The running path, uneven from erosion, seemed steeper to Martin today, now that he was walking instead of running. He noticed flattened soda cans and plastic bags caught in the brush and wished he were alone instead of with a bossy girl. “I’m going to run the rest of the way,” he said, and took off. He felt like a ranger again, running through the trees, practically leaping from trunk to trunk like a squirrel. The place was magical. Dark magic, light magic—it didn’t matter. The water gurgled musically over the flat rocks, and as Martin climbed he imagined himself flowing up as the water flowed down. The saplings growing on either side of the creek stretched upward, nearly meeting at the center as they reached for the sun, away from the dappled shadow of the canopy sixty feet above them. And there was the Spirit Tree before him, its branches spread open like the fingers of a skeletal hand grasping at the sky. The woods seemed less ominous under blue skies, but Martin still worried about what he’d find—more glowing messages, maybe.
