awakened from it either.
Not many people his age had had friends die. And fewer yet had seen them die. No!—had been forced to watch them die. That was the worst thing Don could imagine: having to stand frozen in his tracks and see the person he loved best in the world, even including his mom and sis, be slowly drained of life and not be able to stop it. It wasn’t like he saw Mike at school one day, and then that night somebody called and said he was dead. That would have been a clean break, but without the force of finality because he had not witnessed the transition. But to observe the process, and to know …
He’d even missed the funeral—had still been in shock, the doctor said. And his mom had been so traumatized herself by the death of his sister (whom he’d never much liked because she never liked him, and besides she wasn’t a boy and didn’t understand him, as Mike had done instinctively) that she’d never taken time to talk to him about the loss of his best friend until the wall of his sorrow had grown too thick and high for anyone to breach.
And now, very simply, Don wanted to make his peace with Mike. He wanted to see him, and talk to him, and apologize to him, and tell him that he was sorrier than anybody had ever been or could be that he had not been able to save his life.
Not that he hadn’t tried to contact him before, of course. Shoot, he’d paid the fortune-teller at the Willacoochee County Fair a month’s allowance for a seance.
He’d asked her to call up his friend, but hadn’t told her the name ’cause he didn’t trust her. And she’d let him down. Oh, she’d got Mike’s name right, but everything else was wrong, so Don knew she was either a fraud or that some other Mike than his Mike had come calling in her crystal ball.
Since then… Well, one of his buddies had taken him to a witch-woman in the swamp who’d read his tea leaves, but she’d only mumbled about cars and girlfriends, which every guy his age wanted. He’d even bought a deck of tarot cards at a shop in Savannah and by slow degrees puzzled through their intricacies and double-talk. He’d brought them along tonight, too, just in case. But even they had been unable to put him in touch with his bro.
His friends had said he was nuts—but Don knew they were wrong. He had witnessed magic, had himself been snared by a paralysis spell and watched a shapechanging ogress devour his best friend’s liver. But even more spectacularly, he’d seen his Cherokee friend, Calvin, change into an eagle and assorted other critters! And if the world allowed for spell-songs and shape-shifters, somewhere it surely should admit some art that would let him talk to Michael one last time.
And what better place than here, where Mike had died? And what better time than tonight, when the moon was full and the anniversary of Mike’s death but four nights away? He probably should’ve chosen the day itself, but he didn’t think he was up to that, and his mom would be watching him like a hawk anyway. Besides, and much more practically, the forecast called for showers then.
Taking a deep breath, Don swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders and strode into the campsite. He scanned the sliver of open earth atop the riverbank—not much larger than two cars side by side—for a staging area, and finally chose a waist-high stump at the western end. His stomach growled as he plopped down there, reminding him yet again that he hadn’t eaten in over a day—doubtless another reason he was tired. That had been some trick, too: fasting without his mom being the wiser. But she was preoccupied with her own sorrows—as usual—and didn’t think it odd that he took his meals to his room—and flushed them down the john on the way.
But it was what you were supposed to do, darn it! It was what Calvin had done. And it was what it said to do in the Book.
The Book…a worn old pamphlet on Cherokee magic he’d found in the Hinesville library. He had it
Not many people his age had had friends die. And fewer yet had seen them die. No!—had been forced to watch them die. That was the worst thing Don could imagine: having to stand frozen in his tracks and see the person he loved best in the world, even including his mom and sis, be slowly drained of life and not be able to stop it. It wasn’t like he saw Mike at school one day, and then that night somebody called and said he was dead. That would have been a clean break, but without the force of finality because he had not witnessed the transition. But to observe the process, and to know …
He’d even missed the funeral—had still been in shock, the doctor said. And his mom had been so traumatized herself by the death of his sister (whom he’d never much liked because she never liked him, and besides she wasn’t a boy and didn’t understand him, as Mike had done instinctively) that she’d never taken time to talk to him about the loss of his best friend until the wall of his sorrow had grown too thick and high for anyone to breach.
And now, very simply, Don wanted to make his peace with Mike. He wanted to see him, and talk to him, and apologize to him, and tell him that he was sorrier than anybody had ever been or could be that he had not been able to save his life.
Not that he hadn’t tried to contact him before, of course. Shoot, he’d paid the fortune-teller at the Willacoochee County Fair a month’s allowance for a seance.
He’d asked her to call up his friend, but hadn’t told her the name ’cause he didn’t trust her. And she’d let him down. Oh, she’d got Mike’s name right, but everything else was wrong, so Don knew she was either a fraud or that some other Mike than his Mike had come calling in her crystal ball.
Since then… Well, one of his buddies had taken him to a witch-woman in the swamp who’d read his tea leaves, but she’d only mumbled about cars and girlfriends, which every guy his age wanted. He’d even bought a deck of tarot cards at a shop in Savannah and by slow degrees puzzled through their intricacies and double-talk. He’d brought them along tonight, too, just in case. But even they had been unable to put him in touch with his bro.
His friends had said he was nuts—but Don knew they were wrong. He had witnessed magic, had himself been snared by a paralysis spell and watched a shapechanging ogress devour his best friend’s liver. But even more spectacularly, he’d seen his Cherokee friend, Calvin, change into an eagle and assorted other critters! And if the world allowed for spell-songs and shape-shifters, somewhere it surely should admit some art that would let him talk to Michael one last time.
And what better place than here, where Mike had died? And what better time than tonight, when the moon was full and the anniversary of Mike’s death but four nights away? He probably should’ve chosen the day itself, but he didn’t think he was up to that, and his mom would be watching him like a hawk anyway. Besides, and much more practically, the forecast called for showers then.
Taking a deep breath, Don swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders and strode into the campsite. He scanned the sliver of open earth atop the riverbank—not much larger than two cars side by side—for a staging area, and finally chose a waist-high stump at the western end. His stomach growled as he plopped down there, reminding him yet again that he hadn’t eaten in over a day—doubtless another reason he was tired. That had been some trick, too: fasting without his mom being the wiser. But she was preoccupied with her own sorrows—as usual—and didn’t think it odd that he took his meals to his room—and flushed them down the john on the way.
But it was what you were supposed to do, darn it! It was what Calvin had done. And it was what it said to do in the Book.
The Book…a worn old pamphlet on Cherokee magic he’d found in the Hinesville library. He had it
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