CHAPTER 1
t had just been a circle of stones near the path by the
riverbank. Nothing so special about it really, but it hadn’t been
there the day before. He was sure of it. Casey Wilde stepped off
the narrow path and picked his way through a tangle of winterberry
bushes. He reached the edge of the pattern and studied it
thoughtfully.
Dozens of stones had been meticulously arranged to form a spiral inside a circle, three feet in diameter. Speckled rocks formed its outer rim. The stones grew smaller and darker toward the hub where tiny black pebbles formed the inner curves. The stone in the center was a white wedge sparked with lightning bolts of silver. It was four inches long and shaped like a squashed cone. Small grooves radiated from the pointed tip and swirled around to the cone’s flattened end. Casey wondered whether the ridges that circled the stone had occurred naturally or if someone had carved them into it.
He crouched down and leaned in closer. The grooved white and silver stone was definitely the most unique element, but there were also slivers of shiny black coal and burnished beach glass. There were four small red stones that looked like they might be Jasper, and even a few chunks of pyrite, the glittering but worthless mineral known as fool’s gold.
Although the ground was carpeted with dead leaves, not one touched the mysterious mosaic. Casey felt suddenly lightheaded. The spiraling stones began to move, a dark hypnotic whirlpool drawing him closer.
“Hey, Casey, what are you looking at?” Pearl Wilde, freckled, snub nosed, red headed, and six years old, came crashing through the underbrush.
Casey blinked. The stones were still. Clearly his eyes had been playing tricks. He stepped unsteadily away from the spiral and snatched the collar of his little sister’s jacket. Pearl struggled and tilted her head, red curls glowing in the afternoon sun. She touched one of the stones with the toe of her shoe.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble,” said Casey. “Don’t be a brat and mess it up.”
“Humph.” Pearl wiped a trail of snot from her nose. “Wonder who made it.”
Pearl reached out a slender hand. “That pointy white stone in the middle is pretty.”
Casey shook his head. Pearl was like a crow, always picking up odd and shiny things and bringing them back to its nest.
Casey looked toward the river’s edge. On the opposite bank, a long fat snake, glistening and ghostly pale, was pushing its heavy twisting body between the dense reeds that sprouted up through the mud.
“Gross.”
He glanced around his feet to be certain no other reptiles were lurking nearby, and then guided Pearl back toward the path. A sudden chill that seemed to be more than just the October snap in the air made Casey shiver. Keeping an eye on Pearl hopping around ahead, he forgot the spiral and thought about the homework he had to do. Math and history had been dealt with during study hall. About the only thing left was a report on Edgar Allan Poe. So far, Casey’s first year at Millard Fillmore Middle School wasn’t overly challenging, scholastically. Making friends was the hard part, especially if the other kids tended to regard you as a geek.
Casey felt a growing sense of unease as he walked. His green eyes flicked to the left where the woods crept down to the edge of the path. Partially hidden by the tall dried out weeds, a fat raccoon was waddling along, keeping pace with him. Casey stopped and looked at the raccoon. The raccoon stared back with shrewd black eyes.
“Now this is creepy,” whispered Casey. “You are kind of cute, but you are also kind of big. And aren’t raccoons supposed to come out at night?”
He started walking again, and the raccoon did the same. Casey paused and pretended to look over at the riverbank. Then he took a deep breath and started to run as fast as he could without pausing to look back. He caught up with his sister and shouted, “Come on, Pearl. It’s a race!”
They pounded along the path until they reached an opening in the low fieldstone wall that circled their next door neighbor’s grove of gnarled crabapple trees. Just beyond the orchard was old Mrs. McCurdy’s snug little cottage. The hatchet faced old lady was sitting on a wooden porch swing paring apples and dropping them into a battered tin bowl. She offered a curt nod by way of greeting.
Pearl went tearing toward home, sending fallen leaves flying. Casey sat down on the edge of Mrs. McCurdy’s creaky porch steps. He reached out and stroked the ink black fur of a cat who studied him for a moment with mismatched eyes. The left eye was emerald green and the right one was the yellow of old amber.
“Just listen to Carlisle, purring away like a little motorboat. That cat likes you, Casey, and he don’t like most folk,” said Mrs. McCurdy. Casey was pretty sure the old lady liked him too, in spite of her reserved Yankee nature.
“I saw something kind of weird on the way home. There was a snake down by the river. A big one. Shouldn’t Vermont reptiles like that be hibernating by now?” asked Casey, petting the cat distractedly. “There was a fat old raccoon too. It was following me along the path.”
“Maybe it was hungry. Might have wanted a handout. Strange to see one in daylight though. I’ve noticed other animals coming in closer to town quite brazenly. And snakes in late October? That is a might peculiar. But I suppose it’s not unheard of. The trees seem to be full of more birds than usual too. Martins and warblers.” Mrs. McCurdy reached for another apple. A spiral of peel curved into her tin bowl and she looked up toward the tree tops. “An unkindness of ravens.”
Casey looked up quizzically. “A what?”
“That’s an old time name for a flock of ‘em. Heard of a swarm of bees, haven’t you?” The old lady adjusted her gold rimmed glasses. “There are lots of other terms like that that most folks don’t know. A charm of goldfinches. Even a parliament of owls.”
“How funny,” said Casey, thoughtfully. Mrs. McCurdy was often full of surprising information. “But when you stop to think about it, it’s no stranger than saying a school of fish.”
“Ain’t no bird fancier myself. Bad omens. I wouldn’t even have a picture of a bird in my house.” Mrs. McCurdy dropped the last apple into her tin bowl, and wiped her hands on her checked cotton apron. “There were two big dark red ones in that elm tree earlier this week. Great flapping things they were. Both carrying little gold stones in their beaks.”
“Gold stones? Did you happen to notice if they flew down that way?” asked Casey, pointing in the direction of the spiral on the riverbank.
“Might could of. Now that you mention it, I seem to think that they did.”
The old lady pushed herself out of the creaky porch swing and looked up at threatening gray clouds that were beginning to block out the late afternoon sun. An insistent wind had started up, sending tree branches scratching against each other.
“Saturday is Halloween, and this weather certainly looks right for witchery, don’t it? Do you and Pearl have your costumes ready?”
“Pearl is going to go trick or treating,” said Casey, and left it at that. He felt that thirteen was a little bit too old to be playing dress up, but was secretly disappointed to be missing out on the weekend’s excitement. He gave Carlisle’s fur a final pat, and headed off toward the elaborate wrought iron gate that opened into the Wilde family’s extensive backyard.
Pearl was spinning around in a tire swing hanging from an ancient sugar maple tree. She had left the gate gaping open and Casey closed it with a clang as he passed through. He trailed his fingers along its rusty iron curls and was reminded of the spiraling stones on the riverbank.
High above, the persistent October wind whistled through the lofty branches of the sugar maple where a murder of crows waited and watched.