52
THAIS
Jeffrey returned in the afternoon with everything Atticus told him he needed.
The three of us spent the rest of the day outside working on finding the perfect tree for the rowboat—which technically would be a dugout canoe—cutting it down and narrowly missing Jeffrey as it crashed to the earth.
“JEFFREEEY!” Atticus and I screamed as the tree went down with an ominous pop-pop-pop-craaack-snap. “NO! GET OUT OF THE WAAAY!” We waved our arms frantically at him, and he jumped aside just before the tree hit the ground with a thunderous crash.
When the sun set, Atticus told Jeffrey they’d pick up working on the rowboat tomorrow. Jeffrey hugged me and kissed my cheek and took off running for home so he could go to sleep and “hurry and wake up tomorrow” as was the routine for the next few days.
I dreamt of Shreveport one night—or what it might be like if conjured up by some glitter-wearing good witch with immeasurable kindness and power. My Shreveport was a city of golden streets and rising towers that glistened in the sunlight; the citizens wore the finest clothes: long flowing dresses of silk and satin, festooned with jewels and decorative lace; fine tailored suits and top hats and shiny black shoes. My Shreveport stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction, and as visitors approached, they could see on the horizon the great windmills and solar panels that drew energy from the sun and air to feed the city.
I slept through the night, through the heat and through Atticus tossing and turning next to me because he probably had no dreams to distract him from the discomfort of summer.
Rain pounded on the roof of the cabin, unaccompanied by thunder or lightning—just a much-needed downpour that darkened the daytime sky and saturated the parched ground. It had been so long since it rained that the grass had stopped growing and had turned yellow.
It was early in the morning, but long past the time Jeffrey normally rapped his knuckles on the door and announced his arrival.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked, looking out the window over the kitchen sink.
“I’m sure he’s all right. Probably just waiting for the rain to pass.”
“I don’t know,” I said, worried. “I don’t think Jeffrey would let the rain stop him.”
Atticus came around the bar toward me.
“He’s fine,” he said, and placed his hands on my shoulders from behind.
I continued to watch out the window, hoping any minute now Jeffrey would burst through the woods and come running toward the cabin with his big smiling face. But the only movement was the driving rain and the light winds that rustled the trees and the gray clouds that drifted slowly across the sky. The smell of rain filled my senses, and the earthy scent of wet soil and the sharp resin of pine trees that wafted through the screened window.
Atticus gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“Just give him some time,” he said, and pressed his lips to the top of my head. “I made you something.” There was a smile in his voice behind me.
I turned from the window.
“What is it?”
Atticus took me out onto the back porch; two handmade staffs were propped against the railing. He took one into his hands and held it out to me.
My eyes widened with amazement as they swept over the stunning, intricate carvings. I brushed the tip of my fingers over the smooth grooves that moved in a vine-like pattern. Then my fingers trailed down the center of the staff where text was carved amid the vines that read: ‘The Iron Feather’ in a calligraphic script.
“What do you think?”
I thought it was the best gift anyone had ever given me.
“This is so…wow,” I said, having a hard time finding the right words. “Remarkable!” I turned the staff around in my hands, admiring the artwork. “When did you have time to do this?”
“While working on Jeffrey’s rowboat,” he revealed. “Sat down to eat lunch one day, saw the stick, then the sandpaper next to my tools.”
He traded my staff for his.
“I didn’t put as much effort into mine,” he said.
“It’s still so pretty,” I said, examining his. “I’m not sure I want to use them to practice with—I don’t want to blemish them; you worked so hard. Look at this detail.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t make them for decoration,” he said, trading staffs again.
As I took my staff back, I ran my fingertip over the text.
“What does this mean, anyway?” I asked. “’The Iron Feather’.”
“Gotta have a warrior name,” he said, grinning. “I just liked the way it sounded, I guess. Would you rather something like ‘The Dangerous Pit Viper’?” (I giggled.) “Want to practice some while we wait for Jeffrey?”
I looked out at the streaming rain and the pools forming atop sections of the grass.
“In that?” I said, my eyebrows crinkled.
“Sure, why not?” Setting his staff against the porch railing, Atticus stripped off his shirt, took up the staff again on his way down the steps, and moved out into the downpour. “Not afraid of a little rain, are yah?”
I smirked, and then ran down the steps to join him.
We practiced long after the rain stopped falling, until my wrists ached from the shock of collision that ran up the wood and into my hands; and the way I held the staff, too tightly at times. It would take a while to get the hang of its use, but Atticus was patient.
And despite knife-defense being too close for comfort, Atticus taught me that, too, because it was true about the lack of ammunition, and he wanted me to have as much experience in the use of as many weapons as I could.
We practiced well into the afternoon—still no Jeffrey.
I was sitting on the soaked grass, crossed legs painted with mud, and I peered out at the pond.
“Something’s wrong,” I said. “I have a bad feeling.”
Atticus reached out his hand and lifted me to my feet.
“Let’s go check on Jeffrey.”
We packed lightly for the two-hour hike.
ATTICUS
I didn’t want to admit it to Thais, but Jeffrey’s absence worried me—like her, I had a bad feeling. I worried what we might find once we made it to the treehouse. Did someone attack Jeffrey’s family? If so, were they still there? Were Jeffrey, Esra, and June, still alive? These questions plagued me the whole way. And when we approached the supply cabin, I pushed Thais behind me and raised my gun out in front of me.
There were no signs of intruders; nothing had been destroyed; there weren’t even any footprints in the mud save our own; the supply cabin was still intact, and padlocked I saw when we made our way around to the back door near the edge of the bluff. No mud on the porch or the steps—no one had been here since the rain at least.
We left the cabin and walked the short distance through the woods toward the treehouse. Nothing was out of place—except for the makeshift elevator; it had been lowered to the ground and the fenced door left open, indicating Esra or June—maybe both—had left the treehouse. Jeffrey never used the elevator.
“Jeffrey!” Thais called out.
There was no response.
Then I glimpsed movement in the trees, past the skeletal remains of the old cabin that had burnt to the ground, and I took my binoculars from my backpack. I saw Esra first, toting a shovel over his shoulder, and then Jeffrey standing off to one side, his face hidden by tree limbs.
“Is it them?” Thais whispered.
I nodded, and that bad feeling settled deep in my gut.