Willowmere

By Andrea Cox Christen

"To Pea, Love Mom"

...reads the necklace twelve-year-old Pea finds stuck high in the willow tree Mom had planted long ago on their ranch. Pea doesn't know how it got there. If Mom were alive, she would ask her. But when Pea takes the necklace, the tree reveals a secret tunnel to Willowmere-the magical world built by her mom's

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chicken Scratch Books
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781953743251

Book preview

Pea’s long legs swung back and forth through the green leaves making the branch sway beneath her. Stretched out along the bark, she listened to the rustling of the willow’s leaves as the thin, drooping limbs shifted in the breeze. She pursed her thin lips together.

One-hundred and forty-four, one-hundred and forty-five.

Dad would find her soon. Yesterday it had taken him almost ten minutes to see her in the deep grasses of the pasture. She was being easy on him today. He knew how much she loved lying in the willow tree behind the ranch house. But, his eyes had looked too tired for a long game of hide-and-seek.

A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, making her serious face even more sober. Mom had liked this game. Dad just played to be nice. And it was the only game they really played together anymore. No more Go Fish. No more Old Maid. No more checkers. Only hide-and-seek before he went off to do any of the many things he had to do on the ranch, and she was left to entertain herself.

One-hundred and fifty-two, one-hundred and fifty-three.

Gotcha, kid.

Pea jumped. Dad stood under the tree, his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, his graying mustache curving over his mouth.

You going easy on me? This is always the first place I look for you.

Nope, I just wanted to hang out here for a while. Pea swung down from her branch to the wide arm of the tree’s first limb. She pushed her short, black hair back behind her ears. Can I help with anything?

I’ve gotta finish the baling today. Can you bring me lunch?

Sure.

Whatcha gonna do while I’m baling?

Pea shrugged. Go for a walk, maybe.

Be safe.

Pea winced, and Dad cleared his throat. He was probably thinking the same thing she was, but he didn’t say anything. He just took bigger steps as they walked back toward the ranch house.

Sure, Dad.

Pea wiped sweat off her wide brow with a frown. Before her, the baling machine crawled through the alfalfa field which hugged the creek. If the hot summer didn’t dry it out, this creek would water their ranch as it curved its way down from the looming Beartooth Mountains. No rain meant Dad’d be able to get most of the alfalfa baled. But heat like this meant storms. Pea bit her thin lips into a straight line.

Please, not a storm.

Exhaling, she squinted in the sun, shading her eyes with a tanned hand. Being the only adult running the ranch was drying the life out of Dad. Even from here, Pea thought she could see the tired lines on his face, the sad look in his eyes. When she told stories he used to laugh at, he would only shift his face into a small smile and then look away, his face slipping back into gloom.

As the baler turned a corner, Pea waved, gesturing at the cooler packed with PB and Js she’d left by the big rock. Dad waved back, but the machine kept trundling across the pasture. He was too busy. Again.

Pea walked the dirt road home to their small, yellow house, kicking rocks as she went.

Not much of a walk. But, maybe, one of the Hendersons would want to play?

She looked at the sky and shook her head. Staying home was better.

Alone at the formica kitchen table, Pea ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

If only Dad could have taken a break. Mom would have.

Pea sighed, clanging her plate into the dishwasher, and went outside to sit in the willow.

By two o’clock, the sky was dark. In the dim living room, Pea turned on the TV, switching from a kid’s show, to a sports show, to a talk show. Around the house, wind tossed the lilac bushes. Rain splattered the windows. Pea jogged her foot up and down, up and down, nibbling on her narrow lips. She pushed her black hair behind her ears, again and again.

It’s just rain, Pea. You’re fine, she said. You’re just fine.

The rain increased, and thunder rolled down the mountains.

A balloon grew in Pea’s chest. Her eyes darted out the window and back to the TV. Dad shouldn’t be outside. The baling could wait. He knew better. She wrapped herself in an afghan.

Thunder drummed again, louder.

It’s okay. Yeah, it’s okay.

Rain fell in sheets making it too dark to see. She turned on a lamp, its shaded light too small to help. You’re okay. Dad’s okay. You’re okay. Dad’s okay.

Pea wrapped the afghan around her long legs. Lightning snapped through the sky in the picture window. She whimpered.

One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-one thousand. She counted for twenty seconds. Thunder crashed.

It’s four miles away. That’s far from Dad. That’s far from you. Look with your heart, not with your fear. Look with your heart, not with your fear. She pulled a pillow over her head. Be like Renault.

Pea dug into the couch, hiding under the afghan.

Another crash.

See with your heart.

A slam. A rattle.

Pea, honey. It’s me. Dad dug through the layers of blanket. I’m home. I’m okay.

Pea curled into him, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as baling twine. I tried to be brave. But it was so loud and then there was lightning and. . . .

I know. I know. He ran his rough hand over her head. We’re together. And you are brave. You’re one of the bravest kids I know.

She spoke into his shirt, quivering next to him. I tried to see with my heart, but it was so hard.

Pea felt Dad smile as they hugged. It’s hard for me too. But you’re getting better. You’re in the living room, right? You’re not in the cellar like before.

She nodded.

And this was a big storm. You were right to be worried. I came back because it wasn’t safe for me to be out there anymore, either.

She sighed. No, it wasn’t safe at all. Both she and Dad knew. She sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead, out of her eyes.

Can I make you a hot chocolate?

Thanks, yeah.

Two hot chocolates coming up.

And, Dad?

Yeah?

Thanks for coming home to me.

Tree-trimmin’ time," Dad said the next day, emphasizing his words by making scissors with his calloused fingers.

His jokiness made Pea cringe, her wide brow wrinkling, but she pretended to smile.

Can I use the electric trimmers?

You’re too young.

But when will I be old enough? When I’m thirteen?

Maybe in two years, when you’re fourteen. Now, you climb the willow, and I’ll hand you up the saw. There’s some branches that need to come down.

Under the wide, big sky of Montana, fir trees climbed the hill behind their yellow ranch house, a small forest of evergreens. Down below in the creek bottoms, across from the fields, thirsty cottonwoods drank up the water. In Pea’s backyard, though, was the best tree, the willow. Reaching her long arms up, she jumped to the first thick branch, the hallway, and climbed to the next branch, her bedroom. Swinging up, she sat in the balcony.

Be careful up there. It isn’t as strong anymore. I think it’s got some tree disease, Dad yelled from ten feet below.

Pea nodded, smiling as she breathed in the willow’s green light. It couldn’t be sick. She knew this tree too well. It was more her home than their yellow house. And each branch was a step away from her worries: Dad, the ranch, thunderstorms. She grabbed another branch, and another. She’d never been able to climb so high. Those nighttime growing pains may have been worth it.

But, she had a job to do. Pulling the hand saw up by the rope Dad had tied to it, Pea reached for a tangle of dried sticks on a brown branch. The bark peeled off as she sawed, revealing the gray, dry wood beneath. Pea pressed down on the saw, pulling against the wood’s grain. Just a bit more.

Crack. The branch was in her hand—not attached to the tree. Pea leaned back and. . . No! Her feet slipped. . . .

Flinging the saw and branch away, Pea grabbed for a handhold. The cut branch crashed down into the tree below.

You okay up there?

Pea clung to the healthy limb.

Don’t scream.

Her feet scrambled and found another branch.

Crack! The branch snapped.

Her feet found another. It held.

I’m fine. Her voice warbled. She tried to take a deep breath.

These branches look all hollowed out inside. Don’t climb too high.

I know. She knew alright.

She filled her lungs. That had been stupid. Another shaking breath. Pea shook her head and tightened her grip. She had to be more careful—and she better not have hurt the tree.

The sun glinted and winked. Pea squinted and looked back up at the cut branch.

Something was half buried in the wood. Checking the saw on its rope, Pea reached out to touch the glinting metal. It was warm and fell into her hand as if it slid from a velvet pocket.

Whoa! A slice of sunlight sat in her palm, as smooth as Dad’s pocketknife. It was a delicate necklace, with a medallion dangling from it, a tree with many branches etched into its face.

Pea flipped it over.

In clear letters it read, To Pea, Love Mom.

Pea had learned to braid Mom’s crow-black hair under this willow. Lying on a quilt, Mom covering her eyes with her arm, Pea had flipped Mom’s hair over and in, over and in.

Do you feel that, my little Snap-Pea? Mom had said.

What?

The earth under us. The willow’s roots. Do you feel all that’s there?

Pea put down the hair and cuddled next to Mom.

Sorta.

This tree started from a stick I planted with your grandfather almost thirty years ago. Now look how big and beautiful it has become.

It’s so powerful.

You’re right. It is powerful. Mom rolled over and smiled, her eyes crinkling at Pea. And so are you.

How am I powerful?

Because—you’re like this tree. You grow and grow. Look at your long arms and legs. And this tree grows too, up to the sky and deep into the earth, maybe even to another place. Mom smiled her secret-keeping smile.

What place? How could the willow go somewhere else?

Maybe it’s a special tree. Think about all the adventures it’s had.

Adventures?

Oh, yes. Adventures. The time the creek rose up to its roots, the time the earthquake shook it, the time snow buried all but its top leaves.

When? I haven’t heard anything about an earthquake.

Really? I bet you’ve forgotten.

Nope, you didn’t tell me. When did it happen?

Or where, girl child. Mom raised an eyebrow. Have I ever told you about my friend Renault?

Pea smiled. Mom always started Renault stories that way. Tell me another one.

"Once when Renault was a young lemur-monkey-dog, he wandered away from where his mother had hidden him. He climbed up a tree with his long arms, swinging with his tail, jumping from branch to branch, pretending he was a cowboy riding a bucking bronco. When he tried to go back to his hiding place, all the grass looked the same. The trees grew as big as the sky, the grass became the size of trees, the small creek was a raging river. Renault didn’t know what to do, so he sat down and cried. ‘What have I done? What have I done? I’ve lost my mom. My only mom. I’ll never ever get another one.’

"As he cried, a huge boulder came rolling toward him, staring at him with its gigantic eyes. ‘Why are you crying?’ it asked Renault.

"He didn’t reply but cried louder.

"‘Why are you crying?’ it said again.

"The third time the boulder talked to him, Renault looked up and said, ‘Because I’ve lost my mom and don’t know what to do!’

"And then the boulder was no longer a huge boulder but his mom. And the trees weren’t the sky, and the grass was not the trees. Everything returned to normal once Renault stopped being scared and looked more closely at things.

‘Oh, my dear son, you need to remember to look with your heart, not with your fear,’ said his mother.

Silly Renault, Pea had said.

Yes, but fear is a dangerous foe. You remember that, girl child. Now it’s time to get moving.

Mom had never lounged around long. She worked hard on the ranch: calving, fixing fences, cooking, baling, or swathing. She could do it all because she was strong as the land, and just as indomitable.

Dad had thought so too. That day when Mom didn’t come back from checking on the cows, they had eaten lunch without her.

She’s probably working on something. She’ll be back soon, Dad had said.

When the notion took her, Mom would ramble around the ranch like a curious coyote.

It’s hot, but she has water, Dad said. Both of their battered trucks had an old, plastic vinegar jug filled with water rolling on the floorboards along with some baling twine for good measure.

A thunderstorm passed by, and Pea and Dad shared a smile. Mom loved watching Montana’s weather dance across the sky.

Think she’s sitting up on Bailey’s Hill watching the storm roll in from the Beartooth Mountains?

Pea nodded, her smile almost too wide for her triangular face.

She’s going to be drenched. I’ll make up a pot of coffee.

The sky cleared. The sun came out, making sparkling gems out of the raindrops. Dad said they’d go look, not a twitch of concern in his voice. He was curious to see what Mom had found: a black bear, a herd of elk, a new beaver dam.

Can I bring Renault along too?

Of course.

Pea held the flopping, long-legged stuffed animal on her lap as the truck bounced down the gravel road. Can I use the binoculars?

Once we get up on the hill, you can try ‘em. This road is too bumpy.

But, it didn’t take binoculars to see the scorched line left by the lightning on the hillside.

During a drink break, Pea slunk up the narrow stairs to her room and hid the necklace in her underwear drawer. Don’t let anyone find that, she whispered to Renault who was slouching on the dresser.

She should ask Dad about the necklace, about Mom, but it would be too hard. The bubble of tears in her throat would start to grow and Dad’s eyes would start to melt and dart around the room. It was easier if Mom was only a picture on the wall.

The lightning that had hit Mom was still there. Pea felt its hot, buzzing power in her heart and her eyes.

I’m tired. I’m going to bed early, Pea said at dinner, fumbling with her words.

Did tree trimmin’ tucker you out?

I guess so. She gave Dad a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug.

In her room, Pea pulled out the necklace and showed it to Renault. It’s real, Renault. I didn’t dream it up.

He stared out of his plastic eyes.

I know, right? It must be from her. See?

To Pea, Love Mom

Love Mom

She rubbed the words again. Mom’s hugs had been tight but gentle. Her hands quick and strong.

Mom had planted that tree when she was a kid. Maybe she’d put the necklace in there too. Mom said she and Grandpa had taken a branch from another willow and spent a whole day deciding where to plant it when she was six years old.