Vacations from Hell

Page 57

“Next year,” the man continued, “they will build a power plant on the mountain. Good-bye, Necuratul. That is progress, they say. Anyhow. You have money?”
“A lot of money,” Baz said at the same time John said, “Not much.”
“Young people,” the driver grumbled as he wiped his hands. “I will take you. But first I will tell you: do not go into the forest. Stay inside the stones and do not cross them or you will be sorry.”
“Why will we be sorry?” Isabel asked.
“Restless spirits, waiting to be set free. Stay out of the forest,” he warned, and offered the rest of his sandwich to his horse.
“That was a nice touch of creepitude,” John said as we climbed into the back. “You think they pay him extra to add that little bit, like when you take the Jack the Ripper walking tour in London and they keep warning you about how he was never found and then some cheesy actor in a black cloak walks past really fast?”
“Maybe,” I said, but the driver didn’t seem like he was playing around. That’s when I noticed the low stone wall bordering the forest on either side of the skinny dirt road. Streaks of white powder ran alongside it. Behind us I couldn’t even see the train station anymore, only thick brush and fog. And for one second I could’ve sworn I saw a girl hiding behind a tree, watching.
“Hey, did you see—” I pointed but there was nothing there.
“Jack the Ripper was never found!” Baz said. He fell on me like Bela Lugosi, and I had to kick him to make him stop.
Fifteen miles over a bridge and up a mountain in the back of a horse-drawn wagon made my butt feel like it was made of beef jerky and pain. Finally, the forest thinned out a bit. I could see sunbaked red roofs and thin ribbons of smoke spiraling from crooked chimneys. A stone perimeter like the ones we’d seen on our way blocked off the village from the forest. The same white powder was there. The driver stopped short of the stones, keeping his horse well away from them. The fee was paid. John wasn’t happy about having to part with more of his grandparents’ money.
“You know, this wasn’t even my idea,” he grumbled.
“Quit yer bitchin’,” Baz said. “What else are you gonna spend it on?”
“Porn,” Isabel said with a snort. “I hear after one hundred site memberships, you get one free.”
Baz staggered back, his hand over his heart. “Oh! You’ve been owned by the ’bel, Johnster!”
“Shut up,” John said, and swatted Baz’s arm harder than he needed to.
To our right stood a tall pole with a bell and a rope. The driver clanged it, and a few minutes later an old woman in a long pale skirt, long-sleeved brown shirt, and her hair buried under a kerchief came bustling out. She and the driver exchanged a few words, some of them pretty heated. She took a good long look at us: four dirty teenagers who smelled like old sweat and the inside of a train car. When she got to Isabel, she seemed to bristle.
Isabel crossed her arms over her cut-up Ramones T. “Great,” she muttered. “Racists. My favorite.”
The woman reached into her apron and threw a handful of white powder at us.
Isabel flinched and balled her fingers into fists. “What the hell?”
“Salt,” John said, holding her back. Some had gotten in his mouth. “It’s salt.”
The old woman threw another handful of salt behind us. “Protection,” she said. It was one of two English words she knew, we discovered later. The other was “devil.”
She tore off a piece of bread and held it out like she was trying to lure an animal. I guessed we were supposed to take it from her, but when I tried, she stepped away, still holding the bread with a wary expression. The wind picked up with sudden force, pushing us back a little. It whistled through the trees like prayers for the dead. The woman looked worried. I stepped over the stones; the others followed. The wind died down, and the forest was quiet. The old woman dropped the bread back into her apron pocket and wiped her hands on her skirt with a look that said she’d like to wipe us away as easily. Then she turned and stalked away.
“That was weird,” Isabel said.
“Yeah. And what was with the bread?” Baz asked.
“Bread is for the living,” a voice answered. We turned to see a girl about our age, maybe a little older, sweeping the street. She had dark eyes and long, wheat-colored hair and wore jeans and a Flaming Lips T-shirt. A woman about my mom’s age was also sweeping. She wore the same drab, peasant-like clothing as the woman who’d thrown the salt at us. She didn’t look up.