the island. The steep hill was capped with smooth rock, free of trees, offering a stunning view of the shoreline and of Cedar Harbor beyond. Twig had turned to head back down the slope and taken in the view of the island itself. A mass of fog covered the interior of the island. On the sunniest of days, in the deep of the woods, Lonehorn Island was still Lonehorn Island.

Twig bent to pick up a stick but quickly stood when she glimpsed movement in the woods. The movement stopped, and Twig wondered if it was only wishful thinking. Then she saw it again—a hand raised, partly obscured by the brush. It had to be Ben. Twig dropped the stick.

“I'm going to go over there and read, okay?” she called to the Murleys, loud enough that Ben could hear. She pointed to an outcrop of rock about a hundred yards away.

“Sure, Twig,” Mr. Murley said. “Just don't go so far you can't hear us, okay?”

“Okay.”

Twig ran across the sand, barefoot, and scrambled up the rough rock, then slowed down to step carefully around the slippery black areas, where sea urchins and barnacles waited for the tide to come in. She slid down the other side of the rock and into the sand.

Ben was right there, waiting. He stepped back awkwardly. It was strange to see him out in the open, in the sunshine. He seemed different than he had in the stable.

“Hi,” Twig made herself say.

“Hi. I heard you say you were coming over here to read. Is that what you keep in there? Books?”

Twig never showed anyone what was in her backpack. Most of the girls had never asked. The others only asked once. But Ben's eyes were red, like he'd been crying.

She took off her backpack, stepped into a niche in the rock, and sat down on the sand. “No one can see us here. We'll hear them coming first.”

He sat beside her, and she took out the only book in her backpack, a little Bible Mr. Murley had given her, and laid it on the sand.

He nodded at it. “I had a lot of my own books, back home.”

It was difficult to imagine Ben having a home other than the island, to imagine Ben sitting indoors, reading a book. She opened the backpack and took out a carefully folded piece of paper. She'd made just one copy of this drawing; she'd had to sneak into the Murleys' office to do it.

“It's for you.”

“Thanks.”

Ben unfolded the paper and held it up in the sunlight. Wild Light danced across the page. Twig had shaded the sky around her, so she could show the light glinting off the point of her horn. Sometimes she imagined it was sunlight, sometimes moonlight.

“Wow,” Ben said.

“I wish I could see her, just like that. Leaping in the pasture, but with her horn.”

“Me too. And I wish my father could see her.”

Ben let his hair fall over his face. He folded the picture back up and set it aside.

“Want to see a picture of my dad?” Twig regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. His dad was dead; why would he want to see hers?

But Ben said, “Sure.”

Twig took the portrait of Daddy in his dress uniform from her backpack and handed it to Ben. Then she took out a bright orange fishing lure and a picture of her and Mom all dressed up. Daddy wasn't in that picture because he'd taken it. His princesses, he'd called them. And she'd really felt like one that day.

She told Ben about the first fish she'd caught with Daddy. She told him about the fancy dinner he'd treated them to for her fifth birthday, right after Daddy took that picture. Ben leaned in intently as she spoke, and then he leaned back against the rocks in a satisfied way when she was finished.

“Those are great stories, Twig.”

She nodded. He believed them. He believed them because they were true. It was so hard for them to feel true to her anymore. He handed back the pictures and the fishing lure, and her eyes wandered to the leather pack at his hip. She'd never noticed it before. His cloak had always covered it.

He saw her looking and said, “I don't have any stories in there. Just lunch.” He picked up the Bible. “I miss stories.”

“You can have it. You must get…bored.”
Lonely,
she'd almost said, but she didn't want to embarrass him. “Besides, you like miracles, and that's what it's about—miracles.”

Ben slipped it, then the drawing, into the leather pouch at his hip. “It will be safe there.” He tapped the pouch nervously. Abruptly he stood up. “Come on. I have something to show you. Something too big to fit in here.”

“Where are we going? I don't know if I should…”

“I just want to show you my home. That's all.”

“Oh.” Twig imagined a little cave, perhaps tucked away along the coastline. Was it warm and cozy or damp and gloomy? Maybe it wasn't a cave at all, but a treehouse! High up in the cedars, safe from the wild unicorns.

She followed him around the rocks, over a pile of driftwood, and into the lichen-draped trees. Under her bare feet, the sand gave way to dirt.

Ben paused a few yards into the woods and picked up his quiver and bow, which he'd left tucked between some tree roots.

There was a flutter of green in the air, brighter than the evergreens surrounding them. “Mr. Murley's bird!” It swooped right toward them.

Ben smiled and held out his arm and made a cooing noise. “
My
bird. Emmie.”

The bird perched on Ben's arm and made expectant pecking motions at his sleeve. Ben took a pinch of seeds from his pocket and held them out.

“Open your hand.” He dropped the seeds into Twig's palm, and the bird leaned toward it, but it still clung to Ben's sleeve. “Hold it closer. Next time she'll go to you, I think.”

“Is she some kind of parrot?” Twig admired the emerald-green plumage and the amber-colored beak pecking the seeds out of her hand.

“She's a letter pigeon. Look at her leg.”

Twig examined the tiny leather tube attached to one of the pigeon's legs.

“She's the most beautiful pigeon I've ever seen. How many creatures do you have?”

“Just her and Indy.”

“Where
is
Indy?”

“You'll see.”

Ben pulled his cloak around him and strode deeper into the trees, Emmie riding on his shoulder. Twig stumbled after him, head down, seeking the softest places to set her bare feet.

When Ben stopped, she almost bumped right into his back. Twig looked up, and there was Indy. The unicorn stallion shook his head and snorted softly. His ears were flattened. One ear turned at their approach, but the other he tuned straight ahead, at a strangely thick wall of fog. A shroud wrapped around the trees in the middle of the island.

The sun was warm on Twig's back, but seeing that net of misty white just a few paces away made goose bumps rise along her skin. The frightening fog of her first moments on Lonehorn Island had hidden in the woods, waiting to creep out over the rest of the island again—or for Twig to wander in.

Ben said hello to Indy. Then, with Emmie the pigeon still perched on his shoulder, he stepped into the mist. It folded around him, swallowing him whole.

“Ben!” Without thinking, Twig lunged after him.

Ben's misty form paused. “You cannot tell anyone about this.”

Twig's heart pounded. The moist wind whistled in her ears,
You
don't belong here, Twig. Get out. Get out while you can
.

Twig just nodded at Ben. What would she say, anyway?
I
know
where
the
mist
hides, even when the sun comes out? I know where to find the island's secrets?
Twig hugged herself tight. Hadn't enough of the island's secrets found her already? She didn't need any more to keep.

“Twig!” A real voice this time, solid and familiar, piercing the fog with a hint of out-of-place sunshine.

It was Janessa, somewhere in the woods nearby, looking for her.

“I have to go, Ben.”

“I need your help,” Ben blurted. “Please. Don't go.”

Twig glanced over her shoulder. She knew Ben was the kind of boy who wasn't used to asking, let alone begging. The word
please
sounded like it almost got stuck on the way out. She didn't want to say no, but how could she say yes to moving even one step farther into that strange, swirling chill? Why did she need to be here with him? How could
she
help?

But Ben took her hand, and her feet moved forward, after his, into the whispering veil. She shook off a shudder and tried to tell herself there was nothing strange going on. This was just a spot where the fog collected, and Ben was just a lonely boy.

A few moments later, Ben stopped again. He let go of Twig's hand and glanced back at her.

“This is where you live?” she asked.

Ben gestured at a cluster of hemlocks whose branches swept through the curtain of mist, to the forest floor.

“In there. Through there.”

Ben pushed the evergreen branches open and stood aside for Twig. Emmie flew in first, her vibrant plumage becoming a dull blur in the cloudlike air. Twig entered the shadows of the branches after the bird. Those shadows were so deep, too dark for day. Lightened only by the misty white that hung in the air, thicker than ever. Twig stumbled backward and the boughs snagged at her hair. Ben caught her wrist, steadying her.

She emerged on the other side of the trees. Now she stood in the center of a ring of low-growing hemlocks clustered near the base of the massive, fluted trunk of a much older red cedar. No signs of a treehouse. Nothing that said
home
.

Emmie darted past. A breeze wafted through the mist, smelling musty, yet nothing like Lonehorn Island, or western Washington even. Nothing like the world Twig knew.

Emmie cooed. Far away, another pigeon returned her cry. Twig looked up just in time to see Emmie disappear into the lichen-draped branches of the red cedar. A flash of light illuminated a little circle of the mist, and for an instant, Emmie glittered jewel green.

Then the light was gone, and an eerie breeze, stirring up the mist rather than clearing it away, made the only sound, a faint swishing—until the branches snapped down behind Twig, locking her in.