The Pricker Boy Page 4

  More thunder, and then before it dies away, a second sound. Something groans in the darkness behind me. I see Ronnie’s eyes flash wide. Robin jumps up. Even Vivek looks startled. Emily just turns her head toward the noise and furrows her brow.

  “What the hell is that?” Vivek asks. Robin wraps her arms tightly around the Cricket, though he doesn’t seem worried in the least. Something moves in the woods. I can hear its feet shuffling in the leaves. I recognize the sound.

  Boris steps out of the shadows. He walks up to me and bumps into my chair. “Good boy,” I say. “You know how to time your entrance.” Boris drops down next to my chair, and I rub his ears.

  “Great timing,” Ronnie admits as everyone settles back in. He goes back to the story before the mood lightens. “Near the Widow’s Stone, underneath the thorns of a pricker bush, the trapper discovered one of his larger traps, the kind that a full-grown man could barely open using both arms and all his strength. It had been sprung by something. The teeth of the trap were bloody, and bits of fur had been left behind. But the bits of fur had been dried, treated, and sewn together—sewn together by the father’s own hand.

  “It wasn’t the fur that scared him most of all. It was the thorns. The thick branches of the thornbush wove in and out of the bloodied teeth of the trap as if they had been growing over the metal for decades.”

  In the distance something flashes. It is a good five seconds before the thunder rolls behind it. There’s plenty of time for Ronnie to finish his story before the rain gets to us.

  Emily looks up briefly, and our eyes meet. She smiles quickly but turns back to her task before I can smile back. I feel stupid, though I don’t know why.

  “The boy was never found. Local people began to tell stories. They said that he had simply faded into the woods, and that the woods had decided to protect him. His skin hardened like bark, and he grew thorns over every inch of his body.

  “Children started disappearing into the woods by Tanner Pond. Even the adults began to fear that he was still out there, waiting in the thornbushes to take his revenge on them. The thorns were his friends. They could wrap their branches around an intruder and wait for the Pricker Boy to come. Then with prickly arms he would pull his prey deeper into the brush, leaving the sliced bodies behind, but leaching the soul and dragging it back to a stone pit deep in the woods, past a nest of boulders even larger than Whale’s Jaw. Those twisted, suffering souls down in that cold, awful pit are the trinkets that tally his revenge … the pennies that mark his treasure … and the minions that pledge him worship.”

  I clear my throat. Ronnie stops, stares at me, and waits. I shrug and ask, “What?” Then I remember. It was at this point in the story last year that Pete had started laughing at Ronnie. “You still believe that crap?” he had laughed. “Okay, Scooby Doo, I’m really scared.” That night, Ronnie had refused to finish the story.

  I throw Ronnie an apologetic wave, and he leans back in his chair to continue. As he backs away from the flame, his face is filled in with black shadows deep enough to hide even his buggy eyes. “There are people who would laugh at this story,” Ronnie admits. “There are people who would say that it’s not true. But I know for a fact that he has killed at least two kids. The first was Amanda Yearling, a young girl about seven years old.”

  I try to focus on the story, but it starts drifting away. It’s here and at the same time it’s not, like the way the bugs can be close around us in the darkness while still pretending to be far away. Like how thunder seems so distant from the lightning, but really they’re together all the time.

  “The constables searched the woods for days before finding her floating facedown in a shallow creek. Her body was covered from head to toe with scratches. The second victim was Willie Wilson, who disappeared about twenty years later. His scraped and bruised body was found at the base of a tall tree, his head split open like a pumpkin.

  “They said that Amanda had gotten lost in the woods and had died of exposure, and that Willie had fallen through the branches from the top of the tree. But Amanda grew up around here. She knew the woods well enough. And Willie’s friends said that they were playing together in the woods and that Willie had just stepped away for a second when he disappeared. He hadn’t been climbing any trees.”

  I can hear the fire breathing, breathing and growing and moving about in the pit like a newborn calf trying to find its legs. Ronnie raises his voice to shout over it. My body is still there with my friends, but my mind is closer to the thunder and the bugs and the embers. For a moment I think that they can talk to each other, that the water in the clouds and the fire on the ground are whispering something about us to the bugs hidden under the rocks and the leaves. They’re saying something bad, and I need to know what it is.

  Ronnie continues. “There is one salvation. If you hear him, if he begins to come for you—and he’ll come fast; he can move through the thorns as easily as you or I can run down the path to the pond—if he gets your scent and chases after you, you have to run back to the Widow’s Stone. He can’t follow you past the Widow’s Stone. But he won’t forget your scent. And he won’t rest until he finds you.”

  I know he says those words, because I know the story and I know how it ends, but those words are nowhere near me. I’m inside the fire, I’m out at the bottom of the pond, swimming for the surface with no air left in my lungs. The flames are roaring in my ears and I can see Pete reaching down into the water for me. I’m swimming toward him, but my feet are burning and I can’t tell if I’m moving toward the surface or heading deeper, toward the bottom. “You claim that crap is true?” Pete is saying to me, laughing out loud. And then I’m shouting back at him, just like I did a year ago when he laughed at Ronnie. I don’t know why I felt any sympathy for Ronnie then. Maybe I was still angry with Pete for what he had done to Ronnie’s wrist.

  “Okay, Pete,” I scream through the water. “If it’s all crap, why don’t you go back there right now? Go back there in the dark and leave your pocketknife in the Hawthorns. If there’s nothing to be afraid of, then you should have no problem walking alone past the Widow’s Stone, back through the prickers all the way to the Hawthorns.”

  Pete stares at me from the water’s surface. Never in his life did he expect me to take Ronnie’s side over his. I keep swimming, but I can’t tell if I’m swimming to save myself or to get the chance to take a swing at him. Pete reaches into his pocket and pulls out his knife. He points it at me through the water, just like he pointed it at me across the flames last summer.

  Ronnie holds up his arm, now golden in the firelight, and points his skinny finger up toward the Widow’s Stone and the woods beyond. “One thing’s for sure,” he says, concluding the story the same way he has for years, “anyone who knows anything stays out of the woods beyond the Widow’s Stone.”

  Something clicks in my head, the tugging at my memory stops, and I am back with my friends. I realize just how high the fire has risen. Suddenly the wind shifts, and the flames flap higher. I jump up and pull some of the larger logs to the side of the pit. The flames start to subside.

  Robin stands up, pulling the Cricket up with her. “I’m going to take him to bed. I’ll be right back.” The Cricket offers no protest; he’s already half-asleep.

  Emily places a hand on Ronnie’s arm. “Nice job, Ronnie. I was almost frightened this time.”

  “You didn’t seem to be listening,” Ronnie complains.

  She looks her cleaned branch over from top to bottom. “‘They said that he beat her and fed her raw meat every day.’ That was brand new. You never used that line before tonight.”

  Emily’s blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she is wearing no makeup. Simple clothes, just jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Nothing frilly. Nothing fancy. Nothing painted or primped. She reaches into the pouch of her sweatshirt, pulls out a marshmallow, and puts it on the end of the stick she has stripped the bark from. How long that marshmallow has been in her pocket is anybody’s guess.r />
  Vivek watches the marshmallow longingly, but he knows better. We long ago gave up waiting for Emily to offer us snacks from her pouches and pockets.

  “You always claim that it’s true,” she says, positioning her marshmallow near the flames. “Is it, Ronnie? Tell me the truth. Finally now. Is it true?”

  Ronnie gives her his best poker face, but behind that face he is savoring the power that comes with having a secret to hide. “You ask me that every year,” Ronnie says, “and every year I tell you the same thing.”

  Vivek rubs his chin and, mimicking his father’s thoughtful pose and thick Indian accent, says, “I think this will require some analysis.” We all burst out laughing. We always do when Vivek imitates his father.

  Vivek continues, still imitating his father’s clinical, scientist’s voice. “Every year, the text of the story changes a little here and there. It’s strange for a true story to evolve so. It’s very … um … pupatory.”

  “Pupatory?” Emily asks.

  “You know, like a butterfly. It pupates. Goes from a butter fly to a caterpillar.”

  “You mean from a caterpillar to a butterfly,” Emily laughs. “But there’s no such word as ‘pupatory.’”

  “There should be!” Vivek says. “If there were, I wouldn’t sound so stupid right now, would I?”

  Ronnie laughs, but I find it less funny. “What I don’t understand,” I say, looking directly at Ronnie, “is why you always leave one part out.” Ronnie squints curiously at me across the fire. “His color, Ronnie. You’re a great storyteller, but you never mention what color he is.”

  Ronnie shrugs. “I guess I never really thought about it. I’m not sure what color he—”

  “He’s gray,” I say, deliberately challenging him. “His skin is gray like the bark of trees in winter. And thorns cover every inch of him. Everywhere. His face, his hands, his ears … everything.”

  Vivek continues using his father’s voice. “And now Stucks Cumberland offers the thesis—”

  “Cut it out,” I interrupt him. “I’m serious.”

  Emily’s marshmallow is turning black. She looks at me. “And how, exactly, would you know that? Ronnie did all the ‘research’ into the story.”

  What she means is, Why are you trying to take Ronnie’s story away from him?

  I lean forward in my chair. “Because, Emily, I’m the only one who’s seen him.”

  Even Ronnie appears shocked by what I’ve said, but he soon recovers and tries to pick up the thread that I’ve left dangling. “Yeah! Yeah, I remember that. We were just kids. That was years ago! You were scared to pieces!”

  “Really?” Emily asks. Her marshmallow catches fire, but she doesn’t care. She’s more interested in defending Ronnie.

  “And what exactly did you see?” Vivek asks. His face can’t hide a slight smirk. He still thinks I’m pulling his leg. He’s waiting for me to burst into a smile and say, “I can’t believe you fell for that.”

  “Full body,” I say coolly. “In the woods near here. I was about six or seven at the time. Ronnie was there, but he didn’t see him.”

  “I remember!” Ronnie says. “We were building that fort down where the wild grapes make that canopy! We could see the rock wall that connects to the Widow’s Stone. You said he came right up to the edge of it!”

  “Day or night?” Emily asks.

  “Day!” Ronnie blurts out.

  “No,” I correct him. Ronnie is only playing along in the hopes of mining more credibility for the story, and I’m not going to let him in. “It was dusk. We were just about to head home for the night.”

  “What was he doing?” Emily asks. She throws the burning marshmallow, branch and all, into the fire pit.

  I shrug. “He was just standing there. Watching us. I could see him clearly. It wasn’t a flash in the trees, some animal ducking out of sight. When I looked at him, he didn’t even look away. He just kept staring at me. He must have looked at me for half a minute, then he walked back into the woods.”

  Ronnie’s brow wrinkles. “You’re serious.”

  Robin comes back from the house, pausing for a moment when she sees everyone staring at me. “Everybody all right?” she asks.

  Vivek’s face breaks into a grin. “Come on, bud. You were a little kid. You saw a deer or something. You saw antlers or whatever. I mean, you never told us this before.”

  “Well, perhaps …,” Emily starts, then pauses. “Listen, I know this is just a story that Ronnie’s been telling since we were little kids, but you might find this interesting. I remember this one night. I heard something following me home in the woods along the road. It stopped when I stopped, walked when I walked. It wasn’t my imagination, I know that.” She looks around at all of us, then shrugs, “But then again, I was ten at the time.” She reaches into the pouch of her sweatshirt, pulls out another marshmallow, and tosses it into her mouth.

  Boris groans next to me, and I reach down to scratch behind his ears. I feel the first faint drops of rain strike my arm.

  “Wait a minute,” Robin asks. “Are we still talking about the Pricker Boy?”

  “Come on,” Vivek says. “This is kid stuff. You don’t actually believe this!”

  “I know there’s something,” I say. “I woke up here this morning. Boris was with me. He’d smelled something up the path that leads to the Widow’s Stone. He was standing there growling, his tail straight out, his fur all spiked up.”

  “This morning?” Emily asks.

  “You were half-asleep! There’s nothing up there, Stucks,” Vivek says.

  “Okay,” I say, and then pause. Everyone around the fire knows what’s coming next. “Whoever believes that there’s nothing up there in the woods can go,” I say flatly. “You know what to do.”

  Vivek laughs. “Oh, good one!” He points at me and Ronnie. “You guys planned this! To make the story scarier. ’Cause we’re older now and don’t believe this crap.”

  Ronnie shrinks back in his chair and wraps his hand around his scarred wrist.

  “Come on,” Vivek says. “Please. We’re not kids anymore, Stucks.”

  I throw my hands out. “Fine. We’re not kids, and it’s just a story. So prove to us how grown-up we are, Vivek. Here.” I pull a stone from the edge of the fire pit, grab my fire poker, and using the charred end, mark an X on the rock. I toss it gently toward his feet. “You know what to do.”

  Vivek stares at the rock. “Come on, Stucks.”

  Robin chimes in. “Vivek, you don’t have to go anywhere. This is silly.”

  “She’s right. No one has to go anywhere,” I say. “You can claim it’s all crap and not back it up.…” I wink at Vivek, and I see his pride flare.

  Robin’s voice chirps like a flustered chickadee’s. “No, Stucks! He doesn’t have to prove anything to you. Vivek, ignore him. He usually saves this side of his personality just for the family.”

  Ronnie jumps in. “Listen, this is just a story. Just a story, okay? Let’s relax and talk about … I dunno. But I didn’t tell it to get people mad at each other. Let’s relax here.”

  “Just a story?” I can’t help but raise my voice a bit. “I thought you said it was true!”

  “Stucks, calm down!” Robin chirps again.

  “Stucks, relax,” Vivek adds.

  A long silence follows. A warm wind rolls through the trees, and lightning flashes near the far shore. “Maybe when we were kids we all had a good scare over this,” I say. “Watch out! Hug your teddy bear, ’cause here comes the spooky story! But what about those kids, Amanda and Willie? What really happened to them? Emily says something followed her home one night. What was that? Explain these things to me, someone, please!

  “I believe that there’s something back there. Something bad. Something that may have even hunted us at times. Something I have seen, whether you believe me or not. Even Boris here has seen it. The hair on his back stood straight up. Boris is the dumbest dog on the planet!” Boris flops over sideways, bumping my
lawn chair, and whinnies like a horse. I scratch his belly. “If Boris is smart enough to know there’s something back there, what does that tell you?”

  They all stare at me. Ronnie has given up altogether, relinquishing the reins of his most prized story to me. “And here’s what else I think. I think that each of you believes in it too. If you’ve outgrown it, then prove it. Prove that you’re not still afraid. Any one of you. Take that rock and go up into the woods past the Widow’s Stone and back to the Hawthorns. Go alone in the dark and leave the rock. In the morning we’ll all go up together to find the rock, and I’ll admit that you were right.”

  “I’d go,” Emily says. “But I’m not going to do it just to prove something to you.”

  Thunder begins to rumble on the other side of the pond, and Boris groans nervously. “Well, Vivek?” I ask. “You started all this.”

  Vivek begins to stutter. “Look, I—I … I just got here. It’s the first day of summer! Why be mean to me? I’m just … hey, why me?”

  I glare at him through the flames. “We’re older now and don’t believe this crap. Isn’t that what you said, Vivek? So show me how much you’ve grown up.”

  Vivek leans forward and picks up the stone. “It’s not fair. It’s just a story.” He turns and disappears into the darkness with the stone, mumbling, “Why me?” over and over again as he goes.

  Robin shakes her head at me across the fire.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Cousin,” I say. I get up and reach for one of the buckets. Earlier in the day, the Cricket made several trips with his small metal bucket to fill up these large white ones, while I sat on the shore watching him. Only now do I smell the soft odor of algae and fish scales. I don’t know why I never noticed the stink and the muck of the pond before. I think the water is more orange this year—in fact, I don’t remember it ever being orange before. Not so you’d notice. Maybe there was an extra load of leaves last fall and the tannins have soured, brought the rot up from the bottom.