The Miraculous Page 9

  The house looked exactly the same. It didn’t seem like the witch was doing much settling in. There was no new furniture, and the dust was still thick and heavy, blanketing everything like a winter snow, burying everything like earth on a grave. Wunder could see his own footprints from five days ago in it.

  “I saw you two pass my trail the other day,” the witch said as they entered the little kitchen. She gestured for them to sit at the table, which was still covered in newspapers. “Leaving the cemetery, I think.”

  “We’ve been spending a lot of time among the dead,” Faye told her. “The first time we were both there was for Wundie’s sister’s funeral.” She paused and stared at the witch, hard. The witch stared back until Faye continued, “I was there because of my grandfather. But I think you know that.”

  “I know,” the witch said. She turned on the water at the sink to fill the teakettle. “Yes, yes, yes. Almost everyone I see is going to a funeral. That is the sadness of living by a cemetery. The sadness and the beauty.”

  This didn’t make sense to Wunder. Sadness and beauty did not go together. “What’s so beautiful about a cemetery?” he asked.

  “It is where the dead are remembered by those who love them,” the witch said. She lit the rust-coated stove and placed the kettle on the flames. “It is where the living connect to the ones they love. This is beautiful, I think.”

  Wunder shook his head. “The Minister of Consolation—I mean, Sylvester Dabrowski, the one you sent the letter to—he thinks that when people die, they’re gone. He said he doesn’t even go to the cemetery, because he knows his wife’s not there. She’s in a better place.”

  “That is one way to think of it,” the witch said. “Did that seem to bring him some comfort?”

  “No,” Wunder admitted. “He was very sad. And angry.”

  “It is not an easy thing to believe the dead have gone far, far away, even if it is to a better place. No, no, no. We want them here, with us.” She came to sit across from them. Her wrinkled hands rested on the obituaries spread out before her. “But there are many ways to think about death.”

  “I think death is terrible,” Faye said. One hand was tucked in her cloak, and Wunder knew she was holding on to her amulet.

  “For the living, it often is,” the witch said. “But the dead may feel differently.”

  Here was another thing Wunder had never thought of before. He had never imagined that the tiny, helpless baby he had spent hours watching in the hospital could have any feelings about her own death.

  “You mean because they’re in heaven?” he asked.

  The witch shrugged, her thin shoulders rising and falling under her white robe and shawls. “Heaven, maybe,” she said. “I have not been that far; I do not know exactly. But”—she leaned across the table toward them, and her dark eyes were bright—“how do you know that is all there is? How do you know it is death and then—zip—straight to heaven? Maybe there are other branches to climb up, other roots to follow down. Other places, other lives, other ways of being.”

  “Like zombies?” Faye asked, her voice shrill. “Like ghosts? Like resurrections? What? What else happens?”

  The witch shrugged again. “Zombies, I don’t know,” she said. “Ghosts, resurrections, maybe, maybe. But there is far more than heaven and earth, I think. Yes, yes, yes. Far, far more.”

  Wunder knew that this was the time to demand answers. This was the time to ask the witch about the memorial stone, to ask her who she was. But in that spiraling house, with his heart shaking and the witch’s black eyes staring into his, he couldn’t seem to find the words.

  And when Faye spoke, her voice was quiet again, slow and dreamy. “My grandfather used to do these ceremonies for the dead,” she said. “He would set out special foods for his parents on the anniversaries of their deaths and on holidays. Jesa, that’s what it’s called. I helped him sometimes, but my mother never did.” She pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “My grandfather believed in a lot of things.”

  The witch nodded slowly through this pause-filled discourse. The teakettle began to whistle, and she rose gracefully to her feet. “There are many ways to think about death,” she repeated as she took the kettle from the stove. “I prefer the ways that remember the dead, like your grandfather’s, like so many beautiful celebrations and rituals and rites from around the world and throughout history. I prefer the ways that do not forget the great powers of memory and love.”

  While the witch prepared the tea, Wunder tried to focus on what he wanted to ask her, but instead he found himself thinking about his sister again, his sister and memory and love. He remembered her—of course he did. He thought about her every day. And he had loved her. He had loved her more in her eight days of life than he would have thought possible.

  But he had not wanted to go to her funeral. He had not wanted to do the celebrations and rituals and rites. He had not wanted anyone to do them. He had not thought they would help.

  Because in the end, death was still death. Wasn’t it?

  “It is good that you should come here to share these things with me,” the witch said, bringing Wunder out of his thoughts. She set two steaming cups in front of them. “Because it has everything to do with what I want to share with you. There is something that I need, something to do with the DoorWay Tree. Let us have some tea, and I will tell you about it. Yes, yes, yes. I feel that you two may be the ones who can help me.”

  “What is it?” Wunder asked. He reached for his cup, eager to hear what the witch would say next.

  “Stop!”

  Faye had shrieked this word. Her hands were out of her pockets and she was gripping her amulet in plain sight.

  “Faye—” Wunder started.

  “No!” Faye used her other hand to pry his fingers from his teacup and moved it to the other side of her. “No tea! No weird, witchy favors!”

  The witch seemed startled, but she held her hands up. “I understand,” she said. “You are not ready. I can wait. Not for long, but I can wait. But tell me”—she smiled, her perfect teeth shining white in her wrinkled face—“what makes you think I am a witch?”

  “I don’t think you’re a witch,” Wunder said quickly.

  Faye frowned at him and then at the witch. “Really?” she asked her. “Have you seen yourself? Have you seen this place?”

  “I don’t know much about witches,” the witch admitted. “But I suppose I can see why you might think such a thing.” She sat back down across from them, still smiling. “The invitations though. Perhaps you will not do any new favors for me, but I have more letters. Many more…” She trailed off, a question in her silence.

  “We can deliver more letters,” Wunder said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “That is what I want,” she said. She reached into her layers of clothing and pulled out another envelope. “That would help me very much.”

  Wunder took the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Maybe he wasn’t ready to demand answers from the witch, but her words had given him something already. His mind was buzzing with these new ideas, new possibilities, new questions. And he could do this. He could deliver her letters. He could keep searching through the dark this way.

  “Come back after you deliver this one,” she said. “If your hesitations are gone, if you are ready, I have more. I have many, many more. Yes, Faye?”

  Faye pushed the teacups a little farther down the table. Then she put her hand and the hand-shaped amulet back in her pocket. “I suppose,” she said, “that we can do that.”

  * * *

  When they left the witch’s house, there was a flurry of movement, the same as last time. Except it wasn’t on the path ahead but in the bushes on the dirt trail. Davy ran his bike past the live oak, then pedaled off without looking behind him.

  “Is he spying on us?” Faye asked. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I think he misses me,” Wunder said, watching as his friend disappeared from sight. “Davy is—well, he was one
of my best friends.”

  “He doesn’t seem as bad as the other one—what’s his name?” She flipped her hair, but in slow motion.

  “Tomás,” Wunder said.

  Faye nodded. “That’s the one,” she said. “Davy doesn’t seem as bad as him. Maybe you should let him deliver letters with us. Isn’t he a paperboy? I bet he knows where everyone lives.”

  Wunder didn’t answer. Davy seemed like part of another life, the best friend of another boy. A boy whose father had been home in time for dinner every night. A boy whose mother always had a smile and a hug and a new book to share. A life where everything was connected and bright. He wasn’t sure where Davy would fit into his new life, where everything seemed separate and strange.

  He hardly knew how he fit into it himself.

  * * *

  That night, he took out the envelope. It was the same as the first—cream-colored, timeworn, sealed with the spread-out tree.

  And scrawled in that same black handwriting was a name that made him shake his head in disbelief.

  He knew exactly where to deliver this letter.

  Then he got out The Miraculous. He flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.

  When he was ready to sleep, he set them both—the letter and the book—on his nightstand.

  Chapter 25

  He found Faye on Monday before school started. “You’re not going to like our next letter delivery,” he said.

  “Because the first one was so fun?”

  “This one will be worse … for you, at least,” Wunder said.

  “Who is it?” Faye asked.

  “Eugenia Simone,” Wunder said. “Also known as Eugenia the Pink Priss.”

  Faye pulled her cloak hood over her face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said from inside the velvet and satin.

  * * *

  When they entered the town hall that afternoon, Eugenia was at her desk. This time, she didn’t even pretend to give them a bright pink smile. She glared immediately.

  “I cannot believe you two criminals have the audacity to return to the scene of the crime,” she said, rising to her feet and picking up her phone. “I am calling security right this instant. Didn’t your crystal ball tell you that?”

  “I would love to have a crystal ball,” Faye said, “but my mother doesn’t approve of things related to the occult.”

  “Like her daughter?” Eugenia began to dial.

  “We have something for you!” Wunder said quickly. “That’s why we’re here! To deliver this invitation.”

  Eugenia’s pink-nailed finger paused. “From whom?”

  “From the witch of the DoorWay House,” Faye said. Her expression revealed nothing, but Wunder could tell she was enjoying herself.

  “Don’t test me, young lady,” Eugenia snapped. “I know you two broke in here. I know you stole government property. And I had dropped the matter, but I will not hesitate—”

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Wunder interrupted her.

  Eugenia’s bright pink mouth dropped open. Her eyes went wide. “What about him?” she said.

  “I know that he—that he died,” Wunder said. “I also know that he escaped a fire once. Miraculously—well, according to him.”

  Eugenia stared at him, uncertain, wary. “How do you know that?”

  Wunder set his backpack on the ground. He unzipped it and pulled out The Miraculous. Then he flipped it open to one of the pages he had marked the night before. It was a newspaper clipping.

  “I get the paper every week,” he said. “And I’ve also searched through the back issues—well, just the Community News section, actually. I was—I am—I was a miracologist.”

  He set The Miraculous on Eugenia’s desk. She kept her eyes on him for a moment more, then pulled the book toward herself and began to read silently:

  Miraculous Entry #272

  The owner of Simone’s Stationery, Quincy Simone, experienced what he calls “a miracle” on Wednesday night. The lifetime Branch Hill resident says that when he went to bed in the over-store apartment, he set his alarm for 6:00 a.m., as he does every evening.

  However, the store owner reports that his alarm went off around 3:20 a.m. Unaware of the time, Simone got ready for work and was heading to the store downstairs when he smelled smoke. He immediately called 911.

  Firefighters responded quickly and were able to confine a small electrical fire to a back storeroom. Simone, his wife, and their three children were unharmed. The family home and the majority of the store were undamaged.

  Wunder could tell when Eugenia was done reading only because her eyes stopped moving back and forth. She didn’t look up from The Miraculous.

  “And I know that you also got a scholarship to college,” he said. His mouth was dry. He had no idea if this was what he was supposed to be doing. He only knew that he had told the witch he would deliver the letter. “There was an article about that too.” He turned to the other page he’d marked, leaving the book in front of her. “You said it was a miracle. Although I think it was probably just because you worked hard.”

  Miraculous Entry #465

  Congratulations are in order for Eugenia Simone, daughter of Quincy and Rita Simone. The eighteen-year-old Oak Wood High School graduate was recently accepted to Fraxinus College with a full scholarship.

  “I’m so happy,” the elated teen told this reporter. “It’s an absolute miracle!”

  Well done, Eugenia! The town of Branch Hill wishes you all the best.

  “I thought it was a miracle,” Eugenia said, running her finger along the edge of the newspaper clipping, “because I was never very good in school. I didn’t think I’d even get into college, let alone get a scholarship. I wasn’t even going to apply.”

  “Two miracles, then,” Wunder said.

  Eugenia looked up now, and her eyes were wet and gleaming. “He died while I was in college,” she said. “My senior year.” She grimace-smiled again, but it didn’t seem mean like it had when Wunder first met her. It seemed like she didn’t know what to do next. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” she continued. “That those wonderful things could happen to him, to me. And then that awful, terrible thing, and now he’s gone, gone forever. What am I supposed to do with that?”

  Wunder shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know either. But I have this.” He held the letter out.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it.

  “And do you have a pair of scissors?”

  He cut out both entries for her. Then she watched them walk away, papers pressed to her heart. She didn’t call security. She didn’t say another word.

  “Have you noticed anything about these letters?” Wunder asked Faye as they climbed onto their bikes. “I mean, about the people we’re delivering them to?”

  “No,” Faye said. She was much more subdued than Wunder had expected her to be after a meeting with Eugenia the Pink Priss.

  “They’re all to people who have lost someone,” Wunder said. “And they’ve all experienced a miracle.”

  “We’ve only delivered two letters so far though,” Faye replied. “I don’t know if you can draw conclusions from a sample size of two.”

  “Rationality does not suit you, Faye,” Wunder said. He smiled, just a small smile. Then he pushed off on his bike. The wind was cool and gusty and lifting.

  “But what does the letter say?” Faye asked, catching up to him. “Why don’t we read it?”

  “I don’t know,” Wunder said. “Why haven’t we?”

  “I thought it might curse us,” Faye said. “Like a magic-booby-trap kind of thing.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Faye said.

  “They’re not addressed to us,” Wunder pointed out. “And we’re going to get our own eventually.”

  “Well, let’s say you’re right,” Faye said. “Let’s say that the witch is handing out letters to the family members of the miraculous dead.” She pause
d a moment. The wind whistled past Wunder’s ears. “How would she know about all that? She just got here. How does she know all about this town? Have you thought”—she paused again—“have you thought any more about who she is, Wundie? I mean, who she really is?”

  Wunder had. He had thought about it a lot.

  But if the witch was who Faye was hinting she was, if the witch was who Wunder sometimes almost let himself think she could be, then that would be the biggest miracle of all. And after so much anger and sadness, Wunder knew he wasn’t ready to think about that.

  Because if he believed that his sister had come back to life and then it wasn’t true, he didn’t think he would ever, ever recover.

  And yet, here he was, delivering letters. Here he was, looking forward to returning to the DoorWay House to tell the witch that he’d done it, to ask her what she wanted him to do next.

  “I know what you think,” he said. “But we don’t know anything yet.”

  Faye rolled her smudge-rimmed eyes. “Wundie. Come on. We know a lot of things. We know that the witch showed up the day of your sister’s funeral. We know the witch wants you to hand out these crazy miracle-survivor letters. We know she lives in a magic house covered in spinny, spirally circles. Et cetera. That’s a lot of things we know.”

  “But it’s not enough,” Wunder replied. “Those things could be coincidences.”

  “What about the memorial stone?” Faye said. “You’ve never asked why she did that, why she used your sister’s name.”

  “You’re right,” Wunder said. “We should at least ask about that. We will ask about that. Soon.”

  Chapter 26

  They went to the DoorWay House the very next day. The witch was on her porch. She didn’t ask them to come inside. She didn’t ask them to have tea with her. Instead, she held out a stack of letters.

  “I think you are ready for these now,” she said. “Am I right?”

  Wunder glanced over at Faye. She nodded. “Are ours in here?” he asked.