have some pleaching, here and there. By now it's been going on so long that these galls are all over the place. Galls mark the spots where two worlds flow into each other. And they tend to be magical places. Sacred groves, haunted pools, and so forth. Your Summerland is just such a place."
"So, okay, Summerland is in my world and this one," Ethan said, to Cinquefoil as much as to Cutbelly, hoping to demonstrate that he was not totally hopeless. "At the same time. And that's why it never rains there?"
"Never can tell what's going to happen around a gall," Cutbelly said. "All kinds of wonderful things. A dry sunny patch of green in a land of endless gray and drizzle is just one of the possibilities."
"And now this Coyote wants to cut the worlds apart again?"
Cutbelly nodded.
"But why?" Ethan said.
"Because that's what Coyote does, among a thousand other mad behaviors. He wanders around the Tree, with his Rade of followers, and wherever he finds the worlds pleached together he lops them right apart. But this local gall is tucked away in such a remote corner of the Worlds that he's missed it until now."
"Okay," Ethan said. "I get it. I mean, I sort of get it. But, I mean, you know, I sort of agree with the whole idea of how I'm a, well, a kid . Like, I don't know how to use a, what, like a sword , or even ride a horse, or any of that stuff, if that's what I'm supposed to do."
Nobody said anything for a long time. It was as if they had all been hoping in spite of themselves that Ethan was going to rise to the occasion and come up with a plan for saving Summerland. Now that hope was gone. Then, from the edge of the meadow, there was a scornful laugh. They all turned in time to see a crow—the same great black bird, Ethan would have sworn, that he and Cutbelly had seen earlier—take to the sky. Some of the ferishers unslung their bows. They nocked arrows to their bowstrings and let fly. The arrows whistled into the sky. The black bird took no notice of them. Its wings beat slowly, lazily, with a kind of insolence, as if it thought it had all the time in the world. Its rough laughter caught the breeze and trailed behind it like a mocking streamer.
"Enough o' this," the chief said, at last, his face grim and his tone gruff and commanding. He tossed the tiny baseball to Ethan again. This time Ethan just managed to hold on to it as it came stinging into his palm. "Let's go talk ta that crazy old clam."
THEY TROOPED ACROSS THE MEADOW, PAST THE GLEAMING ballpark, and down to the beach. Here in the Summerlands, in the Birchwood, there was no ruined hotel, no collapsed dance hall or pier. There was just the long dark stretch of muddy sand, with the ghostly trees on one side of it and the endless dark green water stretching away on the other. And, in the middle of it all, that big gray log of ancient driftwood, spiky and half-buried, on which he and his father had once sat and shared a lunch of chicken sandwiches and hot chicken soup from the thermos. Was it the same log, Ethan wondered? Could something really exist in two different worlds at the same time?
"That bristly old chunk of wood is the gall, some say," Cutbelly told him. "The place where the worlds are jointed fast."
They seemed in fact to be headed right toward it.
"But I thought you said the Tree was invisible, and untouchable," Ethan said. "Immaterial."
"Can you see love? Can you touch it?"
"Well," Ethan said, hoping it was not a trick question. "No, love is invisible and untouchable, too."
"And when your pap puts on that big Roosters jersey of his, and sits there watching you in the bleachers with the smile never leaving his face? And slaps palms with you after a game even though you struck out four times looking?"
"Huh," Ethan said.
"Some things that are invisible and untouchable can nevertheless be seen and felt."
They had reached the driftwood log. At a gesture from Cinquefoil a dozen or more ferishers got down on their knees and began, slowly and with a
"So, okay, Summerland is in my world and this one," Ethan said, to Cinquefoil as much as to Cutbelly, hoping to demonstrate that he was not totally hopeless. "At the same time. And that's why it never rains there?"
"Never can tell what's going to happen around a gall," Cutbelly said. "All kinds of wonderful things. A dry sunny patch of green in a land of endless gray and drizzle is just one of the possibilities."
"And now this Coyote wants to cut the worlds apart again?"
Cutbelly nodded.
"But why?" Ethan said.
"Because that's what Coyote does, among a thousand other mad behaviors. He wanders around the Tree, with his Rade of followers, and wherever he finds the worlds pleached together he lops them right apart. But this local gall is tucked away in such a remote corner of the Worlds that he's missed it until now."
"Okay," Ethan said. "I get it. I mean, I sort of get it. But, I mean, you know, I sort of agree with the whole idea of how I'm a, well, a kid . Like, I don't know how to use a, what, like a sword , or even ride a horse, or any of that stuff, if that's what I'm supposed to do."
Nobody said anything for a long time. It was as if they had all been hoping in spite of themselves that Ethan was going to rise to the occasion and come up with a plan for saving Summerland. Now that hope was gone. Then, from the edge of the meadow, there was a scornful laugh. They all turned in time to see a crow—the same great black bird, Ethan would have sworn, that he and Cutbelly had seen earlier—take to the sky. Some of the ferishers unslung their bows. They nocked arrows to their bowstrings and let fly. The arrows whistled into the sky. The black bird took no notice of them. Its wings beat slowly, lazily, with a kind of insolence, as if it thought it had all the time in the world. Its rough laughter caught the breeze and trailed behind it like a mocking streamer.
"Enough o' this," the chief said, at last, his face grim and his tone gruff and commanding. He tossed the tiny baseball to Ethan again. This time Ethan just managed to hold on to it as it came stinging into his palm. "Let's go talk ta that crazy old clam."
THEY TROOPED ACROSS THE MEADOW, PAST THE GLEAMING ballpark, and down to the beach. Here in the Summerlands, in the Birchwood, there was no ruined hotel, no collapsed dance hall or pier. There was just the long dark stretch of muddy sand, with the ghostly trees on one side of it and the endless dark green water stretching away on the other. And, in the middle of it all, that big gray log of ancient driftwood, spiky and half-buried, on which he and his father had once sat and shared a lunch of chicken sandwiches and hot chicken soup from the thermos. Was it the same log, Ethan wondered? Could something really exist in two different worlds at the same time?
"That bristly old chunk of wood is the gall, some say," Cutbelly told him. "The place where the worlds are jointed fast."
They seemed in fact to be headed right toward it.
"But I thought you said the Tree was invisible, and untouchable," Ethan said. "Immaterial."
"Can you see love? Can you touch it?"
"Well," Ethan said, hoping it was not a trick question. "No, love is invisible and untouchable, too."
"And when your pap puts on that big Roosters jersey of his, and sits there watching you in the bleachers with the smile never leaving his face? And slaps palms with you after a game even though you struck out four times looking?"
"Huh," Ethan said.
"Some things that are invisible and untouchable can nevertheless be seen and felt."
They had reached the driftwood log. At a gesture from Cinquefoil a dozen or more ferishers got down on their knees and began, slowly and with a
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