The Obsidian Blade (7 page)

“Mom always says that when we make things, it’s God working through our hands. I mean, she used to say that, before she got sick.”

The elder Feye’s eyelids stiffened; his mouth became smaller.

Tucker knew he should drop the subject, but sometimes his mouth talked on its own. “You used to say that too.”

The Reverend stared at Tucker. After about two seconds, his eyelids relaxed.

“Your mother is an angel, Tuck.” A deerfly landed on his forehead; the Reverend crushed it with the back of his hand. “But she is living in a world of her own.”

“She still knows the names of things,” Tucker said, staring at the smear of fly guts on his father’s brow. “She still knows the names of all the flowers and trees.”

The Reverend’s smile became wistful. “She has retained that, at least.”

“Maybe she really does see ghosts.”

“Tuck, you know she is not right in her head. Watch your bobber!”

Tucker’s bobber had disappeared beneath the surface of the lake. He jerked his rod up, felt a moment of resistance, then the bobber leaped out of the water, plopped back to the surface, and settled, sending out a succession of concentric, expanding ripples.

The Reverend grunted. “You lost him.” He watched Tucker reel in his line and lift the empty hook from the water. “Lost your worm, too.” Another deerfly landed on the Reverend’s arm and bit into him. He cursed and swung at it, but missed.

From behind them, a reedy voice filtered down through the maples.

“Your mother is calling us to dinner,” said the Reverend. “Thank God. I’m getting eaten up out here.”

They trudged up the path through the trees to the house, where Emily Feye stood on the porch waiting, hollow eyed, her forehead creased, her fine, brittle hair standing out — now almost completely white with faded orange at the tips. Her thin hands clutched at each other like fearful waifs.

Dinner was canned chicken soup, frozen broccoli boiled nearly to mush, and undercooked potatoes. Emily Feye’s days as a formidable cook were far in the past. Still, Tucker would always remember that modest supper with his parents even though it was no different, really, from hundreds of others.

It would be their last meal together.

T
OM AND
W
ILL
K
RAUSE SHOWED UP ON THEIR BIKES
shortly after dinner, just as Tucker was finishing the dishes.

“Rope swing!” Will yelled.

Tucker did not need a second invitation. He ran upstairs to tell his dad where he was going. He stopped short when he saw both his parents sitting on the edge of their bed. His mother was staring vacantly at nothing, her mouth open, her features slack. His dad sat close beside her, holding her hand. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“Dad?” Tucker had never seen his father cry — it frightened him.

“Tuck.” The Reverend wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Are you okay?”

The Reverend attempted a reassuring smile. “We’re fine, Tuck.”

Tucker did not know what to say. They weren’t fine. Part of him wanted to throw himself on them and hug them both, while another part of him saw two strangers inhabiting his parents’ bodies. The longer he stood there, the more uncomfortable he became.

“Was there something you wanted, Tuck?” his father asked, straining to hold on to his smile.

“Um . . . I’m going over to Hardy Lake with Tom and Will. . . . Is that okay?”

The Reverend nodded. His face relaxed, erasing the false smile.

“I’ll be back soon,” Tucker said.

“Take your time, son. Enjoy yourself with your friends.”

That was a strange thing for his father to say. Usually he would say something like
Don’t be late.
Or simply nod and say nothing at all.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Tucker asked.

The Reverend said, “You know I would do anything for your mother. Anything.”

“Me too,” Tucker said.

“I know you would.” His father tried to smile again, but failed. “Go on, Tuck. Your friends are waiting for you.”

Tucker walked slowly back downstairs and outside. Tom and Will were already pedaling down the street. He hesitated. Maybe he should stay home. His dad seemed really upset. But what could he do? Nothing.

Tom and Will disappeared around the bend. Tucker felt a spark of anger. None of this was his fault. Why should he feel bad about going off with his friends? He looked back at the house. His mom and dad would still be there when he got home. It wasn’t as if anything would change, as much as he wanted it to.

Tucker hopped on his bike and went tearing off down the road.

Tucker caught up with Tom and Will just as they reached Hardy Lake. Tom leaned his bike against the rope-swing tree, took off his backpack, and triumphantly dumped out an assortment of illegal fireworks: a brick of firecrackers, three Roman candles, and several packets of bottle rockets.

“Where’d you get ’em?” Tucker asked.

“Our cousin Tony,” Will said. “He bought them in Wisconsin. Let’s shoot some off!”

Tom said, “We gotta wait for dark.”

“Yeah, right,” Will said. “You just want to wait and see if Kathy Aamodt shows up.”

“Shut
up
!” Tom said.

“Tom asked his girlfriend to come,” Will said.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tom said.

“You got the hots for her.”

“I do not. Anyway, she said she can’t come.”

Tucker believed Will, partly because just about everybody had the hots for Kathy Aamodt, the best-looking girl at Hopewell Public, and in part because Tom was blushing.

Tom looked at the rope. “Who’s first?”

They took turns, each time attempting to introduce a new variation into their routine. Tom did one swing standing on the knot. Will tried launching himself from farther out on the branch, which sent him spinning in a figure eight and brought him perilously close to the trunk. Tucker hung from the knot by his knees, holding the rope with one hand, letting the other hand skim the water as he arced low over the lake.

None of them had yet dared to let go at the high point — about thirty feet above the lake — and jump. Tucker had made several attempts, but at the critical instant, his hands had failed to unclench.

The other thing that prevented Tucker from letting go was the memory of the face he had seen the first time he had used the swing. Every time he reached the highest point of the arc, he half expected to see it again, but he never did.

As the sun dropped behind the trees, Will came up with a new variation. Tom was climbing the trunk for one more ride when Will unwrapped a packet of bottle rockets.

“What are you doing?” Tucker asked.

“Watch this.” When Will Krause said “watch this,” it often turned out to be interesting — and dangerous.

Tom settled himself on the branch and wrapped his legs around the rope.

“Are you gonna jump?” Tucker shouted.

Tom pushed himself off the branch with a howl — he always yelled as he dropped. The instant he left the branch, Will lit one of the rockets and held it out, pointing it over the lake. The rocket fizzed, then leaped from his hand, heading straight at Tom. It missed his feet by inches and exploded in a shower of yellow sparks.

“Hey!” Tom yelled on the backswing. “Cut it out!”

Will, laughing hysterically, lit a second rocket. This one zoomed right under Tom’s butt. Tom dragged his feet hard in the water, slowing himself, jumped from the swing, and took off after Will.

Will dropped the matches and ran down the shore, laughing. Tucker was laughing too. A few seconds later he heard shouts, followed by a howl of pain. Soon, the brothers came walking back. Every few steps, Tom would slug Will in the shoulder, eliciting an angry curse with each blow.

Tucker knew that the best way to make peace between the two was to come up with something more interesting than fighting.

“C’mon, you guys, let’s blow something up.”

“Blow what up?” Tom said, once again hammering his knuckles into Will’s shoulder.

“I saw some beer cans over there. We could pack, like, fifty firecrackers in a can and see if there’s anything left after they go off.”

“Forget it,” Tom said. “Let’s just go home. My shoes are soaked and I’m tired. Besides, the mosquitoes are coming out.”

“Come on. It’s just getting dark,” Tucker said. “Tell you what: how about I swing and you guys try to shoot me?”

“You’re crazy,” said Tom. But Tucker could tell he was interested.

“You get two shots each. If you both miss, then one of you has to take a turn.”

“What if we hit you?” Tom asked.

“Then I have to go again.”

“Why build your swing on the edge of a lake if you are not going to jump?” The three of them looked up. Lahlia was standing on the bank, her face barely visible in the fading light. Bounce sat at her feet, his tail twitching.

“Why don’t
you
jump?” Will said.

Lahlia did not deign to reply.

“Hey, you want to shoot a bottle rocket at Tucker?” Will asked.

“For what purpose?” she asked.

“It’s a contest,” said Tucker.

The doubtful look Lahlia was giving him made Tucker feel stupid and angry. He hated that look, and he hated anybody telling him what to do. He decided he had liked her better before she’d started talking.

Lahlia picked up her cat and climbed down the bank. “I heard explosions. I suspected it was you three doing something perilous.” She nudged the bag full of fireworks with her foot. “Are these the noisemakers?”

“They’re called fireworks,” Tom said.

“How do they work?”

“You’ve never seen fireworks?”

Lahlia shook her head.

Tom lifted a handful of bottle rockets from the sack. “These are rockets,” he said. “You light them here.”

“And they make the noises?”

“I’ll show you.”

“Wait a sec,” said Tucker, grabbing the rope. “Let me give you something to aim at.” He pulled the rope up the bank and started up the tree trunk.

Will was all for it. “We can twist a bunch of rockets together,” he said. “Light them all at once.”

“Why does he want you to shoot rockets at him?” Lahlia asked Tom.

“He’s crazy, I guess,” said Tom.

Tucker crawled out along the branch as far as he dared. He wedged the rope between his legs. Funny thing — he wasn’t scared at all. Excited, but not scared. Maybe a rocket would explode in his face and knock him out. Maybe he would fall into the lake and drown. He shrugged it off. Whatever happened would happen.

“You guys ready?”

“Hang on a sec,” Will said. Tucker could see them fumbling with the rockets, twisting fuses together.

“Now?” He was ready to go and afraid if he waited any longer, he would lose the urge.

“Almost.”

Tucker saw the flare of one match, then another.

“Okay,” Tom shouted.

Tucker closed his eyes and pushed off. Time slowed. Each millisecond of his descent seemed to stretch. Images from the past year flickered through his head: the first time he saw Lahlia in her silver shift and blue stockings, his mother’s frizzy white orange-tipped hair, his father’s trolls, his father’s tears. The rope went taut, the knot jammed into the backs of his thighs. He swung out, then up.

This is it,
Tucker thought. He opened his hands and legs, and the rope left him. Cartwheeling through the dark, rockets whizzing past him filling the sky with yellow sparks and sharp, bright explosions, he imagined Lahlia’s dark eyes upon him.

I
T WAS NEARLY ELEVEN WHEN
T
UCKER GOT HOME
, A
N
hour after his usual bedtime. The yard light, porch light, and the kitchen lights were all burning. Tucker leaned his bike against the garage and quietly let himself in through the side door. His parents were probably in bed, listening for his return. Or maybe they’d fallen asleep and wouldn’t know what time he got in. He turned the lights off and crept up the stairs, staying to the outside of the treads to silence the creaks and squeaks. The house was remarkably quiet. His parents’ bedroom door stood slightly ajar. Tucker peeked through the crack. Their bed was unoccupied and neatly made.

His dad was occasionally called away at night to minister to the sick or dying — but where could his mother have gone? He went downstairs and turned the lights back on.
Maybe they’re out looking for me,
Tucker thought. If so, his dad would be furious when he got home. But why hadn’t they left him a note?