“Willa is gonna be really mad at us, but we can’t hold onto our big secret no longer.”
Harlan nodded solemnly.
“What?” Serena Jo demanded. “What secret?”
“We been going farther into the forest than we been honest about. For a long time.”
“Yes, I know. What did you find?”
Cricket gulped, then continued. “We think we got a pretty good idea of where this cabin is. One time when we was playing Peter Pan, Wendy, and the Lost Boy...Harlan was Peter Pan, Willa was Wendy, and I was the Lost Boy. There’s supposed to be more than one, so Willa said I could play like I was three or four different Lost Boys.”
“Cricket, get to the point.”
“Anyways, we caught sight of a cabin that looked like this one in Harlan’s drawing. We think we can find it again.”
A commotion at the door interrupted whatever Whitaker Holler’s leader was going to say. All heads turned as one. A bleeding, barely upright Otis filled the doorway.
“Pops, get the med kit. Everyone out. Now,” she said.
Skeeter ushered Ray outside into the overcast day and then took off at a brisk pace in a direction Ray hadn’t yet been. Cricket patted the top wooden plank of the porch where the boys sat.
“Take a load off, Mister Ray. Let’s talk about that candy you got back at your place.”
Ray sat, grinning at the boys. “I promised Serena Jo I wouldn’t. She’s concerned about toothy decay.”
“Dang it. I knew it was too good to keep going.”
Harlan nodded.
Ray found himself intrigued by the blond boy. “If you don’t mind my asking...”
“You wanna know why he don’t talk?” Cricket offered.
“Yes. I was curious. Was it a disease?”
Harlan seemed content to let Cricket be his spokesperson. His gaze glided to some point on the tree line surrounding the village, but Ray got the sense the boy’s attention remained focused on the conversation.
“No disease. It’s an interestin’ story,” Cricket said. “He was like this when he got here three years ago. Took me a bit of gettin’ used to. Ain’t easy being best friends with a kid who don’t talk. The interestin’ part is he can talk, he just don’t. I ain’t never heard him speak, not once. Willa explained all that to me ‘fore I learned how to read his fingers.”
Skeeter brushed past them carrying a bulky suitcase.
Ray watched him enter the cabin and close the door behind him. “I’ve never known of anything like that,” he said to Cricket. He directed his next question to Harlan. “I’m sure you’ve been asked this a lot. Why do you choose not to speak? Vocalizing is one of the most natural of human instincts.”
The fingers began to dance. Cricket nodded, then said, “He likes the quiet. He likes to be quiet. He also says there ain’t real words for a lot of the stuff that’s goin’ on in his brain.”
“I see.” Ray thought about the detailed sketch of the cabin, a rendering that could easily decorate the wall of an elegant home. “How long have you been drawing?”
Fingers danced. Cricket said, “Since he was a baby. Says he started drawing on the kitchen floor with crayons when he was nine months old.”
“Your mother told you this?”
A shake of the blond hair. No.
Cricket translated the sudden finger movements. “He just remembers it. He remembers the colors he used, too. Says they was robin-egg blue, pine green, and a lotta plain old white. He was tryin’ to draw the cliffs of Dover. Seen it in a book, he says. I don’t know what Dover is but that’s what he said. He likes drawing landscapes the best. Good thing his mama brought all that paper from Knoxville.”
Harlan nodded, grinning.
Ray was skeptical. Surely no nine-month-old baby was capable of what had just been described, especially remembering specific names of the crayons. The boys were having fun with him.
“So what’s the deal with the dream?” he said to Harlan. “Your mama mentioned astral projection. Can you tell me about that?”
Discomfort washed across the small face. Ray looked at Cricket for guidance. The dark-haired boy shrugged.
“This dream stuff is new to me. I just heard about it today for the first time. Harlan ain’t never lied ‘bout nothin’ before, so...”
“I don’t mean to imply that I don’t believe it. I’m just intrigued by the concept. I’ve read about it, but I’ve never personally experienced anything like the astral projection or lucid dreaming described by people on the internet. I’d like to hear about it.” He waited, watching Harlan’s pixie-like face. He could well imagine him playing the role of a mischievous, pointed-eared flying boy.
Finally, the fingers twitched, then transitioned to the graceful movements from before.
Cricket translated.
It started when I was seven back home in Knoxville. I’d fallen asleep. Willa was sleeping in the next room. We had our own bedrooms by then because Mama said we were getting too big to share. I woke up but I wasn’t in bed any longer. I was flying above the houses in our neighborhood. At first, I was scared. I knew it couldn’t be real, but it felt real. I felt the warm summer breeze on my skin and smelled the steaks somebody was cooking on their grill. I heard the night sounds: cicadas, frogs, and every now and then a screech owl. I could see colors, but only their night versions, like when I look outside my window because I can’t sleep...gray-red, gray-blue, gray-yellow. So I decided it must be real. In a way, that was worse, because I was really high above the ground. ‘What if it suddenly stopped working?’ I wondered. Well, that hasn’t happened yet, so I’m no longer scared about it.
The next part was learning how to get around. I wasn’t sure if I could get lost, like
