Because I am scared. The sky is all gray and there aren’t any good birds out, just crows and dark things. There’s a bad taste in the air, like something died too close, like maybe far away someone’s cooking something awful. It’s hard to explain I guess. Sometimes I just get these feelings that start way down in my toes and crawl up me like ants. It’s a bad tickle, a warning. But bandits don’t get scared, not real ones. I sing Momma’s nothingsong and try to spook the bad feelings away.
A cardinal lands on a twig above my head. It sings its little harp song. I think it’s the brightest thing in the whole woods today. Momma said not to trust cardinals because they’re vain and they don’t ever tell you the truth but I think they’re pretty. This cardinal hops up and flies away, leaving the tree branch all alone, and I miss it already.
Right then a carriage comes down the road. It’s a fancy thing, with two big brown horses trotting out front. Must be a rich person. I bet they got all kinds of food in that carriage, gold and pearls and wine. I bet they got velvet lining. I bet they got everything a person could ever want stuffed in there.
I step out of the woods into the road and let my hood fall down like always. I wave my arms and say “Help me!” extra loud so I don’t get run over. The driver’s a short, paunchy man with his hat pulled low. He slows down a little, eyeing me weirdly, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop for me. But then a lady sticks her head out of the carriage door. She has red hair piled up in braids on top and her dress is all frilly, like what you’d wear to a ball. She’s kind of pudgy and she smiles real big.
“Slow down, James, slow down,” she says. “There’s a darling little girl out here, and she seems lost.”
“No good stopping in these woods,” says the driver.
“I didn’t ask you your opinion,” says the lady. “I asked you to stop.”
“I heard tell of a ghost girl that haunts these woods. Heard tell of bad things that happen for them that stops.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the lady. “There aren’t any ghosts. Now stop the carriage before I have to jump out myself.”
The driver slows the horses until they stop right next to me. The door opens and the lady steps herself out and bends down to me. She’s not a Townie, not one I’ve ever seen before. For one, she’s dressed too nice. Also, she doesn’t have that nervous look all the Townies have ever since the Preacher showed up, like somebody’s always watching them, like they’re scared of getting caught. This lady’s probably never even been to Templeton. She just made a bad decision about what trail to take today.
“What’s wrong, dear?” the woman says.
She seems like a nice lady and I feel real bad about it.
When Gruff and the boys come screaming from the woods, I don’t even try to watch. I shut tight my eyes and stop up my ears with my fingers and count to one hundred. It usually doesn’t take any longer than that.
When I think all the bad is done and over with, I open my eyes. Pugh and Dunce are tying up the woman and her driver, both passed out from the forgetting herbs, from my own magic. All you do is crush the leaves up, then pray over them while you make tea. People don’t remember anything, not a bit. Gruff’s boys will carry them out deep into the woods and leave them there. It hurts me to see the nice lady slumped over like that, her hands bound, all weak and helpless.
A big trunk is tied to the back of the carriage. Gruff dumps it out and he and Murph start digging through it.
“Coins, some bread, some drink”—Murph pops the cork, takes a swig—“even got grapes in here.”
“Goldeline,” Gruff barks, “can you hop in that carriage and see what you find?”
I don’t answer him.
“What’s the matter? Shoot, I’m sorry,” he says. He wipes all the mean off his face and smiles at me real big and he’s Gruff again. “See, it’s just me.” He bends down and ruffles my hair, and I feel a little better. “Goldy, will you check the inside? Me and Murph here are busy at the moment.”
I love Gruff, I really do. He’s my own Gruff and he takes care of me better than anyone ever has, except for Momma. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Gruff. The Townies would have got me. Their ugly red faces, calling Momma wicked, even though some of them used to come by at night, for medicine or for other things. When the Townies came Momma always made me go outside, even if it was late-late. Momma didn’t want me to see such people in pain. Besides, some matters ought to be private. So she gave me a lantern and I got to walk in the woods and look for owls and raccoons and all the night creatures that wake up with the dark. When I got scared I would sing the nothingsong Momma taught me and then I wouldn’t be scared anymore. She’d put a candle for me in the window I could see for half a mile, a glowing cat’s eye in the dark to call me home.
“Goldy,” says Gruff. “The carriage.”
“Right. Sorry, Gruff.”
This isn’t my normal job. Most of the time I just look innocent and get the carriage
