Ricky Turner's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

The mud dried on Ricky's skin and cracked when he moved. He stood in the packed trees and turned in a slow circle. Trunks stood thick as barrels on every side. The branches locked overhead. No glow reached the ground. He could not find the tower. He could not even find the sky. "Fletch," he said. "I need to see the light. If I can't see it, I can't get home." Fletch sat on the gator's back and worked his nose. His long ears turned like he was listening for something buried. Months in a swamp had taught the rabbit to read ground the way Ricky read a game board. "Down here we're blind," Fletch said. "So we go up." He pointed a paw at the widest trunk. Its bark ran with old vines, thick as rope. Guater pressed his nose to the roots and huffed. "Something walked here," the dog said. "Something walked here fresh." Ricky grabbed a vine and pulled. It held. He climbed. Bark scraped his palms. Dried mud flaked off his arms and fell into the dark below. His legs shook, but he kept his eyes up. The branches thinned near the top. A cool wind touched his face. He pushed his head through the last screen of leaves and looked out. The forest rolled away in black waves. And there, far to his left, a faint yellow glow pushed up through the canopy. The crooked tower. His door home. Ricky fixed the spot in his mind and marked it against a lightning-split tree that stood taller than the rest. Then he climbed down fast, half falling, and dropped hard beside Guater. "I found it," he said, breathing hard. "The light. It's that way." He pointed past the split tree. "We go now, before I lose the line." But Guater was not looking at him. The dog stood stiff, ears flat, staring into the trees. A shape moved between the trunks. It came slow and quiet, hooves soft on the roots. A white horse stepped into the gray light. Its coat was clean and bright in a place where nothing was clean. It had no rider, no rope, no reason to be here. The horse stopped and looked at Ricky. Its calm eyes held him. Then it turned its head, slow and sure, straight toward the split tree he had marked. Toward the tower. "It knows the way," Ricky said. Hope jumped in his chest. A road home, on four legs. Guater's low growl rolled up from his belly. "Do not trust it," the dog said. "It smells wrong. It smells wrong under the pretty." Fletch's excited face had gone flat again. He gripped the gator's neck. "Guater's right," he said. "That's no lost horse." Ricky stared at the animal that offered him everything he wanted. He had his direction now. He also had a beautiful thing standing between him and it, waiting.