Echo Mountain - Lauren Wolk Page 0,35

jar on the table just inside, and hauled myself up and through.

I could hear Esther and my mother in the kitchen, talking, but their words were jumbled. Just chatter. It had been some time since I had chatted like that with either of them.

I stood quietly for a moment, listening, and then turned to the bed.

My father was as he always was.

I unscrewed the lid of the jar.

The concoction inside smelled sweet and musky. I was suddenly very glad that I had never reached the stump below the cabin to gather skunk stink instead.

I screwed the lid back on tight and shook the jar for a minute or two until the balsam sludge had blended with the rest of the dark brew.

I wondered whether I should feed it to him. Or smear it on the scar where his head had split, though I didn’t see what good that would do, since what ailed him went too deep for that. And the mess might make my mother work harder to keep me from trying what else I meant to try.

So I fed him what I could.

It was difficult to hold him up and drizzle the sticky potion into his mouth, and I could manage only a little at a time. Too much of it drooled down his chin. But I got some into him. Not much, but some.

I laid him down again and tipped the jar to gather some of the syrup onto the tip of my finger, and then I worked it into his mouth, lifting him again until he had swallowed it. I did that over and over until I’d fed him all I could. And then I cleaned his mouth with the hem of my shirt, screwed the lid back on the jar, and kissed him on the cheek.

As I stood up straight again, I saw his eyes roll behind their lids. Stop. Roll again.

“Daddy!” I whispered, close to his face. I shook his shoulder. “Daddy, wake up!”

But he didn’t. His eyes went still again.

I pulled one eyelid up with the tip of my finger.

His eye was looking elsewhere. Nowhere I could see. And the thin, soft skin of his eyelid felt like a curtain to another world.

I could see stars there. Bright points in the darkness. But no sun rising. No waking yet.

I let his eye close.

I waited, watching him for the smallest movement.

But he didn’t move again.

“Daddy,” I said, close by his ear.

Nothing at all.

I said his name one more time, kissed him on the other cheek, watched for his eyes to move. And then I climbed back out the window with much more work to do.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Down-mountain, at the hive where—just that morning—I’d meant to harvest honey for my brew, I reached into my pocket for my knife and flint, only to find the carved bee waiting for me.

I’d forgotten all about it.

Which astonished me, since every other carving had led me into endless curiosity and speculation and happiness . . . and made me grateful for the gift. Now I spent a long moment with the little bee, amazed at how fine it was, how perfect.

And this time I thanked the bee itself.

And all the other bees whose honey I had come to take.

I put the bee back in my pocket and opened my collecting jar. Put the lid in my pocket. Set my work gloves on a rock next to the trail.

Then I made another fire to stun the bees again, though it slowed me down. Time was short now, the day hurrying toward its end, but I knew the pain of even one sting and wanted nothing to do with a hundred.

I chose a good stick and laid it in the flames. Then I buttoned myself as much as I could, tucking my pants into my boots, my collar high around my ears.

But the morning’s bee sting was still fresh on my mind, and I decided to do more, this time, to keep from being stung again.

When the stick was flaming well, I emptied my pack at the side of the trail and took a long look at the oak where the hive was waiting. Memorized the way to it through the undergrowth. Then I laid the torch on the path where it would slowly give up its flame and pulled the pack over my head, tucking the edges of it into my collar and buttoning my jacket up tight to hold the makeshift hood in place.

I felt for my gloves, pulled