Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,56

Cassie Beaver’s wonderful construction job held fast.” After one loud slap of her tail, Cassie flipped and folded and disappeared inside the book.

Michael blinked against the sudden harsh brightness. They were in a kind of hospital room, fluorescent light buzzing and flickering overhead. An old man, one tube stuck in his arm and another leading into his nostrils, lay in bed, stroking Cameron Crow with wrinkled, papery fingers. Culpepper Frog sat on the foot of the bed, concern in his eyes, and Randall Grizzly and Miranda Whitetail stood at either side, Randall leaning his front paws on the mattress, which sank down several inches.

After a moment of stunned silence, Michael spoke up. “You’re Willy, too.”

The old man slowly turned his head, broke into a coughing fit before he could answer. “I am.” His voice was a dry whisper, but Michael could hear a long-sought joy embedded deep inside.

“We’re here for you now,” said Culpepper. “We’ve missed you so.” He buried his face in Willy’s shoulder and his body shook as he silently cried.

Willy reached up and stroked the frog’s back. “I’m sorry I abandoned all of you,” he said. “I thought I’d grown up. Never knew how much I’d need you the rest of my life.” He looked again to Michael. “Bring me the book.”

Michael crossed the room and handed the old man the book. He slowly flipped through the pages, often grunting in amusement or with recovered memories. “Mr. Haywood and Mr. Davies were family friends, you know,” he said to Michael. “Mr. Haywood was my godfather, too. When he gave me these books, he told me that they were special, but I was young enough when I first went to the Green Green Woods that I think I took the magic for granted.” He closed his eyes. “And then the war came, and Pop went away and died on some island in the Pacific, and right quick I had to stop being a boy.” He reached out a tentative arm, rubbed Randall’s head. “Time to be with my friends again,” he whispered, and then he turned back to the beginning of the book and read, out loud, slowly and cautiously, “Culpepper Frog’s collection of flies remained the biggest at Happy Lake, and the jar he got to replace the old one was his pride and joy.” Culpepper hopped over to the book and was folded in as he turned a somersault in midair. He read the ends of the stories for Miranda Whitetail and Randall Grizzly next, slowly and carefully, making sure all the words were right.

That left Cameron Crow, Michael, and Willy. “What’s going to happen to Clem and Farmer Godfrey?” asked Michael.

“Water,” whispered Willy. Michael got him a glass and straw, helped hold up his head so he could have a sip. He smiled his thanks. “Better. Clem and Godfrey will go when this is done, since they never had a story in the book to themselves.” He looked back to the bird sitting on his chest. “You ready, old friend? You were always my favorite.”

“Ha!” squawked Cameron, holding his unlit cigar in one wing. “I always thought so.”

“Even though things had pretty much gone Cameron Crow’s way that day, he remained in a very bad mood indeed, and until night fell he sat in the Old Papa Oak and yelled and screeched at everyone who walked by.” Cameron winked at Michael and then flew into the air, folded as his wings flapped, and then Willy shut the book and set it on his chest. He kept his eyes closed for a minute, then looked back at Michael. “Sit with me. Pretend you’re my grandson for a minute. That’ll be the story you can tell the nurse if she comes in.”

Michael pulled a chair across the room and sat beside the bed. He yawned.

“Do you have parents who will be worried about you?”

With a start Michael saw on the clock by the bed that it was already almost five in the morning. Hopefully his mom had just assumed he was asleep in bed and hadn’t come in to kiss him on the forehead or anything. “My mom,” he answered.

Willy broke into another coughing fit. “You’ll see her soon. In the meantime, promise me you’ll take care of these books for the rest of your life. Don’t just put them on a shelf and forget about them, or worse, sell them for a quarter to some kid down the street.” A single tear welled up in one