You still lie trapped inside the magic circle in the living room. Max’s work boot left a sharp imprint in the muddy flesh.
“Holly?”
The mud-pie thing has dried up and died. A wide crack in its chest is full of blood-red sunlight. You’ve tried to come back to your old life so many times, but the drowned forest keeps gobbling you back down. You’ll come tonight too, won’t you, Holly? You’ll try to resist the river’s mojo, but it will win, over and over and over, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you or save you. The drowned forest won’t ever let us go.
Tyler touches my arm and says, “Come on, Jane. Let’s look around.”
I nod, pushing the thought out of my head. We search your house, eyes sweeping past the same photos that have hung on the walls for years, and, by the sink, the same blue-striped glasses I’ve sipped from a thousand times. It hurts to see this house ruined. The sight makes my jaw tighten and my stomach hurt. The wainscoting is warped and split, and stains darken the drywall. Last night, I didn’t notice that the glass face of your me-maw’s curio cabinet has been smashed in anger or confusion. Each of the ceramic figures from inside lies smashed to pieces against the far wall.
In your bedroom, the clay bodies—hollow as cicada skins, worthless as memories—hide their faces from the corruption they brought here. The beautiful sea-foam green paint peels from your walls. I remember helping you pick that color out. It looked so good in the morning sunlight. But everything here is rotten now. Everything is crumbling.
Except the guitar.
One of the bodies still clutches the Dreadnought’s neck. Breaking the fingers—they crumble away in mine—I take the guitar. The strings have rusted and snapped, and mud streaks its base, but the neck and body seem intact.
“Tyler, look. Holly carried this up from the bottom of the lake, but it’s not warped or rotten or anything.”
“Huh. Maybe the lacquer protected it.”
“Lacquer? Look around. Everything Holly touches rots. Lacquer couldn’t save it. It’s got mojo, Tyler. Enough mojo to survive the drowned forest.”
He crouches down and traces a finger across the abalone stars inlaid down the fretboard. “Okay, so how does it help us? How does it help Holly?”
I shake my head. “Don’t know.”
“Well, let’s take it and get out of here.” He stands up.
The sun is starting to set. Carrying the guitar, we head back to the truck and drive to Stratofortress’s house.
Ultimate has returned from Britney’s, and the band is sitting together in the living room. They look wrung out and hung out, eyes red from crying, pot, or both. Max asks, “Whatcha got, Jane?”
I hand the guitar over. “Check it out. It’s an antique, I think.”
“Yeah, this is one of the classic Dreadnoughts. See the inlays along here, little stars? And, see, it has the old-style logo.” He traces the faded gold script behind the headstock, C. F. Martin & Co. Dreadnought. “This the guitar from the house?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” LeighAnn snaps around. “You went back? Why?”
“I think this guitar is important. I’m just not sure how. But do you think you could make it play again?”
Max turns it over, gently testing the joints. “As long as the soundboard isn’t broken or warped, it should play fine. Otherwise, it’s a fancy piece of junk.”
He swabs dry mud out of the machine heads and re-strings it. Then everybody holds their breath as he balances the guitar on his thigh. Hands scabbed from meeting you last night, he dips Band-Aided fingers into the gray blur of strings, plucking out the intro to “Folsom Prison Blues.”
A bird flutters in my chest. The guitar is scratched and dirty, but its voice is strong. The soundboard is full of rich harmonics. Stratofortress sings together. Shaking off the horror of last night, they come alive again, full of blood and noise.
I stand apart, but touch Tyler’s elbow. “You never told them Mr. Alton won that guitar from Johnny Cash, did you?”
“Naw.” Tyler laughs. “You know what a champion liar he was. You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I didn’t. But then, how come the first song Max plays is a Johnny Cash song?”
“Well … wow. But how?”
“Part of its mojo.” I shrug.
After Stratofortress finishes their sing-along, Tyler takes the guitar and plays a few tunes. I sit and listen, trying to figure out what the guitar means, and if we can use it to save you.
Thuck.
Something hits the window. Hobbit and Cookie howl their heads off. I look out but can’t see past my own reflection in the darkening glass. Tyler stops playing and asks, “What was that?”
Thuck. The swallow leaves a star-shaped crack in the glass.
Cupping my hands to the window, I see the broken little bird splayed in the dirt. Another swoops up through the air, swallowed by the night. And there you are, a shadow among the scraps of light filling the alley. On our side of the fence, the dogs bark and snarl.
“Guys, she’s here!” I yell. “Holly’s here! Guys!”
“How?” Tyler asks.
“The swallows. She sent the swallows to find us. They’re all over the backyard.”
“Oh God, what about Hobbit and Cookie?” LeighAnn rushes past me, heading for the back door.
“Wait! LeighAnn, wait.” Max bolts after her, grabbing the handle of the sliding glass door and not letting her out.
“Let go!” She punches him. Hard. Max doesn’t move, just keeps yelling, “Wait a second!”
Animal yelps pierce their argument. Shoving Max aside, LeighAnn jerks open the door. The fence is rusted through, and the stamped-down dirt sprouts little flowers wherever you step, Holly. Cookie tries to bite you, and we watch you slap him. He paws at the tendrils spilling from his muzzle and won’t stop crying.
LeighAnn screams. Hobbit crawls away with his tail folded against his belly. But you don’t care about them, do you?
“Tyler? I heard you playing. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Tyler hisses to me, “I have some more chalk and lime in my truck. Keep her busy.”
“How?” But he’s already gone.
“I think something happened to Pa-paw. I think … ”
You turn. I follow your gaze to see LeighAnn creeping along the side of the house toward Hobbit.
“Holly!” I jump off the patio, rushing to the center of the backyard. “It’s me. I’m here.”
You look back toward me. One eye is a smooth blue-gray stone. The other’s an empty hole. “Jane? Why do you keep hiding from me?”
“I know. I’m sorry.” In my peripheral vision, I see LeighAnn grab Hobbit and run to Max. “But … but … ”
Tyler rushes up and starts pouring the powder. The wind catches it, carrying it off in a long white veil before it hits the dirt.
Your voice is a muddy sob. “I need help, Jane. Stop playing stupid games!”
We stumble back from your open arms. Ultimate jerks me back. He has his cymbal stand in his other hand, its three steel legs slashing forward.
“Jane. Please. I’m sor—”
Ultimate knocks you down, pins you on your back. One of the stand’s legs cuts deep into your throat, and your words are rough and breathy, “Jane, d … don’t go.”
“Go! I got this.” Ultimate grabs the chalk and lime from Tyler. “Get Jane out of here.”
Tyler takes my wrist. I cry, “Holly, I’m sor—”
“Get her out of here!”
Tyler is pulling now. Despite everything, it still hurts to turn my back on you. I manage, and we run back into the house. Max and LeighAnn are ahead of us; LeighAnn carries Hobbit.
Tyler says, “We have to bail. Get in the van. Max, the keys! The keys!”
“I know!” Max yells back.