The Summer Land: An Historical Drama from a Supernatural Time

By Sue Perry

1891. A runaway boy happens upon a young girl, all on her own with mysterious powers. She needs to learn to live safely around people and he needs to hide from his past. He brings her to Summerland, CA, a brand new town, a spiritualist colony attracting many kinds of seekers, including psychic investigators, oil speculators, the recently deceased, and these two stray children in need of a family.

The History of this Novel

The 19th century saw widespread interest in spiritualism. Family members yearned to communicate with dead loved ones and hired mediums to serve as go–betweens. Intellectuals like French astronomer Camille Flammarion sought evidence to prove the existence of a spirit world, which some called "the Summer Land". Meanwhile, in Sweden, the painter Hilma af Klint would soon be receiving artistic direction during séances.

Spiritualist colonies sprang up around the United States, and entrepreneur Henry Lafayette Williams established the town of Summerland, California as one. To join Summerland's colony, spiritual seekers came from all over – right about the time that the locals discovered oil.

Here, then, is a work of imagination built on historical foundation. Settings and incidents in this novel – plus some characters and dialog – got their starts in the 1800s and this novel takes great care to respect the factual. Nonetheless it is fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue Perry
• Release date: Mar 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215531907

Sue Perry

... Concert stage, dark except for a deep blue spotlight. Singer drops to one knee and his narration evolves from murmur to rant. "This is the story of a man who got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got –" ...It goes on forever. It's mesmerizing. Uncomfortable. Confessional.Pretty sure this memory is from the time I saw James Brown, decades ago, but the lost identity of the singer isn't the point.I've spent my life gazing across some fence or other, admiring greener grass over yonder. I've acted on so many impulses to jump the fence. No complaints, but it has sure taken me a long time to appreciate where I'm standing right now. And nowadays that blue spotlight chant fills my head whenever I contemplate a new jump.Sometimes I jump back.I was a low–budget television producer until I wrote a psychological thriller, "Was It A Rat I Saw", which Bantam–Doubleday–Dell published in hardcover in 1992. Soon after that I became the mother of twins, jumped into graduate school, and became a disaster scientist. I dabbled in academia, government research, and consulting.I stopped writing fiction for nearly two decades, until I noticed how much I missed it. I resumed writing novels with the literary fiction "Scar Jewelry" about a family with secrets that started in the era of Los Angeles punk and persist for decades. I'm in the midst of a speculative detective series FRAMES, with "Nica of Los Angeles", "Nica of the New Yorks", and "Boredom Fighter" so far. I've just completed a nine-novella series, the young adult paranormal horror romance, "DDsE".Funny. Back in the day, I had a single book idea at a time. Now I'm flooded with them, can't keep up with them, though I write just about every day.I live in southern California. I had to leave for five years to confirm this is where I belong. I live with multiple cats, comfortably close to my twins and granddaughter. Like my life paths, my friends and family are all over the damn place. I like to visit them, spend time at the ocean, explore cities, and go out to hear live music.

Book preview

The 19th century saw widespread interest in spiritualism. Family members yearned to communicate with dead loved ones and hired mediums to serve as go–betweens. Intellectuals like French astronomer Camille Flammarion sought evidence to prove the existence of a spirit world, which some called the Summer Land. Meanwhile, in Sweden, the painter Hilma af Klint would soon be receiving artistic direction during séances.

Spiritualist colonies sprang up around the United States, and entrepreneur Henry Lafayette Williams established the town of Summerland, California as one. To join Summerland's colony, spiritual seekers came from all over – right about the time that the locals discovered oil.

Here, then, is a work of imagination built on historical foundation. Settings and incidents in this novel – plus some characters and dialog – got their starts in the 1800s and this novel takes great care to respect the factual. Nonetheless it is fiction.

Chapter 1

1891

Jack

The Southern California Coast

Everything is to be found in nature, the known and the unknown, and there is no such thing as the supernatural. Eclipses, comets, and strange stars were formerly considered signs of divine wrath, before men were acquainted with their laws. Very often things are called supernatural which are only wonderful, inexplicable, or extraordinary. When we meet with such, we should say, quietly, this belongs to the unknown.

– 1902, Camille Flammarion, spiritualist & astronomer

Jack struck the rock against the pipe, fast and sharp to make sparks jump. Flame burst from the ground, swallowed the sparks, formed a white hot teardrop of fire in the dirt. Jack grinned. Here was a firelight with no flicker whatsoever and just one skinny ghost of stinky black smoke, floating up to heaven, making angels wrinkle their perfect noses.

The stink put a coat on Jack's tongue. He blinked his eyes clear. Yes, plenty of gas right here, this hole could light their ballgames for many nights if they burned it slow. He'd been right to take his time with this new firelight, pounding a hole at a careful angle, just like how the Tar Man had showed him.

The other boys cheered and ran to their positions, marks scuffed into the dirt. But they were only two plays into a ballgame when somebody shouted Hey, stagecoach coming! then somebody yelled Can't be! Tide's too high! and everybody was running toward the beach. Once, a wave at high tide had knocked the stagecoach upside its head, and none of the boys had gotten to see that crash.

Everybody ran to the beach except Jack. At 11, he was younger than the other boys, but times like this, he felt considerably older. The other boys were always trying to get experiences that Jack would sooner forget. Like seeing dead bodies.

Fog rolled off the ocean, making Jack and firelights shiver. The new firelight flared, browning the fog, burning a whole lot of gas to light this empty field. At last, here the boys came, back to the field, shoving each other and laughing. The stagecoach must still be rolling.

This ballgame was not to be. Now supper bells clanged in the foggy air, calling boys home. The fog had a bite tonight and nobody argued for one last play. The boys headed toward their bells. Jack plugged the holes of the firelights, hoisted his bag of tools and belongings, and left the field as though he were heading for a bell, too.

In each place he stopped to work or play, he pretended he lived some other place. Leaving the ballgames, he always headed north and east, as though to the ranches along the trail to Ojai: near enough that, sure, he'd walk down to Carpinteria to play ball; far enough that these boys never expected to see him at school.

He wasn't at school, of course. Teachers mean well but they're nosy. Last spring he had to avoid folks during school hours. This school year would be easier, now that Mam had her house.

When the other boys were sure to be at their supper tables, Jack returned to the ocean. The fog rolled back out to sea, leaving oaks that gleamed silver. The moon was up already, and nearly full. Cookfires dotted the flat bluffs beside the tar pit. The men who mined the tar pit had sleeping quarters but usually slept outside. Some folks complained about that but nobody tried to stop it. Jack could see men tending pots and unrolling bedrolls – that's how bright the moon was.

This was as good a night as he'd get to walk Saizie to Mam's house in Summerland. Five miles, one way. Hours of walking for Saizie's sturdy little legs. She was strong enough to manage the walk, and she had agreed to go, but that didn't mean he could get her to do it. Please lord, if there is a god for children who don't go to church, help me to help Saizie.

If Saizie appeared, they'd go tonight. He only saw her one, two nights a week. He could never get her to say where she was on other nights. She'd just act confused that he asked, like no days had passed in between. She had a different idea about time, that was for sure, and not just because she was little.

Jack dropped his bag on the far edge of the cookfires, then crawled into the thick brush beside the creek. Thanks to the moonlight, he didn't have to grope for his hollow log. He dragged out his bedroll and did one last pat of the log's cavity. Empty. Good. He'd moved all the rest of his belongings to Mam's. As soon as he got Saizie settled there, he could move his bedroll, too.

He didn't have any food for a cookfire but he started a few sticks burning just the same. Whatever I prepare for never happens. So if he prepared for a good night's sleep next to this comfortable fire, maybe that would guarantee he'd have to stay awake, walking Saizie to Mam's.

Off the bluffs were two bright ball moons, one hanging in the sky and one floating in the ocean. When waves crashed into the rocks below, they shot silver spray as high as the cypress on the bluffs. In the silences between crashes, owls hooted from the creek. Owls seemed to like to announce themselves. They gave their dinners a head start.

The owls went quiet mid–hoot. The thick brush hid a strange commotion near the creek. Crashes and rustles and snaps and clomps. Branches shook like a wind rose from inside the brush.

A giggle tickled his ears and filled his head with bubbles. Saizie.

She burst out of the brush in a swirl of leaves and critters. Gophers and foxes circled her like playmates. Bats and sparrows chirped like old friends. Butterflies and hummingbirds darted and hovered like Saizie was a flower that wouldn't hold still.

Saizie! Jack hissed, trying to not draw attention. Probably the cookfires were too far away for anyone to notice the strange mix of little girl with critters, hunters with prey, day critters with night. At Jack's hiss, the animals slipped back into the brush and the swirling stopped, so quick anyone would question what their eyes had just told them.

Saizie was filthy and messy, Jack was happy to see. Her long black hair was so tangled it looked short. She had twigs and dirt all over and she looked sticky even from way over here. Jack's stomach rolled over. Filthy and messy weren't enough. Saizie shone brighter than the moonlight and you could feel the dark warm of her eyes even when hair blocked their view. She was too beautiful.

She stopped giggling when she saw his face.

Everything's fine, Saizie, you know how I get. Hey what color am I tonight?

Ba–loo, she said carefully. Saizie was finally starting to talk. She must be close to 5 but spoke like a 2–year–old. Jack suspected she knew plenty of words – she seemed to understand everything he said – but only lately was she willing to speak them.

Blue's a good color! Now, remember to talk in Spanish.

Azul. Sabado se llama! Saizie giggled. Words in any language made her laugh.

Jack grinned. Nonsense Spanish was good enough. If somebody heard her speaking Spanish, they'd assume she had family nearby among the workers. Otherwise somebody might think she was Chumash and decide it was fine to take her away.

Jack was pretty sure Saizie was Chumash and when she got older he'd help her figure out why she was all alone. She did seem to have a few fuzzy memories about what had happened to her tribe, but the one time he had tried to get her to share those, she ran off and he couldn't find her for weeks. He couldn't risk that happening again, not before Mam could teach Saizie how to fit in, how to get along with regular folks.

Tonight's the night we'll go visit Mam, that lady I told you about. Hey, you know what? Let's go right now.

Saizie trotted beside him for one sweet moment, then ducked back to his cookfire. She loved fires. Jack knelt beside her and jiggled a stick to make the flames jump. She gurgled with joy, as he knew she would.

I'll build you a giant fire at Mam's. If we get there early enough. If we leave now. Please, Saizie. Curse his own tongue, he shouldn't be pleading with her.

She gave him a quick look and then, to his surprise, she patted his arm like he was a bird with a busted wing.

He sighed as he stood and held out his hand to her. I can't wait for you to meet Mam. Her hand was even stickier than it looked. What you do get into, little one.

They got twenty steps closer to Summerland before some critter chittered. Saizie broke his grip and ran laughing back into the brush.

Not that way! he growled. He chased her for a bit, then gave up as she darted in out around. She ran funny tonight, her arms stiff against her sides. Was her dress tight across her shoulders? Was she growing again? Already? He had risked so much attention getting her that dress – and now here it was too small.

Jack kicked dirt at his cookfire. He had no business trying to tend to a little girl, any little girl much less Saizie. She was going to pull attention down on them both. He only knew one way to keep himself safe: stay invisible to all the nosy grownups. That was how Pa had found him last time, some nosy grownup who noticed that Jack was on his own.

Jack stopped kicking dirt. The fire flickered like it was nervous to admit it had survived. Jack told himself soothing things. He was surely safe here. Last time he hadn't run far enough. No reason Pa would look for him, all this way out here on the other edge of the whole country. Not even Pa could hold that kind of grudge.

Jack got himself a little calmed down but he had too much imagination to stay that way. He pictured Pa: figuring out where Jack had gone, coming all this way, finding Jack. Spotting Saizie, too. Pa with Saizie. Jack kicked dirt again, so much dirt he buried the fire.

Over by the creek, Saizie and two black–nosed foxes caught blackberries with their teeth, blackberries dropped from the talons of an owl. Wasn't that the beat–all. If one person looked over here, by morning the whole county could be talking about Saizie.

Saizie's critters fled as Jack stomped toward her. It took all his will power to act playful when he tugged her across the dry creek bed, her legs stiff and bouncing in the grasses. Her laugh bounced, too. When he tugged her toward Summerland, Saizie dug in her heels. To keep her moving, Jack would have had to yank too hard. And so he stopped pulling. Jack shoved his face close to hers and whispered, Please, Saizie, you have got to come with me –

She stopped her squirming and for a moment, he thought she was paying him heed. Then he noticed: he was blinking fast, swallowing hard. His eyes stung, his throat felt thick. Tar and turpentine were nearby.

Saizie was watching someone behind him. Hola! She shouted over Jack's shoulder. No words came in answer. However, after a moment she stuck out her hand, palm forward, like she was copying a gesture that someone was making.

Any of the workers from the tar pit would share that smell, but they wouldn't walk up so quietly and they would speak with words, not gestures. Jack shot a glance over his shoulder, confirming. The Tar Man was standing behind him.

How long had the Tar Man been there? Jack let go of Saizie's arms. She pushed him in the belly and galloped into the brush. This was how she played tag. Now he was It, supposed to chase her. But Jack could picture the scene from the Tar Man's eyes and in that view, a tiny girl had escaped a captor and run for freedom.

Jack's belly felt like when the mule kicked him. Not counting Mam, the Tar Man was the only grownup Jack liked to talk to. Well, not talk, the Tar Man was mute, but you could still have a conversation.

Right now the Tar Man kept flicking his eyes at the brush where Saizie had disappeared and watching Jack like he was a cornered coyote.

Saizie scampered out and studied the Tar Man. The Tar Man ruffled her hair and stepped forward. Like he was offering protection. Like Saizie needed protection from Jack.

She ran over and tugged Jack's arm. Gyeene.

That's good, right? Jack asked.

She nodded, clapping her hands at the Tar Man.

Jack tried to speak to the Tar Man with a light voice, like he wasn't being suspected of hurting a little girl. Saizie thinks she sees colors around folks. She says you're green.

The Tar Man gave half a nod. He had none of his usual friendliness, not like the day he showed Jack how to light a proper firelight.

It must be the turpentine fumes that made Jack's eyes blur.

Saizie slapped at Jack to get him to chase her and he grabbed at her wrist to block the slap. She darted out of reach and the Tar Man set a hand on Jack's arm as if to say, Don't touch her again.

Jack must have Pa's bad blood in him, the way he boiled over. Saizie can't stay here! Someone's going to hurt her. She doesn't understand, she thinks everybody's like her and I can only help her so much. She needs to learn how to act like regular folks. Mam is her only hope but I can't carry Saizie all the way to Summerland and whenever could we go? At nighttime she won't stop playing and in daytime she stirs up too much trouble, she's going to get us both caught. My –

Jack clamped his teeth together. Too late, he recalled two important rules. Keep secrets. Always know more than you say. He forced himself to become calm, a low tide in summer. He wanted the Tar Man to stop watching so carefully.

Over by where Jack's cookfire had been, Saizie was dancing like the fire logs were musical. He might as well start the fire again.

From his bag he removed his sharp hard rocks, just right for sparking fires. To start his earlier cookfire, he had only needed to strike the rocks twice. Now it took him 17 tries.

Saizie oohed and ahhed as every little flame licked every little log.

The Tar Man stood so still, the moon mistook him for a tree and colored him silver.

I would never hurt Saizie, Jack wanted to yell. Instead, he smiled. Join us for dinner? Embarrassing, if the Tar Man accepted, as Jack had no food tonight, but he was pretty sure the Tar Man would refuse. Which he did.

The Tar Man headed back toward the tar pit. He often slept at the mined–out edge of the pit. More than once, Jack had passed him there in the earliest morning. A stinky place to sleep, but a warm one. Even thin leftover layers of tar kept the rock warmer than dirt.

Saizie chased after the Tar Man, pulling with all her tiny might to bring him back to their cookfire. He sat and let her show him all the cookfire logs. He tried to leave a second time and the whole same thing happened.

The Tar Man used gestures to show: hard work today, need sleep before more hard work. Saizie smiled and nodded until he stood to leave. Then once again she hung on him and once again he sat down.

She peeled apart the layers of Jack's bedroll and handed one thin blanket to the Tar Man, gave another to Jack, hugged the third piece to herself. Now each of them had a blanket. It was funny if you looked at it a certain way. Little bitty girl bossing everybody around.

The Tar Man sat himself on his piece of the bedroll and watched Saizie poke sticks into the cookfire. The moon pulled smack overhead, surrounding Saizie with silver dirt, like she was floating on a lily pad. The moon kept moving and eventually the Tar Man stood again. He held up his hand in a farewell and this time Jack thought he was going to get away. Saizie was busy with the fire.

Noooo. A–qui! Stay! Saizie pulled the Tar Man back to 'his' piece of Jack's bedroll. And then she ignored him.

The Tar Man watched her feed sticks to the cookfire, his expression more curious than frustrated. Jack felt enough frustrated for the two of them. Saizie. Let the fire go to bed.

She actually cooperated. She flopped down onto her own piece of bedroll and watched the flames fade.

Across the field, the other cookfires had burned down to low glows. Jack couldn't hear a single conversation, just the surf crashing into the bluffs. Hard work and an early start. The miners were likely all asleep. Except for one. Saizie, you've got to let the man go.

Saizie went crazy, slapping at the air, jerking her shoulders like she had a paw caught in a trap. She whimpered something over and over. White white white is what it sounded like.

Jack used his soothing voice and recited bits of speeches and poems and arithmetic rules. All his school learning, finally of use. The words didn't matter. Bit by bit, his tone did get through and Saizie's movements got less violent. At last she went back to her bedroll and watching what was left of the cookfire.

The Tar Man sighed and stretched out with his piece of bedroll. Jack stretched out, too, and frowned at the moon.

White. Saizie had been whimpering that word. It made no sense. Sure, her invisible colors often changed, but she couldn't mean that the Tar Man had changed from green to white. She wouldn't be grabbing at the Tar Man if she saw white. From what Jack could understand, white was the bad color. White was danger, white was death. Saizie ran from white, she didn't insist that it sleep here on Jack's bedroll.

Saizie yanked her bedroll from the ground and rubbed the dirt with her foot.

Got some rocks under you? Jack whispered. By now the Tar Man could be asleep.

She nodded and several things happened at once. The cookfire flared. Shadows crossed between flame and moon, three impossible shadows with unmistakable wings. That one could only be a pelican, except a pelican would never fly this far inland; there was a hawk, except hawks weren't out at this time of night; and between them flew an owl who would never fly between them.

The three shadows flapped above Saizie and dropped tufts of grass, straw, leafy vines. Bedding. Saizie didn't act surprised by these gifts. She spread them on the ground as if this was the normal way to get a nice soft bed. The shadows separated and flew to ocean, creek, mountains.

The cookfire embers made an orange glow in the Tar Man's eyes. He wasn't asleep. He was laying on his side watching this fairy tale come true. Now the Tar Man knew how unusual Saizie was.

Jack knelt beside him. Please. You can't let anyone know about Saizie. Folks will take her. Use her, somehow. They won't just let her be. She's only a little girl. Please.

The Tar Man gave a nod and a shrug that could mean a lot of things. He rolled over, back to Jack, and within seconds his breath changed – he was asleep.

So was Saizie, twisted sideways across her bedroll, hair and feet in dirt. Jack pulled her rightways 'round then returned to his piece of bedroll for more frowning at the moon. Jack trusted the Tar Man, as much as he could trust any grownup. That trust was all he had to keep Saizie secret now.

He woke to a blue–black sky splashed with stars. Very late night. He lay still, listening hard, but heard nothing that might have startled him awake. In fact, the sounds were soothing. Saizie's sweet burble on one side, the Tar Man's solid rasp on the other. It was a pleasure sliding back into sleep.

The next time Jack woke, the sun must have just come up because the sky was still clear. Jack rolled tighter in his piece of bedroll. Soon the morning fog would add its chilly blanket.

Saizie sat up, making whimpery moans, wringing her own throat like it gave her terrible pain. Fat silent tears slid down her cheeks to her dress. This was unusual. Saizie cried a lot – she had every kind of feeling a lot – but she never did much of anything silently.

She stood and turned toward the tar pit, shuffling as though she didn't have the energy to pick up her feet. Was she sleepwalking?

Saizie, Jack threw a big whisper toward her.

The Tar Man sat up, asleep then alert. Noise and commotion from the tar pit were spreading faster than this morning's fog. Over by the tar pit, men hollered. Jack couldn't make out words but the short sharp sounds said something was wrong.

The Tar Man ran toward the tar pit. Saizie ran the other way into the brush. That was fine. The critters would watch out for her. Jack followed the Tar Man toward the hollering.

The commotion came from the sunrise side of the pit, the area where Jack often saw the Tar Man at a cookfire and yes, wasn't that the Tar Man's raggedy bedroll, laid out where he must have been planning to spend the night before Saizie insisted otherwise?

Jack couldn't see for sure. Too many legs and backs blocked his view. It was about the time that miners started their work, so the crowd kept growing thicker, on three sides. The fourth side was the edge of the bluffs. If Jack wanted to see, he'd need to take a shortcut off the edge.

Right there, where the cypress branches hung off the cliff. He ran to the edge of the bluffs, grabbed one branch then another and danced his feet forward along the cliff face, keeping his weight on the branches, not on the crumbling cliff.

Sheriff's on his way, a voice called from the other side of the crowd.

Jack kicked his legs out over the ocean, got enough swing to hoist himself back onto ground. The view was better here. The men weren't so packed together.

Everyone was staring at the ground, where blankets covered two long lumps. Near the lumps were pools of dark liquid. In the liquid, pieces of thick silver ropes slipped side to side like they slid on water that was freezing right under them. But that wasn't water, it was blood.

Careful, little one, they can still bite! You get on home. A man, sounding nervous, waved his arms to shoo something toward the creek.

Saizie. As soon as the man turned away, she stepped forward, slow and wavering, like something invisible was hauling her toward the silver rope pieces. The pieces had to be chopped up snakes, rattlesnakes writhing their last. Jack guessed the lumps must be men, dead from snakebite.

Rattlesnakes loved the extra heat of the tar and at night they nestled in the tar pit. The miners used big sticks to relocate the snakes at the start of every work day. The snakes just wanted to live their snake lives. When the evening fog arrived, they would settle into warm pockets of tar and usually they kept to themselves. But last night some snakes must have wandered into bed with some miners. Who could know a snake's reasons? Now they were all dead.

Saizie needed to leave before the men truly noticed her. Jack shoved through the clumps of men to get to Saizie. Watch out, son. Hey now, boy. Some men complained about the shoves but most seemed aware only of the corpses.

Saizie drooped when Jack reached her and she let him lead her away. Her hand was sticky. Still sticky. He'd forgotten, last night, to help her wash before bedtime.

Saizie stopped walking and pulled, trying to see around him at what the crowd was looking at. Looking will make you sad, Jack warned her. Of course, Saizie might be the only one here feeling sad for the snakes.

She resumed walking, moving like a tiny old lady at a funeral. When they reached the creek's brush, she stopped again and Jack tightened his grip on her fingers, just in case she had a big reaction.

The old boss of the miners was on the far side of the bodies. He called to somebody on this side, Hey, now, Silencio, is that you? Glad to see you're okay.

A man waved his arm in reply. Silencio was the Tar Man! And the way he waved. He wasn't surprised by the nickname and didn't seem to mind it. (Sometimes folks called the Tar Man nasty names, just because he couldn't speak.)

The old boss stooped down, saying, Isn't this your gear? We worried when we found it empty. He lifted the bedroll the Tar Man usually used.

The Tar Man gave a strange grunt. Shouts rose all around.

Another one. Look out!

Here, move it with this stick.

Step aside, I've got the shovel.

There must have been another snake, disturbed when the old boss moved the bedroll.

Metal chunked against tar. Saizie grabbed her throat and moaned. The man with the shovel must have cut up the new snake.

Make way for the Sheriff, somebody called over all the men's heads.

Along the trail that connected tar pit to town, came two men on horses. The Sheriff and the doctor, who would make the deaths and injuries official. Jack had learned that from watching the doctor at a stagecoach crash.

Let 'em do their jobs, the old boss called. Time to do ours. He led the men toward the side of the tar pit, the area where they usually checked in to work. Once the men started moving, they fanned out quickly, spreading across the field on both sides of the arriving horses.

Saizie continued to cooperate. Jack led her up the creek bed back to their sleep area. He sat her down on his bedroll, emptied his canteen onto his towel, wiped her face, neck, hands. She stood, turned, held still. However he said, she did.

Amazingly, she only caused one delay, when she clutched her neck with her fingers, whispering. Drop your hands down, Jack had to tell her four times.

She didn't seem to realize what her fingers were doing.

He touched his wrist to her forehead. No warmer or cooler than usual. He stuck his face in front of hers and her eyes still didn't meet his but, whatever she was seeing, it didn't seem to be as far away as it had been.

Maybe this would be a good day to walk to Mam's, with Saizie so cooperative and folks concentrating on the tar pit.

He held his fingertips below her jaw, squinted his eyes like a doctor. His fingertips throbbed with a sturdy bump bump bump. Why, that must be Saizie's heartbeat.

She grabbed the towel and rubbed his cheek, peering at something beside his nose. This was the first time today that Jack was sure she saw him when she looked at him. The towel was already used up and she smeared sticky filth across his face. The result made her giggle. The full and actual Saizie was coming back.

Jack grinned and pried the towel out from her fingers. You knew those deaths were coming, didn't you? That's why you made the Tar Man stay here last night.

Tears swelled out of her eyes. She touched her throat like it was a dead friend.

You couldn't save everybody. Nobody could. You did great, Saizie. You saw what was going to happen. I can't do that, most people can't. You have a power and it helped you save the Tar Man's life. And you saved yourself, because you kept your power secret, which is what you always have to do.

Ga–reen, Saizie replied.

Too late, Jack's throat got tight with the stink of turpentine and tar. Once again, the Tar Man had walked right up behind Jack and surely overheard words meant only for Saizie.

The Tar Man looked at Saizie like she was flying around their heads. She laughed and skipped away into the brush.

Jack was too tired to grind honest words into easy lies that a grownup could swallow. She saved your life. Don't you go and ruin hers.

The Tar Man gave him one of those looks that could mean anything. Jack swallowed a groan and it stuck in his throat. He knelt to pack up his bedroll.

I understand the importance of secrets. A voice filled Jack's ears. A low deep voice, crisp and clear like an important person making a speech.

Jack saw no one else nearby. Frantic, he shouted, Who said that? Where are you hiding?

And now you possess my secret, the same voice continued. It was the Tar Man. Talking.

Jack stared and stared. Having a voice is a secret?

The Tar Man squatted down beside Jack. My silence allows me to fit in. Do I look like the other miners and ranch hands?

Well, sure, you know you do. The Tar Man looked Mexican. Miners and ranch hands were Mexican, or Chinese.

Do I sound like one?

You sound like a teacher. Or that doctor. Or – a judge.

I speak four languages with diction above my presumed station, which condemns me to hostility and suspicion. I have found it easier to swallow my words than to reshape them. He looked around. I enjoy living here. How long I may remain here is up to you. I will be forced to leave if you reveal my secret. He handed his piece of the bedroll to Jack.

The Tar Man had let out a strangled grunt when the last of the morning's rattlesnakes had appeared. At the time, Jack had figured that the grunt was the biggest noise a mute throat could make. Now he decided, You almost shouted a warning when the old boss picked up that snake. It was hard for you to keep your mouth shut.

The Tar Man nodded. He is a kind of friend and he was in danger. With or without danger, lies are easier with strangers.

Jack added that to his rules. Lies are easier with strangers.

The bushes rustled. A coyote burst into the open, chased by Saizie, chased by a skunk, a rabbit, and two mice. They ran circles until you couldn't say who was chasing who, then flopped in the soft dirt, panting together. The coyote showed no interest in eating the other critters, who showed no fear.

Jack spun around to see if anyone else was watching. They were the only people around.

The Tar Man laughed and for the first time Jack did see what was funny about the situation. What lie could we tell about that?

The Tar Man stood. As you have indicated, our little friend might live in more safety with the one you call Mam. He took a step toward Saizie and the critters – poof! – were gone. Little one, would you like to ride with a horse?

Saizie bounded over and tugged at their hands.

I will interpret that as a yes. Go with Jack and I will join you, the Tar Man said to Saizie, and then to Jack, Meet me across the creek. I will take you to Mam. The Tar Man didn't wait for a reply. He strode back toward the tarpit as though he were alone in the world.

Jack shivered. The Tar Man seemed to shrink to nothing and vanish. But he would not disappear. The Tar Man would be where he said he would be. The Tar Man would help Jack to help Saizie.

Jack's shivering became shaking. This was something that happened to him when a worry was over. It was as if his body had been squeezing tight to keep him going, and now that the problem seemed solved, his muscles relaxed too fast.

Jack stuck the bedroll in his bag, slung the bag over one shoulder, held out a hand to Saizie. Come on, let's go meet that horse. Jack couldn't imagine where the Tar Man had found a horse. Only rich folks had horses. But the Tar Man would know better than to lie about having a horse.

Saizie walked right beside Jack, taking three steps to every one of his, and she didn't slow or wander the whole way.

Across the dry creek bed was the trail that connected the tar pit to the road. On the trail was an old thick tough worker horse, pulling a wagon that stank of tar and turpentine. Jack had seen this wagon, equipment piled high in the back, headed for the other tar mine, which folks said was in Goleta, clear on the other side of Santa Barbara.

The Tar Man jumped down from a narrow board across the