Dreamwood by Heather Mackey

Poor’s Female Tonic, Dr. Kilmer’s Swamproot Kidney Cleanser, and many others. The proprietor of this medical wonderland was an Arthur Lyman: a man in his early fifties with a twitchy nose, untamed eyebrows, and an air of nervous energy that made Lucy think of a high-strung rodent.
    William Darrington had come here with an unusual request. He asked the apothecary to make up a tincture to stop dreams.
    â€œAnd it used some very expensive ingredients,” Mr. Lyman said petulantly. He clearly felt he’d not been well compensated for his potion.
    But he didn’t know why Lucy’s father didn’t want to dream. Nor where the ghost clearer had gone once he received his dreaming cure.
    They asked a few more questions. But the druggist made it clear that if they weren’t in the market for vitamin drops or a baldness tonic they were wasting his time. He turned his back on them and began unpacking a box of skin creams.
    â€œYou might try the Climbing Rose,” he told them, seeing they were still there. “A drinking establishment of the lowest sort.” He picked up a feather duster and applied it to one of his shelves.
    But as they turned to leave, one last thought occurred to Mr. Lyman. He stopped, poised with his feather duster in the air. “He is not
the
William Darrington, is he? Of Boston?”
    With a twist in her insides Lucy nodded. “Yes,” she said, feeling nothing good could follow this. “That’s him.”
    The druggist’s eyes turned bright with malice. “I
thought
so. Yes. Your father acted as if he were doing important research. But the William Darrington I’d heard of was famous for trying to save a rock because he claimed it housed a local deity.” He clucked his tongue. “I knew that man was a crackpot as soon as I set eyes on him.”
    â€œWhat’s he talking about?” Pete asked. “What rock?” He looked at her in confusion. But Lucy, too humiliated to answer, pushed through the door, Mr. Lyman’s laughter ringing in her ears.
    Once they were outside, Pete ran to catch up with her.
    â€œWhat was that about?” he asked. “Your father thought a rock was a god?”
    This made it sound even more ridiculous than it was. Pete had a smirk on his face, which she supposed she deserved after the way she’d treated his precious stone. If he wanted to get her back for it, he couldn’t have done any better, for the story was the most humiliating thing that had happened to her.
    â€œNo!” She crossed her arms. “Well, not exactly.”
    â€œWhat was it, then?” Pete shrugged as if he were simply curious. Maybe he didn’t want to make fun of her after all.
    Lucy went to the edge of the wooden sidewalk and leaned her elbows against the railing. She might as well tell him.
    â€œLiving things are alive, right?” she asked Pete. She didn’t expect him to understand what she was about to explain.
    Pete’s face contracted as he thought this over. “Er, yes.”
    â€œHow do you know?” She tilted her chin at him.
    â€œYou just know?” He sounded as if he knew this wasn’t the right answer.
    She shook her head. “There’s something that shows they’re alive. It’s an energy called the Od. Life energy. And you can measure it with a vitometer, which my father invented. People have more Odic force than, say, chipmunks. Ghosts are part of the Od, too. But they’re fainter.”
    So faint, her father had to create special oculars to see them.
    â€œOkay,” Pete said. “I
better
have more Od than a chipmunk.” He flexed his arm muscles to reassure himself.
    â€œBut then my father started thinking that he could detect the Od in things that weren’t alive. Rocks, rivers, caves . . .” Lucy frowned. This was where everything had started to go wrong.
    â€œThere was a big rock near where we lived, the Maran Boulder.