The Whispering Grove: a camp for extraordinary children

Some summer secrets are better kept in the dark.

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Source

This year was different. Even the trees seemed to murmur this as we arrived. I knew the instant the bus doors opened with their wailing screech that something was off. The place smelled different. Felt different. Whispered different.

It hasn’t taken long for the rest to notice. The counselors were new. Every last one of the older leaders we’d grown to rely on over the years had been replaced. New people, with unwavering grins and boundless camp songs, guided us to our cabins, repeated the same rules as every year (boys and girls in separate cabins, no wandering off, don’t go near the House).

Roger had always been a little clueless. Or maybe he was brave? But he was the first to “show off” as the counselors called it when they thought we weren’t listening. The snake was harmless, only a gopher should have been afraid of its five feet, and Roger knew how to control it. It was his talent. The snake coiled up his arm and plunked its head down in his hair, its forked tongue slipping out at anyone who watched.

We all laughed, used to this kind of spectacle—he’d called three owls to our campfire two years ago and they’d munched on mice while we ate s’mores.

The too-tight-ponytail counselor didn’t think it was funny at all. She shrieked and Roger realized the adults watched, round-eyed and exchanging glances.

Roger didn’t return to camp for almost a week.

The rest of us started to talk, too.

“There’s no flight lessons,” Jeremy groaned. He had a hold of the edge of my mattress to keep himself grounded. My heart ached for him—this was the only month of the year he got to ‘taste the air,’ as he called it.

“Stacy was hired last minute from some college recruitment event,” Evelyn pitched in about her counselor. Her eyes flashed, reflecting the dark like a cat’s.

“I needed them this summer,” Sara whispered. A crackle of electricity lit her face for an instant. “And they’re not here.”

“We need to do something.” I hated to be the one to say it. I didn’t want the responsibility. Or the questioning looks people exchanged when I suggested plans. “I’ll do it, but help me come up with what we could do,” I added.

Jeremy dropped onto my bed and reached for me. His hand was too warm against my own, but I leaned into him. This was our last year before we graduated, but both of us knew we’d return here to work. Too many kids arrived without knowing what was wrong with them, and at least we could help.

But we were also almost adults, and that fact raced along my skin as surely as Sara’s electrical change. We’d be able to see each other outside of this remote shelter.

One missing face made us all the most concerned. Not that we saw her often during the summers—nothing more than a brief visit or two every year, but she was a part of this place as surely as we were. And now she’d disappeared.

“She’s gotta be at the House,” Roger said. A tiny bird nestled into his neck, chattering in bird-speak in its sleep.

“I have to get up there then,” I said, doing my best to hide the shiver of fear that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck.

“It would be easier for me,” Jeremy spoke up.

I pulled my hand from his and shook my head. “No. If I get caught, that’s one thing, but the rest of you have to stay here. To fix this.”

We all knew the rules: the House was off limits. Get caught going there? No more camp. For always. I’d hate that, but I’d hate it even more if the others thought I’d sent them, thought that maybe they hadn’t gone of their own free will.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself to pay attention. To plan. To keep from jumping in and controlling anything.

To pretend I wasn’t as afraid as I was.

Jeremy wasn’t fooled. As the boys slipped out before the counselors returned, he lingered. I leaned forward, touching my forehead to his chest. His arms circled me and the threat of tears forced me to hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Let me come with you.”

I shook my head and had to gulp air to keep my voice even, “No. It’s not worth the risk.”

“The risk of you getting caught is worse.”

“If I can’t come back, it wont be much of a loss.” Sometimes the truth felt too sharp, and this cut.

“It would be. For me.”

But I shook my head. No more words. And then footsteps outside and Jeremy had to go, though no footfalls accompanied his retreat.

The wind whispered all night, telling stories in the dark, all of them filled with flames and memories I didn’t want. All of them reminders of what it had been like before the camp found me. I’d arrive two years after everyone else my age had been contacted. They hadn’t detected me before and by that time my parents, my teachers, my classmates, and especially me, thought I’d lost my mind.

I still remembered them explaining the truth; the way a weight lifted from me. And the extra concern on everyone’s faces. Because I could be dangerous. I didn’t want to be. I just wanted to be me, to not get funny glances from my classmates, to find a nice little place to live with Jeremy.

At breakfast, Sara smiled at me. The younger girl’s hair was as static filled as ever and I reached over to braid it down her back.

“Please bring them back,” she whispered to me, grabbing my hand. “I can’t hold on.” As if to illustrate her point, an arc of electricity snapped between us, tingling down to my toes.

I still felt the numbness when I set out that night. Jeremy waited, perched in a tree and swooped down next to me as I slipped out the back door of my cabin and onto the pine-needles.

I don’t know how I didn’t scream and give us all away.

“I’m going with you.” Arms crossed. The moonlight cast his features in silver.

“No.” I ducked around him, hoping he’d take the hint.

He caught my arm and I turned back, meeting his eyes, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

“If I don’t go, I’ll regret it even more.”

I wanted to argue. To make him go back to his bunk. But he grabbed my hands and drew me up behind him, crossing my wrists in front of his neck.

“Jump.”

I did, and he latched his hands under my knees, hefting me onto his back.

“You’d better hold on.” With that, we rose. Not fast or dramatic in Superman style, but steady, careful, with effort. He kept us close to the treetops, weaving between them as we went north. Skirted the lake and the mess hall. The shower building still lit from counselors who enjoyed a late evening.

It was a three mile hike, but as the crow flies, only half that distance.

Jeremy set us down in the deep shadows behind the House. Not that it was really a house, but a large windowless structure. Someone had painted windows onto the corrugated tin exterior. From above the roof looked like normal shingles, complete with a chimney.

Whispered tales of the House sometimes filtered through to us. Stories that the House used to take kids from the camp to experiment on. No one knew if they were true, but the warnings to never come near here left little doubt that something odd happened in the past.

And this is where she lived. She’d made no secret of that fact, hiking into camp some days, other times we saw her leave by helicopter from the clearing in front. If we could just figure out what happened to her, ask her for help in understanding, plead for her help, maybe we could salvage camp.

It was a long shot, the risk of being expelled forever high.

Jeremy gripped my hand and I led the way. A door, painted to blend in, was just up ahead. It was the only one in or out.

At the door, I pressed my ear to the cool metal and listened. Silence. No machines. No one speaking. No footsteps. Completely unlike the last time I’d been here. Not that Jeremy knew that, or that I was about to tell him.

I tried the handle, fully expecting to have to pick the lock. But the clasp gave under my tug and the door pulled outward, revealing a slice of darkness that made the night seem bright.

And with the dark came a smell. Smoke. Foul and reeking of burnt plastic. I used the sleeve of my hoodie to cover my nose as I edged inside. Jeremy held the door as I looked around.

Empty. Or burned? Wisps of the cubicles that had once separated desks, and the glass walls that kept lab space clean, now only charred markings on the floor.

No one could be in there. The flashlight tucked into my pocket hardly made a dent in the dark, but left no doubt the place was ruined.

“I’m glad you decided to get brave enough to investigate.” The voice was cool, calm, the kind I heard in my nightmares still.

I spun and pushed Jeremy into my shadow.

The man’s lanky frame stooped toward me in the moonshine.

“What?” Jeremy whispered from behind me. I could feel his hands shake where they rested on my shoulders.

“It’s such a pleasure to see you step into your role,” he continued, taking another step closer. Even in the dark, the spark of his eyes glowed like a dying ember. I knew it only took a breath of anger to bring it to flame.

“We were just worried. We’ll leave now.” I put force behind my words and they rang in my own ears.

He didn’t even flinch.

Strange. That should have worked.

“I think we all have some secrets to share.” He reached out and dropped a hand on my arm. The heat was just a degree away from burning.

Before he forced us away, I caught sight of Jeremy’s face. The confusion there. So many secrets I’d wanted to keep. And now, now he’d be wrapped up in them, too.

Source

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA. For fun!

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.


Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

The Reluctant Hermes by Kai Strand

A dose of compassion can ruin your future.

***

Image from http://www.gaiaonline.com/ 

Creeper hovered outside the classroom, checking to make sure his skirt wasn’t caught in the waistband of his—what were they, anyway? They weren’t underwear.

Clenching his teeth against the surge of self-loathing his current employment incited, he assured both of his buns were covered by his Hermes costume and pulled open the door. Floating into the room, he heard the expected wave of  titters roll through the classroom. Heck, if he were a student in a classroom and some skirt-wearing guy with wings on his feet came floating in, he’d do more than snicker. God he missed his roots.

Though he tried to suppress his super hearing, it picked up, “Shiny gold buns. I like.” In his peripheral vision, he saw the speaker had long pink hair. Yeah, you would like.

“Can I help you?” The teacher’s frown indicated he hadn’t received a herald-gram in his classroom before.

Boy, you’re in for a treat! Creeper kept his expression blank. “I have a delivery for Sandra Tohler.”

The hot chick sitting across the aisle from the girl with pink hair gulped audibly enough for him to know she was his target. The unison turn of all the heads in the classroom in her direction, confirmed it. He floated toward her, wishing instead that he could pour on some super speed and bullet train his way off of this horrible campus. And put on some frickin’ jeans. Hell, get a job as a stocker in a grocery store. Who needed to use superpowers anyway? Since the balancing of the super heroes and super villains, he’d felt not only useless, but also pathetic.

He cleared his throat and started to recite the beyond corny message his boss had assigned him to deliver. When the girl’s head hit her desk he wanted to put her out of her misery and just leave. He overheard a kid somewhere near the front of the room whisper to his friend, “Man I would love to tap that. If this herald-gram works on her, I’ll deliver one of my own.”

Why did they never realize that plant-inspired superpowers came with super hearing?

All of Creeper’s senses automatically tuned into the miles of thick roots extending deep into the ground from the forest of pines surrounding the school. He longed to coax them into action. The memory of a particularly fun time—back before he graduated from Super Villain Academy—almost made his bored composure crack into a grin. He’d found an anonymous envelope on his pillow one morning. Inside were some cash and a note promising a second, equal installment if he used his roots to keep a particular villainess from joining in the fight that was certain to erupt in the gymnasium later that day. Good times.

More whispers from the front of the room. The jerk’s friend responded with a stupid sounding guffaw and then his high-pitched, grating voice squeaked, “You know that girl dates the nerd, right? The one who used to be a villain, but switched to our side before the balancing? She’s probably into some sick stuff.”

Creeper curled his toes inside his completely lame ankle boots. He ached to send roots up through the floor to wrap around the cocky kids at the front of the classroom and squeeze them until they popped. Then guilt oozed into him and he admonished himself for daydreaming. Root-wars were the old Creeper. The pre-balancing Creeper.

He reached the point in his oration when he needed to grow a bouquet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fistful of seeds. When he opened his fist he felt the eager life within each and every little capsule. New growth. The innocence of it thrilled him and slayed him, equally. He sent warmth and nourishment across his skin until it pooled in his palm. The little seeds drank greedily. He waved his free hand over the top for affect and, as the seeds began to sprout, he pretended to coax the seedlings upward with dramatic flourish, all while maintaining the flow of sustenance into his palm to encourage growth.

The sweet little lives of each flower filled him with regret. He fought against the urge to grimace as he bundled the wildflowers into a bouquet and offered them to the girl. She just stared at them. At first he wondered if she too felt the accelerated lifeline and was as horrified by it as he was. But then he recognized her far away expression and realized her horror was inspired by something else entirely.

He shoved the flowers at her, anxious to get away from them before they realized that by forcing them to grow, he’d cut their life spans short. Okay, maybe he was the only one who actually comprehended that. Flowers don’t think—they just do. They just are. But they’re filled with hope and brightness and all sorts of positive energy. Until they start to die, which this bunch would start to do any second now.

Though he wanted to throw the flowers across the room like a child throws a broken toy, he set them carefully on the desk in front of the girl. Reaching back into his pocket, he grabbed the card the sender had requested accompany the flowers and shoved it into the bunch. The girl just stared at the flowers. Her distracted state of mind pulled at his newly tender heart, knowing the flowers would die long before she appreciated them. Such a waste of the purity of their bloom time.

He shook his head and pulled himself from his maudlin thoughts. He hated this new way of thinking, but with the influx of those disgusting warm, fuzzy, hero feelings the balancing forced on him, he couldn’t help himself. He broke his stoic expression to scowl at the jerk at the back of the room eyeing his legs. The kid just lifted an eyebrow.

Pre-balancing Creeper would have wrapped a root around the guy’s waist and pounded him against the wall. Post balancing Creeper couldn’t bring himself to coax the roots to do his bidding anymore because of their feelings. No, that wasn’t quite right. He had always known plants had a sense of awareness—almost an independent will that fought against his violent instructions. He had just never cared before.

Breathing through his nose like a bull, Creeper lifted off the ground, zipped over the heads of the students and out the door. At least the assignment was hours away from the flower shop so the long journey back meant he wouldn’t have to be humiliated again for a while. Or coax more seeds into an early death. Rising high into the air, he tried not to think about lost opportunities, or the biting cold on his bare arms and legs as he leisurely made his way back to work. 
***

Creeper (and his roots) play very minor roles in Kai's books, King of Bad and her upcoming book, Super Bad. This story is the retelling of a scene from Super Bad, from Creeper's point of view. Super Bad is scheduled for release in June. You have just enough time to read books one and two in the series before the concluding book comes out!

About the author: Kai Strand writes fiction for kids and teens. Her debut novel, The Weaver, was an EPIC eBook Awards finalist. King of Bad spent eight months on the publisher's Top 5 best sellers list. As a mother of four young adults her characters are well researched and new stories are inspired daily. Kai is a compulsive walker, addicted to pizza and a Mozart fangirl. Visit her website for more information about her work and to find all her virtual haunts; www.kaistrand.com.