Page 30 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)

Thirty

Soothhounds: dogs charmed to evoke a soothing, tranquilizing effect in people who show them love. Soothhounds who have adopted humans to care for will often shift into a different animal or insect form once their physical vessel is no longer serving them well, in order to retain a close eye on their human(s), who are quite a weak species and require much supervision.

Paranimals, N through Z , Tempest Family Grimoire

“We should make camp, then pick up our investigation at first light,” I suggest after we’ve left the voices far behind.

“I love how you say ‘first light’ instead of ‘morning,’?” Morgan says with a laugh.

I bristle.

Morgan pats my head. “I mean that. It’s cute.”

My discomfort increases. I refuse to make eye contact.

“Cute and unexpected, like a gingersnappus,” he winds on relentlessly. “You have the same burnt-orange hair as a gingersnappus, too. Wonder what you’d shape-shift into?” He scrutinizes me sidelong. “Maybe a typewriter.”

“A barrel of eels. Slimy, gray. Mutated with duck feet.”

He wags a finger. “No. A bookmark.”

“No, thank you.” I make a face. “I’d be smothered all my life.”

“In books. You love books, you love hiding; it stands to reason you’d love hiding in books. Speaking of books—”

“If you were a gingersnappus,” I interject before he can finish his thought, “I think you’d turn into a Slinky.”

“I would love being a Slinky.” He is effectively sidetracked. “What color?”

“All of them.”

“Terrific. My favorite’s orange, like the harvest moon. Too bad all these trees block our view. Guess what? Saturn has one hundred and forty-six moons, and the largest one, Titan, is bigger than Mercury. One of its cryovolcanoes erupts a substance remarkably similar to vanilla extract, rather than magma, and one milligram could get a horse very drunk, or flavor two hundred waffles. How’s the new book going?”

His speech has me dizzy. “Can you repeat all that?”

“I said it’s too bad we can’t see the harvest moon, and then you said you were going to tell me the plot of your new book.”

“I don’t want to talk about my new book.”

I feel myself being guided. Stepping in one direction, I’m flooded with the effervescent memory of how joyful my sisters and niece were when I moved back to town. All of them jumping around me in a huddle, brimming with tears and exclamations. Stepping in the direction opposite, I feel my long, wet hair plastered to the bare skin of my back. Which, of course my back is not bare at the moment and my hair is not wet. But magic knows how much I detest the sensation of wet hair touching my skin, and offers it to me as a way of showing where the invisible guardrails are.

“Why don’t you want to talk about your new book?”

“Because there isn’t any book to talk about!” I finally burst. “I haven’t left the planning stages yet, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if I have any stories left in me.”

Tree branches curl as I pass, manipulating their own shapes to avoid scratching us. The farther we recede from civilization, the taller the trees become. I feel like a tiny sprite all the way down here, and it makes me think of my grandmother. When I was a child, she called me Little Sprite. They’re responsible for changing the colors of leaves in spring and autumn. I’d cherished the idea of being one. I would have made a much better sprite than human, I think.

“You have more stories to tell. I’m sure of it,” he responds firmly.

“Don’t be. Don’t be sure. Please. Let’s not talk about it.” I’m beginning to feel ill.

We trudge on, foraging for a good spot to set up camp (and also for a few appetizing wild mushrooms that grow copiously in this forest). Ideally, we’ll pitch the tent near a source of water. But there’s none of that to be found. “Where’ve all the creeks gone?” Morgan wonders.

“And marshes. Moonville’s loaded with them.”

“Strange that we haven’t run into any.”

We give up, deciding to erect our tent by a cluster of hemlock trees. The ground’s spongier than I’d like, so hopefully this tent’s sufficiently waterproof. I switch my lantern on before we get started, and Morgan mans the flashlight, which makes him half-useless because now he can only use one hand to help.

“How many pillows did you bring?” he asks.

“None.”

He lets go of a cord that’s meant to be staked down, tent snapping back to undo the progress I’ve made so far. “What! How utterly egregious.”

“I’m working with limited space, Morgan. You could’ve brought your own.”

“I did.” And this is how I learn that eighty percent of what’s in his backpack is pillow.

“I don’t have a lot of supplies,” he admits. “But you know what else I won’t have? A stiff neck in the morning.”

“I can’t believe you let me carry a backpack that weighs as much as I do for the past hour while you’ve been running around with that marshmallow, complaining that your shoulders ache.”

“I couldn’t support the heavy backpack and Forte. He’s rather cumbersome, you know.”

It’s my turn to stop short. “What!”

Morgan pats his lumpy shoulder bag. It squirms. “Precious cargo.”

I point into the trees. Could be pointing north, south, east, or west, I really do not know or care. “Go home.”

“I had no choice but to bring him! Otherwise he might smash up my apartment while I’m gone. You didn’t even know he was here until now, so it isn’t like he’s causing trouble.”

I peek into the shoulder bag, which I now realize is a baby sling. A pale, long-clawed gingersnappus paw reaches out to bat at me. His scabbed face peers up, eyes mean slits.

“ Pliggguck shhurr ,” he spits.

“Yeah, he doesn’t like to be touched unless he’s the one initiating,” Morgan tells me, fishing a chunk of Himalayan salt from a bottle in his pocket and dropping it inside the sling. Forte scarfs it down, noisy and full of rage. “But even then, he changes his mind a lot and can get mad at you after he touches you, for being in his space.” He shows me a red grid of scratches on his arm.

“I don’t know if it’s wise to keep that thing as a pet.”

“He isn’t my pet,” Morgan retorts. “He’s my son. You can’t just tell somebody to chuck their son, Zelda.”

“Sorry.”

Once our tent is ready, we clamber inside and Morgan begins to set up his creature comforts. I notice he did not bring his own sleeping bag, but he positions his pillow at the head of mine as if he expects me to share.

Next comes a wicker basket, into which he lovingly places a box of Cocoa Puffs, deodorant, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste, hair-texturizing salt spray, papers scribbled with notes about paranimals, and a bottle of cologne labeled Polar Night .

“Polar night, hm?” I gesture. “Did you bring that for science, too?”

“It’s for your benefit. Things are going to get grim after walking around all day, so you’ll be glad I smell like Mount Everest instead of a decaying small intestine.” He removes a rogue hazelnut from my hair. Pops it in his mouth. “Well. Mount Everest with fewer corpses.”

“But not zero?”

We snack on beef jerky, mushrooms, freeze-dried strawberries, and hazelnuts, which don’t quite go together, but at least they fill our stomachs. As I climb into my sleeping bag, Morgan raps his knuckles idly against his jaw, watching. “Soooo…”

I hand him his pillow. “Good night.”

His face falls. “Your poor Morgan is going to be cold out here, all alone, without a blanket.”

“You can lie on top of my sleeping bag, or underneath it.” I can’t invite him inside. The thought makes my head spin.

Morgan begins to push back, so I add, “There’s a sweater in my bag that you can borrow. It’s nice and cozy.”

He inspects the sweater. Frowns. “Do you have anything in happier colors?”

I switch my lantern off. Night bathes us in one fell swoop, the forest beyond projecting onto our vinyl walls as if they’re movie screens. The silhouettes of crooked tree limbs could be a monster’s long fingers, reaching for the tent’s zipper. Focusing on this imagery relaxes me.

I am not going to allow myself to think about what is actually happening. I will not think about Morgan’s long body lying inches from mine. What it felt like earlier when I brushed his fingers and his hand fitted itself into mine. I won’t dwell on that dark, curious gaze, like the fathomless pits of twin cauldrons…hair as black as shadows beneath a grim reaper’s hood. What would it be like to touch it? To pass the strands through my fingers? I stare at the backs of my eyelids, so still that I’m barely breathing, envisioning vines worming out of the dirt to cuff my arms and ankles.

“Well, I for one am not thinking about you-know-what,” Morgan announces loudly.

The vines are slithering about my clavicles now, not terribly constricting, more like a hug. I imagine the cool smoothness of wintercreeper leaves, an invasive species, weaving a fortress over my supine body. Soon I will be nothing but bones and greenery, chlorophyll where the blood once flowed.

Morgan turns onto his side, his breath fanning over my cheek. “The two of us alone. Together. At night . The possibilities that are…possible.”

From under my shrubbery, my heart beats fast, skin flushing. “The only possibilities are you sleeping in here or you sleeping outside,” I grind out. “Tread carefully.”

“We could have a lot of fun, you and I,” he says, his voice deeper, tone suggestive. My vines go poof into nonexistence, protective layers gone.

“Not happening.” I twist a bit, and Forte growls. He’s spread himself across my ankles. “Try to put the moves on me and I’ll dump your Cocoa Puffs in a stream.”

“You’re ruthless.” The way he says it sounds almost admiring. He’s quiet for a while, long enough that I think maybe he’s actually going to try to sleep. And then he says: “I do mean it, but I don’t know how to say it right. Not when it’s real.”

My mouth opens. There is a shift in his tone that gives me pause, that warns me not to immediately respond with something snide. “What?”

“I’m the boy who cried ‘I like you,’?” he explains. “Not cried cried. The wolf story? You know? It’s like a…a fable or something.” I hear one of his arms fall across his forehead. “I can’t even get near this conversation without jumbling it up. Am I cursed?”

I stare into the dark. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I begin slowly, “but I’m not sure I follow.”

“The big gold rib cage,” he blurts.

“ What? ” Now he’s definitely spewing gobbledygook.

“Your big gold rib cage jewelry-looking thing, I don’t know if it’s a necklace or a top or what. I like it.”

What on earth. I think he’s referring to my rib cage corset, which I wear on Mondays, often over a black lace dress. “Oh. Thanks?”

“And your blue cacti earrings,” he goes on, a note of desperation tugging his voice upward. “See? I pay attention to the small details, and if I wasn’t genuine, I wouldn’t notice. That should tell you something.” Morgan groans. Lets a silence linger. “Who knew I’d actually be bad at this? I’m only good at this when it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Morgan. You’re bad at plenty of things.”

He laughs tiredly. “Ohhhhh…kick a man in his spleen, why don’t you.”

I tap his waist, in the spleen region, and his body tenses beneath my touch. “Red boots,” he mutters under his breath, as if my fingertip released the words from him automatically.

“Hmm?”

“Your red steampunk boots, with all the buttons.” He sounds pained. “I love those goddamned boots.”

“I think I got them from Etsy.”

More groaning. “You were wearing those boots when we weren’t speaking to each other, and I had to watch you walk around with your notebook and your two pencils in your hair, exploring. Your face…you looked so fierce and determined. Some guy asked if you knew whether the pharmacy was open yet, and you completely ignored him because you were so deep in concentration. It was incredible. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

I don’t remember anyone ever asking me about the pharmacy’s hours.

“When I think of you, I sometimes draw a dragon at your side,” he goes on, “because it just makes sense. There’s Zelda Tempest”—I feel a whip of air as he flourishes a hand—“courageous and bold, and there is her dragon, naturally. A Zelda should always have a dragon. Maybe I’ll doodle a helmet and sword on you, too. I don’t know if I’d rather be the damsel you’re saving, or the dragon.” He ponders insensibly. “Or the grass, enjoying it when you step on me.”

“Why would you want me to step on you? That doesn’t sound enjoyable at all.”

“I am making a confession, and it is landing like a cannonball into a dry pool.” Morgan sighs wearily. “What I’m trying to say—”

“Oh, I remember now!” My memory jogs up and waves hello. “I was wearing those boots the day I saw a hellhole.”

“There is no way I heard you correctly.”

“Hellhole. Small white animal with two sticks for feet. It’s got dark blue feathers around the collar, and this gaping black hole for a face. At a slant, it looks like the hole is a wide-open mouth, like it’s about to scream, but there are no eyes. It’s just…a great big hole in its head.”

He sits up. “That sounds like a nightmare. Let’s go right now. I want to see.”

“It was under a tree, over by the bank.”

“The rabbit!” he exclaims. “I remember you were looking at a rabbit under a tree.”

“Oooh, so it looked like a rabbit to you?” Intriguing. “I saw it swallow a hawk whole.”

We’re both at full attention, reaching for the lantern, fingers touching on the switch. Warm yellow light blooms, and our eyes meet; our enthusiasm is a tangible sparkle in the air around us as we dash down our notes. Morgan forgets to uncap his pen before he begins writing, he’s so caught up.

“Hellholes,” he repeats, mildly disparaging. “That’s even worse than mouseplant . You’re a writer , Miss Boots. Go back to college.”

“Come up with something else, then. I know you’re dying to.”

Morgan is all delight, pen flying across paper. “Rabbit plus tree equals treebit. Rabbit plus bird equals rabbird. Cavity plus face could be called a cavace. What are some famous rabbits? Thumper. Thumper…Monster. Mumpster. Eater Cottontail.”

He sounds like a robot with a dying battery pack. “There is something wrong with you.” Then again, there is also something wrong with me. Most people probably don’t visualize being buried alive by a bush as a way to calm themselves.

Morgan smacks his notebook against his forehead. “I’ve got it! The navy-necked hollowhead. Perfection.” He scribbles a star next to the name.

I have to grin. “You and your alliteration.”

“Magic adores alliteration,” he points out. “And likes the chime of rhyme quite fine.”

“Did magic tell you that?”

“Pretty much. Your grandmother told me that, and your grandmother’s magic. Is she not?”

It makes me smile to hear him speak of her in the present tense. My sisters talk about Dottie all the time, and I’m usually left feeling sad when they do. But the way Morgan talks about Dottie is different. He makes me feel as if he and Grandma and I are in on something secret together. A journey still ongoing.

Such warmth exudes from him. A deep firelight of wonder, curiosity, mischief, mayhem. All of the best things.

The words ever dissever from “Annabel Lee” pop into my head again. Ever dissever, ever dissever.

ERI

SD

V

“Do you…” I swallow, not sure how to phrase this.

He angles a gently inquisitive smile at me. “Do I…?”

“Do you have any peculiar word associations? Not the usual suspects, like how the word happy means happy . I’m not describing this well. Like, maybe you hear the word happy and automatically think about…oh, I don’t know…the specific ringtone of one of your novelty telephones. Or maybe the word hat , for you, will always feel like the color green, because of a bucket hat you wore when you were a kid. Hypothetically speaking.”

I truly do not expect him to understand what I’m attempting to communicate, because out loud, it makes little sense. But he says:

“Formidable. When I hear the word fairy , I think of fairy rings, and that jumps to the word formidable for some reason, written all in fancy cursive, right below your face.” He scratches his jaw, thinking. “But I don’t see your face in normal color, like a photograph, when I think of formidable ; I see you as one of those old-fashioned oval brooch things. A cameo, I think it’s called. I also see your face when I think of the word fantastic , but the image is different. For fantastic , you’re in your raincoat, looking up at my window from the street below. And you’re all black and white like a noir film.”

There is a tightening in my chest, almost to the point of pain. I cannot breathe through it. Morgan doesn’t seem to demand an explanation for why I asked this question, content to busy himself writing about the hollowhead.

I watch him for a while, summoning courage. “I think you’re fantastic , too,” I say. “In Luna’s kitchen the night we planned all this. There’s an amber glow on you from the pantry light left on, and I can still taste the Earl Grey tea I was drinking.”

He smiles slowly, skin around his eyes creasing. “I like that. Very much.”

I’m not sure what to do with all of Morgan’s fantastic . He isn’t right for me, and yet he is, and yet he’s not, and I wish I knew for sure, one way or the other. But he doesn’t fit neatly into either column. He’s all over the place.

I think I sort of love that he’s all over the place.

This revelation, very at odds with a brain that seeks to label, organize, tidying every word and person into their correct little box, runs through my mind over and over. I drift asleep to the scratch of his pen chronicling impossible things—and his quiet, his so very curious quiet, that makes me wish I could see all that he imagines.