Because it's night, we don't see the crime scene tape until it catches us like a spider web's hold. Mr. S. shines his phone flashlight on the area and we see how far the yellow and black warning stretches, all the way around the mountainside. We have to cross it to get to the hollow.
"We have no choice," Cord says.
"We should be okay; I doubt they're investigating this late at night," says Mr. S. "If anyone hears a Waster, we must run and regroup by text. K?"
We slink cautiously under the tape and through the tall grass. The path has been trampled with the markings of work boots. When we reach the hollow, Cord peers at the ground above the entrance and we all breathe a sigh of relief that it's not exposed and wide open. We move the soil away from the cover and gently pull it up. Mr. S goes first.
"Grandma?" Cord says as he climbs down the rope ladder after me. But she's still a lump in the corner, and instead of her head adjusting to the grafting of the head-arm, her fingers lay limp and wilted. Around her soil bed hang shriveled roots.
"She's dehydrated? I knew it!" Cord rushes to her side. The jug by her soil bed is empty. She's been trapped down here without water and sunlight for a while.
"We need to get to the stream," Mr. S. says. "Let's call a Cloak and then we can split up for our separate tasks." He walks to a shadowy corner of the hollow where layers of Aspen root spill over the wall. "We're taught in the Grove that the Aspen's power lies in the eyes, the black marks on the white trunk that are scars of old branches. But the real power of the Grove is in its collective regeneration that happens deep down in the roots. Even after the great fire of 1915, history records show that Aspen regenerated completely and formed the Grove as we know it today. The powers that be don't want us to know about this because they want us to live in fear."
"Just like they want us to fear God, when really their God is just Wasters," Cord adds.
"Exactly, it keeps them in control. And that's why Cloaks have been doing the secret work for the forgotten in our community for years. They're summoned through the roots of the Aspen. It's underneath where our strength lies, as long as we work together."
"A true underground movement," I say, understanding its power. I'm a part of something Mom and Dad started years ago when they illegally saved a Toadflax.
"It is. Miss Brook, are you ready to call your first Cloak?"
I don't tell him I've met one before, although I certainly didn't call it, Cord did to save his Grandma. All that will have been a waste if we can't get her hydrated. "Sure."
"I have to warn you they are a little odd looking and gruff, but absolutely essential to our community. Those who don't have the law on their side would be extinct without Cloaks."
"Like Grandma," Cord holds her sad limp hand.
"And Bud," I add. "And Mom too."
"Yes. Time is of the essence," Mr. S. paces. "Now, all you have to do is chant this rhyme into the roots of the Aspen while you pet them."
"Pet the roots?" Weird, but okay.
"It sounds strange but I've seen it work. Repeat after me: Ring Around the Grove."
"Ring Around the Grove," I say. Wait, this sounds familiar.
"A promise kiss for my love," Mr. S. says.
"This is from the nursery book." Cord had read it to me in the hospital waiting room.
"Right," Mr. S. looks annoyed that I've interrupted, but he explains anyway. "There are other verses that only those of us in the "underground" know. Now, we have to start over, Miss Brook."
I straighten my posture.
"Don't forget to pet the roots. Make them know how important this Cloak summons is to you."
He begins again, and instead of ending in We all fall down, the rhyme goes like this:
Ring around the Grove
A promise kiss for my love
Arnica, Arnica
We're rooted underground.
I say the words and pet the rubbery roots and a strange tingling overcomes me, like I'm putting Bud to sleep and all is good in the world.
Mr. S checks his phone. "He should be here in five minutes."
Soon, a swooping above is followed by leathery wings awkwardly entering the hollow, like an umbrella you can't get closed. The deep rasping cough precedes the voice I remember from the last night I spent by my stream. "Well hello again little lady, ya rang?" the creepy face covered in wooly beard asks.
I'm not sure what to say back but Mr. S. talks for me. "We need to make the last hope serum."
"Well then, must be pretty urgent. Who's it fer?"
"Quin Brook."
"No finer tribesperson than her. It's quite a scavenger hunt, this potion. Ya ready fer yer first clue?"
Cord and Mr. S. nod along with me.
"Right. This one's a doosy. The first riddle is a little whacko so take yer time figuring it out."
"We're ready," I say as Cord moves closer to hear whatever hope the Cloak can give us.
"What is nothing on its inside and nothing on its outside. It's lighter than a feather but ten tribespeople can't pick it up?"
Because I've taken years of Trout I know the answer right away. It looks like we're going to try and save Cord's thirsty Grandma and my mom at the same time.
A/N: If any of you were lucky enough to grow up reading the real-life treasure hunt and impeccably illustrated MASQUERADE by Kit Williams, you may recognize the riddle.
What do you think the answer is? Post your guess!
This chapter is dedicated to the one and only @ChrisBuono who thrills me with the most thoughtful and thorough comments a writer could dream of. Chris is a master of the short story in every genre from Horror to Romance so check out his profile for so many delicious choices.