The Witching Wind, page 18
It’s as if the Witching Wind is in a playful mood. And I’m glad to see it.
Bring it on, Hannah True.
On Saturday morning, Grayson is up at 6:00 a.m.—as usual—sipping some of John Cotton’s finest espresso beans in the kitchen. This morning, John Cotton is at the table with her.
“You excited about today?” he asks. He’s not as good at making conversation as Gia. But he tries.
“I’m neutral over the outdoorsy part, honestly.” Grayson sets her coffee mug on the table. “But I . . . I feel something about this morning. It’s like a tiny tornado down in my gut. Is that indigestion or nerves?”
“Maybe both? That’s how I feel when I get nervous.”
Grayson takes another bitter sip of bean water. (Because technically, that’s what it is, right? It’s bean water. And Gia Cotton doesn’t think it’s the best morning drink for twelve-year-olds. But she lets Grayson have a tiny cup.)
“Well, Gia and I, we’re stoked to meet your friends. I’m glad they’re coming to pick you up,” says Mr. Cotton.
“Yep,” Grayson says. Then she worries the word came out too sharp. “I mean, yes, thanks for letting me.” She raises her mug. “Best wishes.”
“Uh . . . best wishes.” He raises his mug, too.
The awkwardness doesn’t last long. For whatever reason, Grayson always feels at peace in this kitchen.
Maybe it’s because there’s a big window full of Freya’s handprints. Or maybe it’s the view past that, the ripply blue Smoky Mountains. Maybe it’s because the house smells like cinnamon and sweet memories. Whatever the reason, Beanie would love it here.
Because . . . sometimes Grayson loves it here.
Home has only ever been a person to Grayson. Home is Beanie. But maybe, just maybe, Beanie will love this place, too. Maybe they can stay for a little longer before they head to New York.
The Cottons even helped Grayson get permission from Donna to go on this trip. Grayson wasn’t sure it would happen at first—especially since she already left once without telling them. But all the essential grown-ups have signed off on this adventure, so she’s good.
Now, Grayson can focus on getting Beanie back. And how’s that going to work, exactly? She goes to this mountain to find a cave and the magical wind that sleeps there and . . . what? Demand the wind return her sister? Demand Ruthie Darling’s memories back from the witch?
Gia Cotton pads into the kitchen wearing fuzzy house slippers, Freya propped on her hip. “Grayson, want to help me make biscuits? I can show you how to do it—”
But Freya unleashes a wild animal squeal. She bucks against her mom and makes grabby hands. At Grayson.
“I can hold her,” Grayson says. Then her eyes go wide at the words that just came out of her own mouth.
“Are . . . you sure?” Gia Cotton asks. “She won’t be too heavy?”
“Nope,” Grayson squeaks out the word. “She’s little. She’s not gonna break me. I won’t get up with her and walk around or anything. But if she wants me to, I don’t mind.”
So just like that, Gia hands over the sleepy toddler monster who quiets in Grayson’s lap. Freya pulls the disgusting, slobber-filled blanket she always carries up under her chin. Then she rests her head on Grayson’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” Gia Cotton says. John goes back to reading and Gia starts pulling stuff out of the cabinets. And Grayson holds a kid and looks out the window at the sun rising up over the mountain in the far, far distance. The one they’ll be climbing. The one where the wind or a witch—or both—will be waiting for them.
And yet . . . What she feels, right this second—whatever this feeling is—makes her completely, weirdly, wonderfully brave enough to go for it.
Then, there’s a knock at the door.
“Interesting,” John Cotton says, standing up from the table. “What’s Donna Chin doing here?”
Club Yeehaw is smooshed tightly into a van Colette borrowed from Weezie’s bakery. Loretta suggests a group sing-along as we head toward the Smokies. But Colette declares we’ll all be walking—or wheeling—home on our own if we start singing. Since we’re only 90 percent sure she’s joking, we just chat for the first half of the drive. Well, almost all of us chat. Grayson is oddly quiet as we roll along. I figure she just needs some time to herself. Or maybe she’s taking in the view. As the road finally begins its twisty ascent to our campsite near Mount LeConte, the woods start playing tricks on my eyes. The evergreens seem to get even taller, so high I wonder if there’s stardust stuck in their branches. The terrain changes from rolling green hills to jagged mountain rocks. The tree trunks become moss covered. Drifts of fog swirl in ghostly patches from the high peaks around us.
The world around me suddenly looks more like a fortress than a refuge. Maybe those words mean the same thing. This place is kinda the same as where I grew up. Sort of. But perspective is a funny thing.
Granny always told me to be proud of being a mountain girl. And the mountains have always felt like a refuge for me: They surround me and hold my dreams and hold my songs. Now, for the first time in my life, these same mountains look made for climbing. Grayson says the Appalachian Mountains might be the oldest in the world. And it’s like I can feel that history the deeper we go—it’s thicker than the fog around us. It’s like the mountains want to tell me their secrets. Like they brought me here to remind me, yes, they are a refuge. They’re a fortress, too. And they’ll show me what I’m capable of, if I let them.
We unload in a gravel parking lot near clusters of campsites and grab all our gear.
“Our campsite is just around the corner up there,” Colette says. “We’ll set it all up. Then, if there’s still no wind, we’ll take the trail Eli found.”
“The one with the unique specimen of mountain laurel!” Eli winks at us. Really, Eli is just trying to get us as close to the coordinates as possible. Then we have two separate plans to get to the cave: Operation Corvus. And, also, Operation Barf Bag.
Colette brought along her Utility Terrain Vehicle, better known as an UTV, so Grayson could get around with us. Colette gets behind the wheel while Grayson and I slide in beside her. Eli and his mom chat in the back seat as we head toward the campsite.
“Hey,” I whisper, “is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Grayson says flatly. “And you?”
“I’ve got the Dreads,” I tell her in a low voice.
“We got this,” she reminds me. “Just look up if you don’t believe me.”
In a scraggly oak tree stretched out over the green, where Colette tells us to set up our tents, two crows sit shoulder to inky shoulder on a leafy limb.
These mountains are magic, I think.
They are a refuge. They are a fortress.
Over the next hour, Ameerah moves speedily around us all and sets up tents in record time. “I have a badge in this,” she informs us as we watch in awe.
Even Colette is impressed. She stands in front of Ameerah’s tent, hands on hips, and simply says, “Wow.”
This is a word I haven’t heard her say since she taught Hog to sit.
Mars and I try to help. Sadly, neither of us has a badge in Tents. It shows. And Colette mumbles something about how this is the worst decision she’s ever made.
“All right, minions,” Colette says, after our camp is in place. “Gather round. Eli and Sheriff Garrett are here at base camp using drone technology to track our trip for your project. Easy hike. Pictures of rogue butterflies. That’s . . . it?”
“That’s it!” Mars gives her a big thumbs-up. He’s terrible at lying. We all are. That’s a by-product of being dorks.
Ernie leans over and whispers nervously. “I didn’t realize Eli’s mom was Sheriff Garrett. Hope that doesn’t ruin the plan.”
Mars rolls his eyes and whispers, “It’s not like it’s illegal to chase the wind!”
“I will be on the UTV with Grayson,” Colette says, marching past us. Then she looks around. “Where is Grayson? Oh geez, did we lose one already?”
“Here,” Grayson says, climbing out of the tent. She slaps the tent flap shut like she’s angry with it. I lean over and help her stand up and climb back into the golf cart. “Thanks,” she mumbles.
But something about her is different.
Something is off.
Beneath her sunglasses, her eyes look rimmed red, like she’s been crying.
“Hey . . .” I whisper. “Are you . . .”
“I’m fine, Roxie.” She pulls a notebook from her backpack. “Let’s do this.”
Club Yeehaw and I exchange a look. Grayson is always salty. But this is grumpy even for her.
“I want no whining.” Colette paces back and forth among us like a drill sergeant. “No freaking out over wildlife. Drink lots of water. Jump in the UTV with Grayson if you get tired. This is not a long hike. This is not an arduous hike. You will be fine if you don’t act like morons.”
“Your cousin is a real ray of sunshine,” Mars says quietly.
“I heard that,” Colette says, brushing by us. She jumps behind the steering wheel of the four-wheeler. We all situate our packs.
Eli hovers the drone high above us.
And we’re off to chase the Witching Wind.
While the Yeehaws hike all around her, Grayson sits still in the passenger side of the UTV. Like a tiny queen. A tiny, angry, frustrated, confused queen.
She doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t trust her voice not to tremble.
She doesn’t reach for the phone in her pocket to check for texts. There’s no need. And now, she kinda wants to pitch the phone into the river and never see it again, thanks.
Because all this? She did all this for Beanie.
And just before the Yeehaws showed up for this big, stupid adventure, Donna Chin came to visit. She sat at the Cottons’ table and told Grayson the truth: Beanie Patch has moved away. She’s not coming back.
She just hasn’t had time.
“Hey, Colette. Do you mind if I get out here and have a minute to myself?” Grayson waves her hand around. “Among the trees.”
Colette stops the UTV. “Sure. But the butterfly stuff’s not much farther. You sure you don’t want to see some monarchs?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who is interested in monarchs?”
“Fair enough,” Colette hands Grayson the keys. “You stay with the UTV. I’ll text you if we need a pickup. Don’t pet any wildlife. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Grayson says. “Don’t feed the bears. I get it.”
Roxie dawdles up beside the UTV. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” Grayson snaps. “I just need a minute. Alone.”
Roxie nods. She looks absolutely miserable out here; that yellow sweatshirt she always wears looks hot and heavy. She should take it off. But Grayson doesn’t tell her that. She can’t help Roxie. She can’t help Beanie. She can’t even help herself.
She watches the Yeehaws disappear over the rise. A cool mountain breeze wraps around her shoulders like a silky scarf. She looks up into the trees—at the tangled branches, the birds hidden there singing. The sun scatters leafy shadows over the path ahead. Over her face.
Doesn’t the world know how to be sad? Stupid, stupid sunshine.
With a growl, Grayson pulls her phone out of her pocket.
She thought she was done texting Beanie. But she’s not. She has one more thing she has to say.
2:30 p.m. So you’re just gone? That’s it. So NOTHING we ever dreamed about mattered to you? None of the stories you told me were real?
2:34 p.m. Out of all the foster families I’ve had, none of them have ever broken my heart like you just did. I would have waited for you forever.
2:36 p.m. Why did you leave without me? Why didn’t you take me with you?
Grayson can’t see through her tears. She presses her hands against her eyes. Hard. She will make the tears stop. They don’t help, anyway! She’s done crying!
She sends a final text:
2:42 p.m. I hate you, Beanie.
Grayson Patch turns off her phone.
Thankfully, the trail that gets us closer to the coordinates is (according to Google) “mild to moderately easy.”
Unfortunately, the weather is not mild to moderately warm. It is volcanic. Like swamp air and mouth breath mixed into a big bowl of gross. I didn’t even consider how miserable I’d be hiking in my beloved sweatshirt in August. But the sweat is relentless. Gnats swarm around my face and nip my ears.
I feel so self-conscious that I keep staring at the path when we pass people. Because it’s not like this is an unpopular trail: There are lots of hikers out today. And they all look like they know how to do this. I don’t have to see them to know what they’re thinking—there goes the sweaty fat girl trying to hike.
Then I felt guilty for assuming I know what people think. Plus, I should be thinking about Granny and Beanie, not about myself.
“So one of my mom’s horror novels starts just like this,” Ernie casually mentions. “With people walking on a trail together. A monster attacks them. They’re ripped to shreds.”
“That’s a lovely story,” Colette says. “Do you want to go back to base camp and help Eli with the drone?”
“Thanks for spoiling the book,” Ameerah says as she nudges Ernie’s arm. Then she laughs. “I think we’ll be fine. It’s daylight. We’re all together. And even if something does happen, you’re all in good hands! I have extensive first aid training. Nothing to fear.”
“EXCEPT. FEAR. ITSELF,” says a robotic voice directly above us.
All of us cheer and shout, “Eli!”
“TOOK A. MINUTE. DRONE HAD. TO CHARGE.”
Even Colette can’t keep from laughing when she sees the tiny cowboy hat.
“ALL CLEAR AHEAD. YEEHAW!”
“Yeehaw!” Ameerah is the only one who shouts this happily. The rest of us are too sweaty and bug bit to get in the spirit.
But Ameerah? She’s a natural at hiking. She adjusts her massive pink backpack like it’s a featherweight. She marches in the lead happily up the dirt trail. She also marches quickly. Sweat gushes from my forehead as I try to keep up. Then I keep falling behind so I can wipe it with my sweatshirt.
“Just take it off,” Loretta whispers, walking up beside me, tugging at the sleeve. “Why are you even wearing that to hike?”
“It’s fall,” I say as if this should be obvious.
“It’s August in Tennessee, Roxie! It barely even gets cold in Lake Silas in December. Pull it off or you’ll be miserable.”
“I’m fine,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.
“Fine.” She charges on ahead of me. I shouldn’t have snipped at her. Loretta just came back into my world, and things still aren’t exactly like they were. But I want her here!
I stay at the end of the group, wiping my forehead every five seconds. Swatting at mosquitos that think my face is a freckle buffet. But even with the bugs and heat, I have to admit, the land around me is stunning.
Tall trees wave their leafy green limbs above us. The sound they make is pure, perfect peace. Like cheerful applause. Like an ocean roaring on land.
Evergreens poke at the sky. Flowers bloom all around us, bursting bright all through the woods. Mountain laurel—that’s what’s blooming at the base of the trees. I know because that’s one of Granny’s favorite plants. It’s also the title of the only song of hers that ever got really popular. Laurel roots creep across paths in twisty green ropes. White flowers bloom off the vines, like tiny paper lanterns.
This would be really pretty, I think, maybe even fun . . . if I weren’t so uncomfortable.
You don’t have to be uncomfortable.
I didn’t know if it was the wind or Granny’s voice I heard. But it was enough to make me stop and listen.
You don’t have to be uncomfortable—that’s what she’d say to me. You can just be Roxie Darling.
“All right,” I whisper, gently sliding the backpack off my shoulders. It thunks against the ground.
I let Club Yeehaw get ahead of me a bit. Then I quickly, and quietly, fling off my heavy sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. I savor the moment of cool freedom—the relief of air on my skin is almost overwhelming. I’m wearing a tank top. Warm sunshine on my shoulders feels so nice, like I’m being hugged by the light. Hugged by the world. One of Granny’s songs rolls through my mind:
I know how it feels,
To be kissed by the sun,
To run
on the wildflower way . . .
I jog to catch up with my friends—hot, sweaty . . . and grateful.
“ANYBODY KNOW WHERE THE KETCHUP IS AT?” Eli says through his drone.
This is our cue. Operation Barf Bag is a go.
And, like we practiced, Ernie pretends to be violently ill.
“Oh NO!” Ernie shouts, grabbing his stomach. “I feel likely to faint!”
He’s a terrible actor, and for a second, I think this operation has failed before it starts. But Colette is taking no chances.
“Back to the UTV!” she says, wrapping her arm through his to walk him back.
It’s working. The plan is working!
Grayson appears from her spot in the tree shade, scooting over so Ernie and Colette can load up and head back.
We tell them we’ll wait, right there.
“You better,” Colette says. “Ameerah, you’re in charge.”
Grayson and I make quick eye contact before she rides away. “Find your granny,” she whispers. And now I know something is up. Something is really wrong. Because she doesn’t mention Beanie.
“Grayson!” I call out.
But the UTV zooms away, disappearing over the ridge.
Eli’s drone floats back down to us. “GO FAST,” he says. “COORDINATES ARE A HUNDRED FEET OVER THE HILL!”
Before he’s even finished talking, we’re running.
Grayson Patch is squished in the front middle of the UTV with Colette, who is driving like a mad woman, and Ernie. Who is fake-moaning like he needs to puke.
