Broken Branch by John Mantooth Page B

here.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œI’m leaving. Just like I planned. Otto was right, you know. This only makes me want out faster.”
    He came toward her fast, and for a second, she thought he might try to physically stop her, but then he pulled back, holding his hands up. “I’m not crazy, Trudy,” he said. “I care about you. I know that’s a sin, and I’ll probably burn in hell for it, but I can’t deny it anymore. I’ve watched you for so long. I . . .” He trailed off.
    Trudy stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for telling me. That took courage. It takes even more to look at what’s here and understand the truth. I hope you’ll find it before it’s too late, Ben.”
    With that, she turned and left him standing beside the willow tree. She didn’t look back, not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t afford to lift her eyes from the target: getting her children out of Broken Branch.

24
    She got lost. The trees and the wind and the light of the moon seemed to conspire with her fear to confuse her, to give rise to a swelling panic in her breast. What time was it? Which way back to the clearing? And when she found it at last, would it be too late? Morning would mean another day to wait. Another day and anything bad could happen, and then it might be too late, and her children would be sentenced to a life in Broken Branch, the unwitting victims of the evil that saturated the place like water does a sponge.
    Turning around in a wild panic, Trudy could think only of praying, because she was truly lost, but prayer seemed like a betrayal of sorts, a nod in the very direction she was trying to escape. It didn’t matter in the end, though. She prayed anyway. She said the words aloud, praying for calm, for direction, for the strength to defeat the fear that was trying to grow over her like creeping kudzu. One minute, she knew, you were fighting it, hacking away at the vines, and the next minute you were covered in it, buried deep, staring up at a sky blotted out by knots and twists and dark things that multiplied every time you closed your eyes in fear.
    By the time she realized she was in the quicksand, she was already sinking. She’d heard others talk of the quicksand, but she’d never actually been out to it before. She flailed, looking for something to grab hold of, for some purchase, but there was nothing. Her body stiffened and felt heavy. She was sinking. She was going to die.
    â€œYou’ll want to watch your step,” a voice said from behind her.
    There was one chilling instant when she thought the voice belonged to Otto, that he’d somehow found her, but then it came again, and she knew the voice belonged to someone else, someone older and wiser than Otto. It belonged to G.L.
    â€œGive me your hand.”
    A gnarled hand found hers and began pulling her back. He was weak—old and out of breath almost before he started—but as he pulled, she stepped gingerly and together they were able to get her body out. She lay, huffing, on dry ground. He knelt beside her.
    â€œYou’re a long way from home. Are you looking for the swamp?”
    She couldn’t say why, but she felt an overwhelming desire to tell him yes, that was exactly where she was going. Instead, she said, “No, I’m trying to get back home.”
    He stood up, the scars on his chest catching the moonlight as it filtered through the trees. They looked alive in the moonshine, and Trudy found that she had to resist the urge to touch them, to prod them with her finger and see how they responded.
    â€œAin’t we all?” he said.
    â€œCan you help me?”
    â€œI know these woods pretty good, so I reckon I can.”
    She stood up. “I’m sorry for the way Otto treated you,” she said.
    He shrugged. “I never did hold with no ministers. It’s the folks that claim to