Cloaked Page 12

  “An unoccupied theater seat,” I amend.

  “Or, better yet, the top of the Empire State Building.”

  I picture myself, clutching the spire like King Kong in the movie. “The observation deck of the Empire State Building.”

  “Agreed,” Meg says, “but for now, we should wish to be on the ground, under this tree.”

  “Exactly under it, no tricks.”

  So I wrap the cloak around both of us, and we wish.

  Chapter 27

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson said, ‘Few people know how to take a walk. The qualifications are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good speech, good silence, and nothing too much.’” I say this to Meg as we trudge down the path to the ranger station. I’d thought about wishing us there, but if Sieglinde heard me talking to Todd, she might be waiting. Besides, it’s a nice day, and I should get the lay of the land, maybe even look for the frog. Of course, in miles of unkempt brush, it will be hard to find him.

  “I was wondering when the shoes were going to come in,” Meg says. “I couldn’t believe you’d have a quote without shoes.”

  “All the good quotes have shoes,” I assure her. “And Emerson was right. Shoes are important.” I glance at the old Nikes I brought for the trip, then at Meg’s flip-flops. “Yours aren’t so good.”

  “‘I still have my feet on the ground,’” she says. “‘I just wear better shoes.’ Oprah Winfrey said that.” But she grimaces. “I am getting a blister. Maybe we can pop back home sometime and get my sneakers.”

  “Can you manage for now?”

  “Yeah. I think I should give you this, though.” She holds out the opal ring. “In case we get separated again.”

  So I take it, and we trudge closer to the ranger station. There’s tall grass on all sides of us, and the mangrove odor gets stronger as the path becomes more sand than dirt. The bright heat radiates up, stinging my eyes. I want to fish my sunglasses out of my backpack, but I know Meg has none, so I squint in solidarity. Every few minutes, a large bird blocks the sun, and for an instant, there’s relief before the beating heat returns. There are no clouds.

  “Can we sit a minute?” Meg asks after a while.

  We amble toward a tree stump and squeeze onto opposite sides of it. While Meg examines her blisters, I watch the sky. It’s the same bright blue as home, but the birds are different. Here, each bird is at least as big as a cat—spoonbills, ibises, herons of different colors, white, pink, blue, and gray, but with the same angular wings and long necks. They remind me of swans. I promised to help the swans find their sister. Right now, I can’t even help myself.

  “Do you have a picture of the frog?” Meg asks.

  “Sure.” I unzip my backpack and shuffle through it, but the first photo I find isn’t the frog. It’s one of the prince.

  “Who’s that?” Meg says.

  “That’s the prince, before he was a frog.”

  She reaches for the photo. “Wow, he’s hot.”

  “You think? He has that birthmark thing on his forehead.” But I can see he’s good-looking, with an athletic build, probably from playing some princely sport like polo.

  “I’d kiss him back into princedom anytime,” Meg says.

  I find the picture of the frog and stick it on top of the prince photo real quick, before Meg can drool anymore. “Yeah, well, this is what you’re looking for anyway. A frog. Not a guy.”

  “Got it.” She examines the picture, then switches it with the other one. “Mind if I keep this one in my backpack for a while? He is soooo hot.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. If you like goofy playboys.”

  “Guess I do—just like you like rich, drunk princesses.” She tucks the photo into her purse. And then the sun is, once again, clouded by a giant shape. I glance up.

  A turkey vulture. I point it out.

  Then a rare breeze tickles my nose, bringing with it an odor.

  “Do you smell that?” I ask Meg.

  She nods. “Mangroves. They smell like an open cesspool, but they’re pretty.”

  I shake my head. “Not mangroves. Something’s dead, something big.”

  Something makes me stand up and follow the smell off the path and through the grass, even though it slaps my face and scratches my arms. For long moments, it’s lost in the sweeter aroma of the ocean, and I wonder if I’m wrong, if it’s mangroves after all. I hope so because the stench I smelled was bigger than a possum or a squirrel could make. What I smelled could have been human.

  But just as I’m about to chalk it up to mangroves, I smell it again. I push through the tall grass, holding my breath against the stink. Then I see it.

  I exhale in relief. I go back to Meg.

  “It’s just a deer,” I say. Because now that I know what it is, I realize what I’d been worried about. I was afraid it was the prince.

  “Who would kill a deer in a deer refuge?” Meg asks. “That’s just wrong.”

  Good point. We decide to tell the ranger—if we ever find him.

  Going through the razor-sharp grass has left me with stinging cuts on my arms and legs. Meg reaches for my backpack. “Got anything useful in there, like sunglasses or socks or a first-aid kit?”

  I nod sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wear the glasses, since you didn’t have any.”

  “How about this?” she says, pulling out the glasses. “I’ll wear them, but I’ll do something about your cuts.”

  When Meg says that, I remember the swan. She held it, and he got better. Did Meg heal him, somehow? Does she have witch skills after all? But she pulls out the first-aid kit, swabs the cuts with Neosporin, then covers them with Band-Aids. They feel a little better, but not healed. Okay, I’m just crazy. Meg puts a Band-Aid on her own blister too.

  Soon, we see people, hikers and beachgoers. Then, we reach the ranger station.

  Chapter 28

  “We’re looking for the ranger,” I tell the lady at the information desk.

  “I can help you.” She glances at the door behind her, which says RANGER’S OFFICE. “What do you need? Maps? Guidebooks? Tour information?” She hands me one of each, glancing again at the door. “There you go.”

  “Um, thanks.” I take them from her. “But I really want to speak to the ranger.”

  “He’s not here. Maybe another day. Or next week.” She reaches into a drawer and hands me a sticker that says I BRAKE FOR KEY DEER. “Here. Have a bumper sticker.”

  This isn’t good. I need the ranger now. “Is he on a trail?”

  “Margaret?” says a voice from the office. “Have you reached the National Guard yet?”

  Margaret turns and cracks open the door, then whispers, “They’re not coming.”

  “Not coming! Why not?”

  “Shh.” Margaret looks back at me. “They don’t believe you. Say it’s urban legend.”

  “The National Guard doesn’t believe me?” The voice is even louder. “Let them come over here and look around. See if they think it’s an urban legend when they’re staring it in the face.”

  Margaret glances back at me again, then whispers into the door. “Wendell, I’ve been telling these nice young people how the ranger isn’t in today.”

  Wendell! That’s the name the fox gave me.

  “Look,” I say. “I know that’s the ranger. I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

  I’m not usually pushy like this, but being trapped underground makes you bold.

  “I can call the police,” Margaret says.

  “And tell them what? That I’m in a national park, expecting to speak to a ranger, but the ranger can’t talk to me because he’s hiding in his office? Yeah, I’m sure they’ll arrest me.”

  Meg puts her hand on my shoulder. “Let us speak to Wendell. Then we’ll leave.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Margaret.” The door opens. “They’re all going to find out anyway.”

  The ranger is a short, balding
man in a brown uniform with shorts. His scalp is sunburned and peeling. What’s left of his hair is unkempt. He looks like he’s gotten less sleep than I have. He gestures us into his office.

  “All right,” he says when we get in. “Where’d you see it?”

  “See what?”

  “You’re here to report a dead Key deer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, we did see a deer, but that’s not why we’re here.”

  “So you found another one? Another one?”

  He bursts into tears, and not some manlike tears either, where you pretend you’re brushing something off your face and, incidentally, wipe a tear. Nope. He starts bawling like a kid who spilled his Slushie, clutching his head. Finally, he sits down and begins rocking back and forth, saying, “Ruined. It’s all ruined.”

  Margaret walks behind him and strokes his back. When he keeps saying, “Ruined,” she puts her arms around him.

  “There, there.” She glares at me. “See what you did?”

  “What I did?” I don’t understand. What’s the big deal? “I just said . . .”

  “This is a Key deer refuge.”

  “I know. So?”

  “So someone is killing the Key deer. That’s a problem.”

  “Not someone,” Wendell says. “Something. Things. Monsters. There are monsters. It’s all ruined. No one believes me.”

  “There, there,” Margaret repeats. “It will be all right.”

  “I’m a good ranger. When I was a kid, I was a science wiz, and my parents thought I should be a doctor. But noooooo. I wanted to save the planet. Now I’ll be singlehandedly responsible for the demise of a species.”

  He starts to sob again, harder, and his words after that are indistinguishable from his sobs. I look at Meg. She shrugs but starts toward him.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “May I change the subject?”

  Wendell lets out a mighty sniff, then drags it in again. “Ch-change the s-subject?”

  Meg nods. “Just for a moment.”

  “You want to change the subject?” Another sniff.

  “Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No . . . no. I’d love to change the subject.” He looks at Meg with red-rimmed eyes and running nose. “What s-subject did you want to discuss?” Another sniff.

  Meg gestures at Margaret. “Maybe you could get him a tissue.”

  Margaret notices the snot dripping from Wendell’s nose, sighs, and stands. “All right. But I’ll have to go to the supply closet. He used up the last box. Don’t you upset him.”

  “How could he be any more upset?”

  “You haven’t seen him when he really gets going.”

  When she leaves, Meg says, “We’re looking for a frog.”

  “A frog.”

  Meg gestures toward my bag, for me to show the ranger the photo. I already have it out. “This is him. Have you seen him?”

  The ranger glances at the photo, and I see recognition in his eyes. He’s seen that frog.

  But he says, “I don’t think so.”

  “It would have come into the park with a family, a trailer with kids.”

  “You can’t have the frog!” Wendell says.

  “So you do have it?” I say.

  Wendell thinks a second, then makes a decision. “Yes. And I’m not giving it back. I took it away from those kids who brought it in. It’s a nonnative species.”

  “It’s from Aloria.”

  “Exactly. It’s a rare Alorian marine frog, and it has no business being in a national park in the United States. I may go down in history as the ranger who was in charge when the Key deer died off. I’m not also going to be the one who befouled the ecosystem by introducing a European frog.”

  “What?” I’m completely confused.

  But Meg chimes in. “You never did pay attention in science class, Johnny. What he’s saying is, when people bring in animals that don’t belong here, the animals can escape and damage the environment. Like those little turtles kids get as pets.”

  “Right!” Ranger Wendell says. “Red-eared sliders. Noxious beasts!”

  “People release them in canals,” Meg says, “and they reproduce and eat all the food.”

  “Starving out the native species and destroying the food chain.” Wendell nods his head up and down. “Not on my watch!”

  “Or the Burmese pythons,” Meg adds.

  Wendell shudders. “Don’t even get me started on pythons. They grow and grow until their owners can’t handle them. So they release them.”

  “And then, it’s good-bye house cats,” Meg says.

  “Exactly.”

  “So let me understand,” I say. “You took the frog away from a family because you wanted to make sure they didn’t release it in the park?”

  “Yes. It was my duty as a ranger.”

  “And what did you do with it then?” This is exciting. Maybe he still has it.

  He falters. “Well, um, with a nonnative species, the proper response is to euthanize it.”

  “Euthanize!” Meg and I both exclaim at once. We look at each other. He killed the frog? He killed the prince?

  “You . . . euthanized it . . . him?” I say.

  “I know it sounds cruel, but our ecosystem is more important than any one—”

  “Where’s the frog?” I’m in his face, screaming. “Where’s the frog, you murderer?”

  “Johnny.” Meg’s at my shoulder, pulling me away. “Let him answer.”

  “But he killed the frog. He murdered—”

  “I didn’t euthanize the frog, okay?” Wendell whispers.

  “You didn’t kill him?”

  He looks around, then whispers, “No, okay? I was supposed to euthanize the frog, but ranger salaries being what they are and all . . .”

  “You sold it?” Meg says.

  “Not yet. But I’ve . . .” He looks around again, then walks to the window, glances out, and comes back. “I’ve listed it for sale with a certain reptile and amphibian collectors’ site.”

  “You took it from kids so you could sell it?”

  “It was best for the ecosystem. If I sell it to someone in a colder climate, there will be no risk of its living if it’s accidentally released.”

  “What a jerk,” I say.

  “This is good news, Johnny. It means he still has the frog.”

  She’s right. “Great. I’ll buy it from you for a thousand dollars.”

  I see Wendell’s eyes light up at the number. Then they narrow. “I can’t do that. It has to go to a less hospitable climate. I can’t sell it to anyone from Florida.”

  I’m starting to get upset again when Meg says, “Ooooh, we’re not from Florida. We’re from Minnesota, dontcha know. We’ll take it back there.”

  “How do I know you’re not from the Environmental Protection Agency?”

  “We’re kids!” I need that frog. I can’t let him get killed or sent to a “less hospitable climate” to freeze to death. I start looking around. “Is he here?”

  “If you’re kids, why do you want the frog so much?”

  Meg shrugs. “We just like frogs.”

  “Right. Two high school students have a thousand dollars to spend because they just like frogs. You don’t look rich.”

  I’m getting a headache. The frog is in the park, maybe in this building. He could be in a box, suffocating or something. “Listen, I need that frog.”

  “No. Get out of here!”

  “If you don’t give it to me, I’ll call the EPA.”

  “That won’t get you your frog. I don’t have it anyway.”

  “Johnny,” Meg interrupts. “You should tell him why we really want the frog.”

  I gape at her. Does she mean tell him the real reason? “He’ll think we’re crazy.”

  Meg shrugs. “If we’re crazy, he’ll know we’re not from the EPA or the cops. It’s a frog. Why would he care if he’s selling it to a crazy person?”

  She has a point. We have nothing to
lose. If he doesn’t give me the frog, I’ll use the cloak to break in tonight and steal it. But I’d rather not. I don’t like stealing. Besides, the last time I stole livestock, I ended up underground in Zalkenbourg.

  So I tell him.

  Chapter 29

  In the forest lived two giants who had caused great mischief.

  —“The Valiant Tailor”

  “You expect me to believe that?” Wendell says when I’m finished.

  I sigh. “I know it sounds crazy, magic and all that.”

  “Oh, it’s not the magic part I’m having trouble with. I believe in magic.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I didn’t used to. But I couldn’t not believe in magic now. I’m being plagued with magical creatures myself.”

  I think of the dead Key deer. Does he mean they’re being killed by magic?

  “The part I don’t believe is a princess choosing a little wimp like you for her quest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, don’t act all shocked with me. I went to high school. I know how it is. There are the jock boys, and the rich kids. They’re the ones with all the power. And then, at the bottom of the ladder, are people like us. The losers.”

  Losers. It’s what I’ve always thought, always suspected others were thinking about me. But to have this guy say it is just too much.

  “He’s not a loser,” Meg says. “He’s on the wrestling team at school.”

  “Wrestling?” I think of those guys on Friday Night Smackdown. But when Meg gives me a dirty look, I say, “Yeah, wrestling. State champ, hundred-sixty-five-pound division.” I have no idea if there’s a hundred-sixty-five-pound division. What am I talking about?

  “Hundred-sixty-five-pound division, eh?” Wendell says.

  “They call him David because he fights guys bigger than him, like David and Goliath in the Bible,” Meg says. “Once, he stopped the football team from beating up a freshman.”

  “The football team?” Wendell looks at me with new respect. “He fought the whole football team, the linebacker and everything?”

  “Yup.” I’m getting into this now. Teach this guy to call me a loser. I’m a hero—of biblical proportions. “One guy weighed over three hundred pounds. I had him begging for mercy.”