Ivy of Our Hearts

Two

Fear tickled up my back as I went along the path to Margaret. Someone was watching. I couldn't tell who. The last thing I needed was for my parents to know I'd broken curfew to prove everyone wrong. Whoever was in Roving Woods, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him for myself—this mysterious stranger.

I squinted into the dark for the source that had made my heart thunder and the hairs on my neck stand on end. Maybe Margaret had come to meet me.

"Is that you, Margaret?" I whispered into the dark. "Come out. This isn't funny."

A crow answered from nearby, and I yelped, leaping nearly an inch off the ground. My heart hammered in my chest so hard it deafened me. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to quiet. It beat like it would stop at any minute.

Although I'd walked this trail so many times, I could find my way to Margaret with my eyes closed, I pulled off my pack and searched through it until my fingers closed around my flashlight. I switched it on and pointed it straight ahead.

No one.

I pointed it behind me.

Still, no one.

Raising my hand, I let the light fall onto the trees that lined the path into the woods. The crow who'd answered me lifted its wings as if to protect its eyes from the light. It let out a callous caw. I lowered my hand and its wings folded once more to its side. It regarded me in a way that was uncanny for a bird.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" I asked. I set my eyes on the path that would take me to Margaret. "I do," I said, more to myself than to it.

How silly to be frightened by a crow. How absurd to long for nothing but a voice in the wind. The crow took off into the sky. I let the light follow it, until it got too far for me to see. Margaret had said to me once crows make better friends than humans.

They're loyal, she'd said.

"Aren't crows' bad omens?" I had asked, remembering an old children's rhyme. If you dare catch a crow, you'll reap what you sow.

She had laughed. "Who told you such a thing? They're good luck." Then she leaned closer and whispered, "I heard if you're good to them they'll bring you gifts."

A breeze swayed the trees and ruffled my hair so that it tickled my ears. I closed my backpack and slipped it on. With one last look behind me, to make sure I was truly alone, I started on the path again. I moved faster than before, not wanting to keep Margaret waiting any longer and wanting to get this over with.

When I saw the end of the path, my cell phone rang. It was Margaret. I didn't answer because I didn't need to.

When we were younger, we'd dare each other to go into the woods, seeing who could go the deepest. But the trees in Roving Woods grew tall and close, hardly making room for anyone, let alone Margaret and me. We'd give up where we could no longer see the path through the trees, or when my mother called us inside because we'd gone too far.

I got to the end of the path, but Margaret wasn't there. She'd hidden from me, another game we played as children. She laughed. Twigs snapped under her feet. I pointed the flashlight in the direction of the noise and saw her dart behind a tree. The long red ribbon she used to knot her hair whisked behind her, reminding me of red riding hood. And how much I missed our childhood games. For so long, there'd been nothing sweeter.

"Too late," I said. "You've been caught."

She looked around the tree and stuck out her pink tongue.

I shrugged. "You've never been good at this game."

"Ha," she said. Her voice rang out like a flare in the night. "It's only because I wasn't trying to be good." She came to my side, standing so close our arms brushed. We stared into Roving Woods, where the light from my flashlight shone. "It's dark in there," she said.

"How deep do you think it goes?" We'd never gone as far as we planned to now. I didn't think anyone in town ever had, except for the boy who so daringly called to me.

"I heard it leads into another world and if you go far enough, you'll never see this world again." Margaret held out her arms, gestured at the vast expanse of nothing, except for trees, around us. "They say beastly things live deep inside, waiting to devour you whole."

She loved a good story, though I doubted she believed any of it. My thoughts ventured past where we stood into the woods, around trees older than Clearwater, Connecticut, itself. I've heard stories of more than ghosts in the woods, too, of witches that consumed the still beating hearts of children.

"Ivy," Margaret said, snapping me out of my trance. "Jeez, where did you go? It was a joke." She nudged me. "There's nothing in these woods but brambles and thickets. You should see the look on your face."

I smiled. "I know there isn't. We should get moving."

The wind blew and I felt a slight shove, as if it were willing me to drift into the woods. I listened and led the way, knowing that once we lost sight of the trail it would be difficult to find our way home, a risk we were mildly prepared to take with the few provisions we'd packed.

At my side, Margaret whispered, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep..."

"Robert Frost," I said. We'd read his poetry in school only two months before. As we trampled on, ducking branches that reached to us, tugged at our hair, and when they were bold stroked our cheeks, Margaret recited that poem. In my head, I followed along.

And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

She laced her fingers through mine, a soothing comfort. She always had hands as soft as a baby's breath.

In the woods, the trees made the August air cooler. Bumps rose on my flesh. The light bounced off trees that stretched higher than our eyes could see. There was no light from up above. It made everything ominous.

Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the trees, made me draw a sharp breath. If Margaret noticed, she didn't say. I chanced a quick look behind me and the path was gone. It didn't feel like we'd walked that far. It had been a few minutes, yet I couldn't see the patch of dirt that led to my home, to Margaret's, our parents, or our warm beds.

From somewhere near came the call of a new admirer, the crow.

It called to us.

I swore it said my name.