Whistle Bright Magic by Barb Bentler Ullman

Author:Barb Bentler Ullman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER 22

The Shabby Remains

of Nutfolk Wood

“DO YOU THINK he’ll show?” Frederick asked, tossing another pebble in the sodden ashes of the fire circle. The bleak Saturday was cold and gray, with rain on the horizon.

“He doesn’t like humans,” I admitted. “But he’s curious, and he’s lonesome. I think he’ll show.”

Craning my neck, I scanned the meadow and checked the leaden sky. Dark clouds were looming in the west, and cold gusts kept charging over the field, battering the grass.

“It’s after noon,” Lupine grumbled, consulting her watch and huddling her knees in close. “I thought you said he’d be here at noon,” she complained.

A faint crackle preceded a glow, and the three of us watched as Whistle materialized on an empty log seat.

“I see him!” Lupine gasped, fairly trembling with excitement. “But he’s all blurry.”

Whistle hopped down from the log and touched Lupine’s ankle. She jolted like she’d been Tasered. “I see him perfectly!” she exclaimed.

Frederick got tapped in the same manner, but maintained his composure. Only his wide-open eyes betrayed his astonishment.

“How’s it going?” Frederick asked, making a good attempt at being calm.

“It all goes with a certain amount of anxiety,” Whistle carefully replied. “You understand that my people don’t normally associate with your people, so you must swear never to speak of what you see this day.”

“We swear!” The three of us bobbed our heads in eager cooperation.

“Swear upon your honor, and know that I can read your deceit as plain as a bad book.”

There was something threatening in his tone—he didn’t say “or else,” but we all sensed it. Standing taller, we recited, “We swear upon our honor!” Frederick held up his hand in a Boy Scout salute.

As he faded like a hologram, Whistle directed, “Right, then. Follow the markers!” and he vanished.

“Look, there’s a light!” I shouted, and we were off. The markers were leaves glowing like Christmas lights. As we dashed through the woods in search of the phosphorescent leaves, we were swept up in the thrill of the hunt.

Soon, we’d passed the Secret Garden and were crossing Voodoo Creek on an old foot bridge, where the remnants of a trail twisted and led us uphill. Here, the woods were silent and dark, the huge trees towering to unseen heights. In the gloom, the thick bark looked lavender and the forest floor black. Chilly and damp, the air smelled distinctly earthy, like mushrooms and mulch.

Another glowing leaf signaled a turn, and we squeezed through a wall of huckleberry bushes. Under low cedars and over fallen snags, we finally stepped into an improbable clearing. On a nearby branch, Whistle balanced gracefully, and without fanfare, he announced, “We’re here.”

Panting, I could hardly believe my eyes. With a stump like a little apartment building and rows of tiny cabins gathered around a miniature public park, I beheld the shabby remains of Nutfolk Wood.

At one end of town stood a bench-sized building made of small gray rocks, speckled with damp, green moss. A sign on the bell tower proclaimed TOWN HUB.

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