“I said it’s too bad we can’t see the harvest moon, and thenyousaid you were going to tell me the plot of your new book.”
“I don’t want to talk about my new book.”
I feel myself being guided. Stepping in one direction, I’m flooded with the effervescent memory of how joyful my sisters and niece were when I moved back to town. All of them jumping around me in a huddle, brimming with tears and exclamations. Stepping in the direction opposite, I feel my long, wet hair plastered to the bare skin of my back. Which, of course my back is not bare at the moment and my hair is not wet. Butmagic knows how much I detest the sensation of wet hair touching my skin, and offers it to me as a way of showing where the invisible guardrails are.
“Why don’t you want to talk about your new book?”
“Because there isn’t any book to talk about!” I finally burst. “I haven’t left the planning stages yet, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if Ihaveany stories left in me.”
Tree branches curl as I pass, manipulating their own shapes to avoid scratching us. The farther we recede from civilization, the taller the trees become. I feel like a tiny sprite all the way down here, and it makes me think of my grandmother. When I was a child, she called me Little Sprite.They’re responsible for changing the colors of leaves in spring and autumn.I’d cherished the idea of being one. I would have made a much better sprite than human, I think.
“You have more stories to tell. I’m sure of it,” he responds firmly.
“Don’t be. Don’t be sure. Please. Let’s not talk about it.” I’m beginning to feel ill.
We trudge on, foraging for a good spot to set up camp (and also for a few appetizing wild mushrooms that grow copiously in this forest). Ideally, we’ll pitch the tent near a source of water. But there’s none of that to be found. “Where’ve all the creeks gone?” Morgan wonders.
“And marshes. Moonville’s loaded with them.”
“Strange that we haven’t run into any.”
We give up, deciding to erect our tent by a cluster of hemlock trees. The ground’s spongier than I’d like, so hopefully thistent’s sufficiently waterproof. I switch my lantern on before we get started, and Morgan mans the flashlight, which makes him half-useless because now he can only use one hand to help.
“How many pillows did you bring?” he asks.
“None.”
He lets go of a cord that’s meant to be staked down, tent snapping back to undo the progress I’ve made so far. “What! How utterly egregious.”
“I’m working with limited space, Morgan. You could’ve brought your own.”
“I did.” And this is how I learn that eighty percent of what’s in his backpack is pillow.
“I don’t have a lot of supplies,” he admits. “But you know what else I won’t have? A stiff neck in the morning.”
“I can’t believe you let me carry a backpack that weighs as much as I do for the past hour while you’ve been running around with that marshmallow, complaining that your shoulders ache.”
“I couldn’t support the heavy backpackandForte. He’s rather cumbersome, you know.”
It’s my turn to stop short. “What!”
Morgan pats his lumpy shoulder bag. It squirms. “Precious cargo.”
I point into the trees. Could be pointing north, south, east, or west, I really do not know or care. “Go home.”
“I had no choice but to bring him! Otherwise he might smash up my apartment while I’m gone. You didn’t even know he was here until now, so it isn’t like he’s causing trouble.”
I peek into the shoulder bag, which I now realize is a baby sling. A pale, long-clawed gingersnappus paw reaches out to bat at me. His scabbed face peers up, eyes mean slits.
“Pliggguck shhurr,” he spits.
“Yeah, he doesn’t like to be touched unless he’s the one initiating,” Morgan tells me, fishing a chunk of Himalayan salt from a bottle in his pocket and dropping it inside the sling. Forte scarfs it down, noisy and full of rage. “But even then, he changes his mind a lot and can get mad at you after he touches you, for being in his space.” He shows me a red grid of scratches on his arm.
“I don’t know if it’s wise to keep that thing as a pet.”
“He isn’t my pet,” Morgan retorts. “He’s my son. You can’t just tell somebody to chuck their son, Zelda.”
“Sorry.”
