Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
Scott stirs, but doesn’t leave the relative safety of the fence. Tool bounds over to him and sniffs him. He bites his lip, looking from me to where the spider had been.
My arms are killing me. Not so much from the weight, but the awkward position I’m in to hold the tree in place. “Thirty,” I grunt.
My brother is nothing if not an opportunist. He sidles closer, still cautious, but tempted. “Fifty,” he says. “So I can get a new cage for Dusky when you finally get him for me.”
“Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Forty.”
“Fifty. Or magic won’t grow on this tree, either.”
He drives a hard bargain, but he holds all the cards. “All right, gremlin—”
“Not a gremlin anymore.”
I growl.
He inches closer. Using the shovel, he tosses compost soil in, and then uses his foot to compress it.
“Am I still straight?” I ask as he steps back to take a look.
He laughs. “Were you ever?”
“I meant the tree.”
“Sure is erect.”
If I could’ve tossed something at him, I would have.
I slowly release my hold on the tree. It looks pretty good. Great, actually.
We fill the remaining space with more soil, saturate the area with water, and add still more soil. “Now bark.”
Tool barks.
“Not that type of bark.”
Scott gathers the bark we removed from around the old fir earlier and scatters it around the base of the last tree.
I’m adding a few spades of fresh bark when Tool bumps against my leg as he races towards the house.
In the distance, a car door slams shut. Robin calls for Tool.
A second voice chimes in. Lyle.
Scott and I look at each other. For a boy who’d claimed transplanting trees was boring, he sure looks alert and interested now.
“Shite,” I mutter, grabbing my tools and stuffing the smaller ones in the duffel. I need a plan to get us, the old fir, and the tools the heck out of here.
Tool’s bark grows more distant, as if he’s leading Robin away. Stalling for time? If we manage to somehow disappear from the scene without getting caught, I’ll buy him a juicy bone.
How to get out without getting caught—
The fence.
It’s high, and it backs onto the neighbour’s yard. This could go all kinds of wrong, but it’s the only option other than burrowing our way out.
In true brother fashion, Scott takes one look at me and reads my mind. He grabs my shovel, sneaks up to the fence, and drops it over. It makes a soft thudding sound as it lands. I hoist up the duffel bag and swing that over too, wincing as I drop it. The tools clang as they hit the spade.
Tool’s barks sound louder.
As quickly and carefully as possible, I lay the old fir tree down and mime for Scott to grab the top end. On a silent “three,” we lift it up. Soil spills out and over my face as we lift it higher. Pressing the bag against the fence, I roll it over the top.
It hurts to let go, but it has to be done. It thuds to the ground; the bag sounds like it’s split, and there’s a distinct snap.
Please only be a minor branch.
I lock my fingers together for a step, and Scott gracefully flings himself over the fence. He chuckles like he’s having the time of his bloody life.
“Move the fir out of the way,” I hiss. “I’m coming over.”
Scott whispers, “Quick. One of the neighbours opened their back door.”
Tool barks again; he’s even closer now. Perhaps around the side of the house. With a quick glance back, I make sure we’ve left no evidence—
Shite. The sacks.
I dash over to where they’re hidden behind the fir and yank them up. With no time left, I swing the sacks around twice and fling them high into an arc over the fence.
“What’s all this ruckus?” Robin asks, rounding the house.
Lyle doggy-talks, “What’re you on about, eh?”
I eye the massive fence, glance towards their voices, take a running start and vault over.
Air whooshes out of my lungs as I hit the other side, half of me landing on the tip of the fir and half sprawled over a muddy patch of grass. The mud slurps as I unstick myself.
Scott is laughing silently, body shaking with the effort not to let it all out. “Wait until you grow up,” I murmur as I sling the strap of the duffel bag over my shoulders. “See what crazy shite you get up to.” I grab the heavy end of the fir.
Over the fence, Robin lets out a sigh.
Lyle speaks, and I give myself over to the longest shiver yet. “Is that right? Is that right? Well, I see nothing here but magic, boy.”
Every drop of sweat and rain and adrenaline surges.
This is what it’s for.
I’d once imagined Robin would be the one to say it, but . . . Robin sees the fir for the magic it seems, but Lyle . . . he’s seen how it’s done. He’s known I come here every week and toil away swapping firs in the earth. He’s seen through the trick.