Flock Page 5

  “Maybe,” my mom said. “We’re going back for another walk-through today. It’s our favorite so far, and we both got . . . I don’t know . . . really good vibes, or something, from the place.”

  As much as I wanted the 411 on the earth opening up over at Snjosson Farms, Jack’s text had delayed any news on that front for a while. I was not scheduled to work at the store, nor did I have any pressing schoolwork. And, heck, when my mathematics-minded mom threw around words like good vibes, I was in.

  “When are you going?” I asked.

  “How soon can you be ready?”

  En route, I briefly explained the previous night’s scene at Jack’s farm, downplaying the danger we had been in. My mom simply thought it was odd. Stanley, on the other hand, was intrigued.

  “How big did you say it was?” he asked.

  “It was dark, but maybe a hundred feet. That’s what Lars estimated, anyway.”

  “It’s unusual to have one so large.”

  I was starting to hate words like unusual.

  “I’ll make a few calls later today, see if there are any theories as to cause. Sinks are often due to human interference.”

  I noticed we were just a few blocks away from Afi’s house, Penny’s, too, for that matter. “What street are we on?” I asked as Stanley’s car rounded a corner.

  “Spruce,” he said, pulling to the curb in front of a large Victorian.

  The name tinkled some familiar key, but my brain was too busy taking in a first impression. The house was big: two floors plus a third-story attic with dormer windows. As for the downside, it was painted a brazen shade of pink with scalloped white trim. I knew the painted ladies in San Francisco could get away with such girly colors, but in this neighborhood — this town — it stood out like a ball gown at a hoedown. And make that a frayed, tattered, and seen-better-days gown. Peeling paint gave the home an abandoned look, compounded by the weedy and overgrown lawn.

  I stood on the small strip of grass between the curb and sidewalk, bug-eyeing the place.

  “Now, don’t prejudge,” my mom said, taking my arm. “We know it’s a fixer-upper. And it would not remain pink.”

  Stanley, who had Baby-Bjorned Leira to his chest, waited for us on the cracked and sagging driveway. “Wait till you see inside, Kat. She’s a beauty.”

  A suit-clad woman, the real estate agent, met us on the front porch. “You’ve brought your daughters today, I see,” she said, extending her hand to me. “Margaret Simmons. Pleased to meet you.”

  After gushing over Leira, Margaret ushered us into the wood-paneled foyer, where she figured I could do with a history lesson as well as a house tour.

  “Built in 1904 in the Queen Anne style — though, of course, the original Queen Anne of England had died in the early 1700s.” I followed my private docent into the first room to our left. “This would have been called the parlor and was the formal space in which the family would have entertained visitors.”

  It was a high-ceilinged, bay-front-windowed room that we’d call a living room but probably have very little use for. Next, I followed Margaret and her sensible heels into the room behind the parlor.

  “The dining room,” she said. “Notice the lovely built-in corner cabinets and the separate butler’s pantry.”

  They were nice, I supposed, if you had a bunch of patterned china to display. Or, say, a butler. Margaret’s all-business walk-through continued into the next room to the right of the dining room.

  “The sitting room,” she said, “an informal space where the family would have spent the majority of their time. And, finally, the kitchen.”

  I struggled to keep up as she stepped into the rearmost area, a separate and small-by-today’s-standards space.

  “This would be one of our first projects,” my mom said, probably noticing my grimacelike reaction. “The walls between here, the dining room, and the sitting room aren’t load bearing. We could open it up to create a more modern flow.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work,” I said, running my hand across a cracked tile countertop.

  “Stanley has always wanted to renovate an old house,” my mom said, using a strange, chipper-sounding voice.

  “This place would be a wonderful challenge, then,” commission-based Margaret pointed out.

  “Let’s have a look upstairs,” my mom said, heading back toward the staircase.

  I trudged up the narrow steps.

  The three upstairs bedrooms were OK, but as far as I could see I’d still share a wall with Leira, which, no fault of her own, would be an ongoing detriment to my beauty sleep.

  “Has she seen the best part yet?” Stanley asked, catching up with us after tending to one of Leira’s exploding diapers.

  “I was just about to mention it,” my mom said with a sly look on her face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Follow me,” she said. “We were thinking this could function as your own private space.”

  We ascended an even narrower staircase to the attic, where a now-we’re-talking renovation had already been undertaken. The smell of fresh paint permeated the U-shaped area. There were two dormer windows, new carpeting, a wall of built-in closets, and three separate spaces, which I was already mentally setting up as bedroom, office, and my own personal lounge. I might even call it a parlor to keep with the This Old House theme. I was sold before I even peeked into the shiny white bathroom.

  “I love it,” I said. And I did.

  Back downstairs, my mom and Stanley got into the nitty-gritty of an offer with Margaret. I stepped outside and started walking toward the car, thinking that with my little third-floor hideaway I could put up with a little reno dust, when, across the street, someone stepped out of the front door.

  Was fate truly this cruel? Was I never to catch a break? Exiting the house — my soon-to-be neighbor — was none other than Marik, which meant Jinky wasn’t far behind. I tapped my toe irritably, and, yep, the door opened again and Jinky, flying her full-black colors, joined Marik.

  “Katla.” Marik waved and headed over. “What are you doing here?” He came to an all-grins stop in front of me.

  “My mom and her husband are putting an offer on this property,” I said.

  “What? The gingerbread house?” Jinky asked, joining us.

  “With any luck, it won’t look like a frosted cake for long.” My cheeks felt warm, as if I already self-associated with the place.

  “What happened to you and Jack last night?” Marik asked.

  I gave him a long, tight look. Despite Stanley’s opinion that sinks were usually man-made, I had a few theories of my own. And they all involved warnings of one kind or another.

  “There was this . . . thing . . . that happened at his place. We took off to check it out.”

  “The sinkhole?” Jinky asked.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Penny called me. It’s all over the local news, and she wants to know if we can get some pictures for the paper.”

  I pulled my phone out of my bag. I had two voicemails and three texts from Penny and one missed call from Jack. Per Jinky’s report, Penny was angling for access to the site. It took a back-and-forth volley of messages between Penny, Jack, and me before I had sorted out an impromptu field trip to the spot.

  Marik was uncharacteristically quiet but hanging around like his participation was assumed, wanted even. Still reeling from last night’s narrow escape, I wasn’t so sure anymore about that keep-your-enemies-close theory. Because close meant access, as far as I was concerned. For the time being, I didn’t see any options. When Penny pulled to the curb to pick us up, I stood aside and watched him squeeze into the backseat.

  Just a short while later, approaching the turnoff to Jack’s farm, I surveyed a changed scene. Several occupied vehicles, including a police car, were parked at the top of the long driveway to the house. Penny came to a stop, and I rolled down my passenger-side window and watched a policeman walk over.

  After a brie
f call up to the house, we were given permission to turn into the driveway. Which meant the other cars were not. I noticed one guy aiming a large camera out his window.

  Jack met us out front.

  “So what’s going on?” I asked, accepting his assistance getting out of the car.

  “Two geologists have been out today, as well as our insurance agent. No one is ready yet to speculate as to a definite cause. All they’ll say is that it’s very large, and we’re lucky it hadn’t been up here near the house or in a busy residential area, for that matter.” He pressed his eyes closed and squeezed my fingers. I appreciated the moment of solidarity and was grateful not to have to describe my own “lucky” escape.

  “And the place has been crawling with reporters,” Jack continued. “My dad let a few down for photos earlier this morning, but our insurance agent got a little nervous about liability and public safety.”

  “What about us?” pen-in-hand reporter Penny asked.

  “Don’t worry. I have permission to take you guys out there,” Jack said, “but we’ll have to be careful.”

  Jack and I got into the cab of his truck and the three of them climbed into the back for a winding and bumpy, off-road trek to the family’s back acreage. It was a warm early-September afternoon. Overhead, leafy branches, many already sporting this fall’s colors, flapped with the day’s light breeze, and birds chirped their approval of the blue sky and crisp air. For a moment, I forgot the nature of our outing.

  It came rushing back the instant we arrived at the scene. In the daylight, I could clearly see the drop-off. It was as if the bottom had simply fallen out of the large circular area. And it was deeper than I remembered. The trees snapped and disfigured at the bottom took on eerily human shapes with their outstretched limbs.

  “Whoa,” Penny said, joining me at a safe distance from the chasm.

  “That’s a big hole,” Jinky said, already snapping photos.

  “Both geologists have classified it as a karst or a tian keng,” Jack said. “A Chinese word that translates into ‘heavenly pit.’ China is famous for some of the largest sinks known.”

  Someone had been doing his homework.

  “So is it really dangerous around here? Could it open up further?” Penny asked.

  “At the very edge, yes, some more soil could give way,” Jack said, “but it’s unlikely the hole will widen from within, if that’s what you’re asking. The real danger would, of course, be someone falling into it.”

  I took a step back. Jack’s mention of a fall tripped my memory of the two times and places where a physical location had dropped from under my feet — the power places, or Álaga Blettur, as Hulda called them.

  “How do I get to the other side for a photo?” Jinky asked. Indeed someone had been out with cones and tape roping off a good portion of the area.

  Jack hesitated and then waved with his hand. “I’ll show you, but we have to be quick. My dad is really nervous about the liability of this thing.”

  Newsgal Penny followed the two of them around the side of the pit.

  Once I was sure we were out of earshot, I asked Marik, “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “What? No,” he said.

  “When I say ‘you’ I mean the collective you, as in Vatnheim.”

  “To what end?” he asked.

  “As a warning.”

  “As far as I know,” Marik said, keeping his voice to a whisper, “this has nothing to do with my assignment. And why would a warning be necessary? You’re cooperating, right?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly.

  “Moreover, this is an apple farm, correct?” Marik asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  He looked around, his head stretching side to side. “I could feel it as we drew near.” He tapped his chest.

  “Feel what?”

  From the ground, Marik picked up a battered apple and held it at eye level with me. “Apples are the life-giving fruit of all the realms. This is, therefore, a place of great symbolism. To destroy such sacred land would be a very bad omen, especially given the plight of our queen.”

  This particular apple hardly looked like anything special. Something had nibbled or pecked at it, leaving it exposed to its core on one side and bruised and scraped on the other. Still, there was something in his grotto-green eyes that pooled with sincerity. And he did seem to have some kind of reverential reaction to the place. Moreover, I didn’t want to discuss the topic of my cooperation.

  “OK. Fine,” I said. “Because I’d hate to think —”

  “Think what?” Jack asked, startling me from behind.

  “That Marik and Jinky would sit around on a Saturday night. I’ve invited them to hang out with us.” Penny was the last to catch up. “Penny, too. It’ll be fun.”

  From the looks on their faces, Jinky and Marik were free. Penny, I noticed, plumped with the prospect of a Saturday night in Marik’s company. Only Jack seemed to go a little hangdog with the news. We had talked about going on that real date.

  Jack looked at the rotting apple in Marik’s hand. “Hungry?” he asked.

  Marik glanced down at the specimen. “More like fascinated.” He dug with his thumbnail into its flesh, popping out the hard seedpod. “From one small seed, all this.” He swept his arms open.

  “Actually, that’s one of the five carpels you’ve got there,” Jack said. “The seeds or pips are still inside.”

  Marik nodded his head in appreciation before lobbing the apple back toward the woods; it landed with a soft thump. Back at the truck, science-guy Jack grabbed an apple — a perfect pink specimen — from a wooden crate, shined it on his jeans, and tossed it to Marik.

  Marik’s eyes grew large, and he held the rosy orb upon both palms as if it were something rare and fragile. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  While swinging into the driver’s seat, Jack shot me another of those crooked smiles. It had me wondering who was the true fool: Marik or the rest of us?

  Later that afternoon, my dad called.

  “So, Kitty Kat, it’s Saturday night. Any big plans?”

  “Actually we’re heading your way, into Walden.”

  “It just so happens I’m free. Can I buy you two some dinner?”

  I laughed. “You may want to take that invite back. There’re five of us.”

  “Five of you!”

  “Yep.”

  “I guess I forgot you kids run in packs.”

  “Like dogs,” I said.

  “What the heck. A few pizzas and a couple pitchers of soda aren’t going to set me back too much. What do you say?”

  It was no secret that my dad had relocated his company and his life to Minnesota for me. And as much as business was booming, I knew his social life was currently a bust. In LA, he had a whole roster of friends he could call on a Saturday night. Here, not so much. I knew he and his foreman were friendly and went out for the occasional beer, but the guy was married with young kids and had the kinds of obligations that came with both. Still, I wasn’t too sure that my friends would be as sympathetic to his situation as I was. It was a Saturday night, after all. And Walden had a hip, university-town scene. Not too many of the college crowd were out with their parents.

  “Don’t worry,” he continued. “I’ll cut and run as soon as the check’s paid. Let you kids finish the night on your own.”

  That part sounded all right. Walden did have a pedestrian street where people just kind of hung out on their way to or from the shops, bars, and restaurants.

  “Sure, as long as you’re buying.” It was kind of our running joke that I was the handout kid.

  I drove my mom’s Explorer so we could all pile in. We picked Jinky and Marik up last. While pulling up, I pointed to the Victorian house.

  “So my mom and Stanley did put an offer on this place.”

  “No way!” Penny said.

  “It’s certainly colorful,” Jack said.

  “They’ve promised to repaint it,” I added quickly
.

  “You know what it is, don’t you?” Penny asked. She was definitely worked up about something.

  “Uh. No.”

  “It’s the gingerbread house.”

  “That’s what Jinky called it.”

  “Because that’s its name. It’s kind of famous, you know. Actually, infamous is probably the better word choice.”

  Ho, boy.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because of its former owner: the Bleika Norn.”

  “Who?”

  Penny unbuckled and leaned forward, filling the space between the front bucket seats. “More like ‘what.’ It translates to the ‘Pink Witch.’”

  “Pink? That doesn’t sound very infamous.”

  “I think ‘witch’ is the operative word,” Penny said.

  “So why did people think she was a witch?”

  “It’s not like I know any of this firsthand,” Penny said. “She died a few years back at the ripe old age of a hundred and three, but she was supposed to be some kind of healer.”

  Which would explain the longevity.

  “Again, ‘healer’ doesn’t sound very scary,” I said.

  “But she did it with spells and the laying on of hands.”

  The delicious irony was that I’d seen Penny’s own grandmother heal Jack at a power place with herbs, chants, and her touch.

  “Why pink?” I asked.

  “The house, of course. She had it painted pink. Plus, people say she wore a lot of it.”

  “It is a pretty color, though it might be a bit girly for a centenarian.”

  “You know,” Penny continued, “you and I have a small connection to the Bleika Norn.”

  “We do? How?”

  “The fight between our ammas was over a cameo that once belonged to her. Both of our grandmothers contended it had been promised to them upon her death. Way back, they were all members of a garden club, and the Bleika Norn was a bit of a local celebrity and had a small following. I don’t get it, myself. She sounds kind of spooky, but maybe that was the draw.”