Echo Mountain - Lauren Wolk Page 0,43

think that, too?”

She looked at me intently. “I don’t know. I want him to wake up. I want him to get well. Of course I do. And I almost think you might be right to do what you’re doing. Almost. But I don’t.”

I was so sorry. I was so sad. But I had nothing to say to that except, “Doing something is more right than doing nothing.”

I thought she might cry.

“And what if you do wake him up and he’s still not well?”

I didn’t know what she meant. “But there’s nothing else wrong with him, except he won’t wake up.” It sounded more like a question than I’d intended.

“Nothing that we know of. But he wouldn’t still be sleeping if he weren’t hurt, Ellie.”

I considered what she was saying. I pictured my father . . . changed. I pictured him unlike the father I’d known. And my heart hurt in a brand-new way.

“Maybe he’ll be fine,” I said, and I heard, in my voice, another thing about hope.

She nodded. “Maybe he will. But jarring him and shocking him might be the worst thing for him. Can you not see that?”

I remembered what had happened when I’d fed him my brew. “He rolled his eyes,” I said, realizing, as I did, that I would now have to tell her about the other thing I’d done.

Chapter Thirty-Three

My mother sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Yesterday,” I said, though it felt like long ago. “I fed him some”—I couldn’t say brew since it made me sound like a witch—“some broth. And after that his eyes rolled behind their lids.”

She stared at me. “I made no fresh broth until last night, and I fed it to him myself. And he didn’t roll his eyes.” She grew still. “What kind of broth did you feed him, Ellie?”

“I made it. From river water and balsam.” I didn’t say anything about tears or dew, all of which made me feel more separate and apart from her than ever.

“And you thought it was all right to do that without asking me first?” She was angry but seemed sincerely curious, too.

“I would never do anything to hurt him. You know that, don’t you?” I was as curious as she was. It was as if we were two dogs, facing each other for the first time, trying to figure each other out.

She sighed again. “Nonetheless. I want you to stop now. Do you understand me?”

I did. And I didn’t.

“I can’t,” I said, my voice just as sad as hers. “And you’ve already punished me for anything I’ve done or might do.” I thought about Quiet. How hard he would become, killing things to earn his keep. “You should have saved some of that for later. What’s left now that could be any worse than taking Quiet away from me?”

Her face stiffened. Her whole body stiffened. “And if you kill your father, trying to wake him? Won’t that be a far worse punishment? Have you thought of that?”

I hadn’t. I hadn’t for one moment thought of that.

She got up from the table to turn the venison, to crack the last two eggs into the grease. One for Esther. One for Samuel.

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I truly was.

She gave me a long look. “Does that mean you’ll stop?”

But I didn’t have a good answer to that, so I said, “What if I knew someone who might be able to help him?”

The eggs bubbled and popped. Esther came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “How was it, sleeping with the dogs?” she said.

I ignored her.

I waited for my mother’s reply.

She flipped the eggs, tended them, waited for them to be done, then slid one and some meat onto a fresh plate for Esther. She poured some coffee into a mug and put it on the table.

She said, “And who might that be?”

“Her name is Cate. She hurt her leg, but when she’s well she could come down and see him.”

“Come down? From up the mountain? You mean the hag?” And her wide eyes narrowed, the curiosity on her face hardening into something else.

“What hag?” Esther said.

“What hag?” Samuel stood in the doorway. He was so sleep-tousled that he looked like he’d been caught in a storm.

“Sit down,” my mother said, fetching another plate.

“What hag?” Samuel turned to me. “What’s a hag, Ellie?”

“A witch,” Esther said, her nightgown clean, her hair combed, her hands shiny with the tallow she rubbed on them before bed each night.

“She’s not a witch,” I said.