Deidra Ann Adventures - Teter Keyes

A Middle Grade Fantasy Adventure Book Series

Deidra Ann Adventures by Teter Keyes

Series Excerpt

When I go into the kitchen for breakfast, the back door is open, and a bit of cool breeze is drifting through the screen door. Being that it’s June and most summer days it’s too hot for even flies to fart—that’s what Uncle Billy claims—this is a rare event.

“Better get a hustling,” Granny calls out as I pour cereal into a bowl and add milk. “Church services be starting at 9:30 and you know that young preacher don’t delay The Word for anyone.”

I make a noise sounding as close as I can to an agreement with my mouth full. Granny is off getting ready by the time I rinse out my bowl and put it and my spoon in the sink. I go and put on my sundress with the little yellow daisies—it’s my favorite and I’m only allowed to wear it to church—and slide on shoes over anklet socks with the lace at the top. My hair, well that’s a whole other problem. I wet it down and brush through it slow to tame the curlies.

Billy comes down the pass-through dressed in his slacks and a short-sleeve shirt. We join Granny who smells sweetly of lilacs. Then we pile into the truck and drive into town.

Everyone is talking about the missing Jenny as we take our places in the church pew. Has she been found? Not that I can see from the tense way Jenny’s mom and dad are sitting in the front row with shoulders hunched, and Jenny’s mom tight against her husband, occasionally wiping at her eyes. If Jenny does wander back from wherever she’s been, would she know it was Sunday and come to the church? Or would she be so confused that she’d open the front door of her house and find everyone disappeared? I try and imagine what she’d do. Normally she’s surrounded by friends, the kind that scatters rose petals ahead of her path. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it’s still strange that she had vanished while alone. Or had she been alone? Probably, least no one else seems to be missing. I think again about the glinting eyes I had seen last night and shiver.

The lady that plays the organ begins and we all rise to sing the first hymn.

“Our Lord has created a test for us today.” Reverend Foster preaches as the service begins. His voice rises, “And we must forge ahead in our faith for the lamb of little Jenny Rennick lost in the wilderness like Jesus.” At this he raises his hands to the heavens, the sleeves of his robe sliding down his bare forearms. “Oh, Lord, deliver your lost lamb back into the fold of her family. We will pray and we will believe in the blessings of Jesus.” Reverend Foster is swaying a bit, eyes closed, arms still raised. There are “amens” and “help us, Jesus,” scattered through the congregation. Weeping noises come from the first pew where Jenny’s mom and dad sit.

“And it don’t hurt to just go out searching for that lost child,” Granny murmurs under her breath.

That taken care of, the Reverend reads the opening bible verse and gives his sermon. No surprise about the topic—the return of the prodigal son back to the arms of his forgiving family. There are prayers, hymns, and announcements. The tithing plate is passed, there is one last prayer and then the service is done. By this time, the day has warmed, and weekly bulletins, accordion-folded into fans, have been flapping away, a ward against the futile efforts of the window air conditioner.

After the last “amen,” the ushers work their way down the center aisle, guiding us out. First out, being they were seated in the front pew, are Jenny’s parents and other family members. As they make the trip down through the center of the church, women reach out to touch Mrs. Rennick, still dabbing at her eyes. Men nod or offer their hand to Mr. Rennick.

When it’s our turn, we file out, Granny and Uncle Billy shaking hands with the preacher standing on the steps. I listen to the conversations going on around me.

“That poor girl. I suspect she got snatched up by strangers.”

“Possibly. I seen a carload of folks I didn’t know gassing up down at the Conoco.”

“I got hunting dogs set to track a trail.”

“Those damn woods. Uh, pardon me, Reverend.”

“Someone oughta do something.”

This last is followed by the widow Hastings giving Granny the stink eye. Granny just ignores it.

“You be knowing the woods better than anyone,” one man tells Granny. “Any idea where the Rennick girl might a got off to?”

I see Mr. Rennick turn his head to watch, hearing his family name mentioned. Granny notices it, too.

“Don’t see that I’ve been asked,” she mutters and turns to walk toward the lot where Uncle Billy is waiting beside his pickup.

Seeing how much Jenny enjoys tormenting me about Granny being a witch, and suspecting her folks likely feel the same, I don’t reckon her mom and dad are inclined to ask Granny for help.

“That preacher does like to go on,” Billy comments on the way home. “Where’s he from, that’s not an accent I recognize.”

“Someplace back east they say,” Granny adds. “Boston or somewhere in New England.”

“Hmmph,” Billy comments.

I’m still imagining Jenny all muddy and scratching bug bites, opening the door to the sanctuary and falling into the aisle. It’s a pleasant little vision but I keep it to myself, it being a little mean spirited with all the itchy bug bites for a Sunday.

“I hope they find that lost girl,” Billy says, breaking the silence as we pull into the drive to the house.

“I rightly hope so,” Granny adds. She looks grim and I’m thinking back to the morning we stood outside by the gate, that terrible feeling that something was very wrong. I take back every bad thought I had about Jenny, this being Sunday and I worry bad imaginings about mud and bug bites will just get me closer to eternal damnation.

Willa has Sunday dinner waiting when we get home, the aroma of fried chicken teasing our noses. I hurry up and set the table, stomach growling, while Willa and Billy dish up the mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and fat buttery rolls Willa made yesterday.

“Bless this food and all the rest of your gifts, Lord. Amen,” Billy prays. We open our eyes and reach to pass the bowls, but Granny still has her hands steepled, her eyes closed tight and her mouth moving silently.

We freeze.

My tummy growls.

“Amen,” Granny says out loud. We all wait, curious as to the extra praying. “Thought that lost girl just needed a little more help,” Granny replies, and then the movement of passed platters and bowls resumes.

“What little girl?” my aunt asks.

Granny fills her in about Jenny and what happened in church today.

“Where they think she’s gone off to?” Willa asks.

Granny thinks about her answer for a while—she knows how scared my aunt is of the dark spaces between the trees. “Woods,” is her one-word answer.

Aunt Willa turns pale and her fork rattles, falls off the plate, and drops to the floor. This is something really strange seeing that my aunt has one hand holding a roll and the other wrapped around the knife she has been using to butter the bread.

Then I notice the wind has picked up outside. There is a “bonk” and the old plastic pail we had been using yesterday picking beans rolls across the yard.

“Oh, Lordy,” Willa mutters and crosses herself, itself strange, too, since we’re protestant and not Catholic. It’s weird enough that I start to giggle, but Granny shoots me a look and I clamp my mouth tight.

The three grownups use their eyes to share the same unspoken conversation they had done yesterday when I found Granny missing.

“So…what’s so bad about the woods?” I ask all innocently while picking up a chicken thigh. It’s my favorite piece.

“Who knows what dangerous creatures lurk there,” warns Billy. “There’s bears and cougars and scrub so thick it would tangle you up forever.”

I wait, wondering about Granny’s snake warning.

My uncle goes on, “Peoples been forbidden to go in there forever, even the Indians believed it a wicked place.” Willa gives him a sharp look. “Uh, I mean the natives, they say now.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs. “Everyone knows that, girlie. Been talked about since before I was a pup, I guess.”

“What about snakes?” I ask, testing.

“Doubt there be snakes.”

Both Granny and Willa shoot their eyeballs at Billy.

“Well, I guess there could be snakes,” he adds.

“Wolves?” I ask.

“Definitely,” all three say.

I stop asking questions. As we eat, I watch them carefully. They’re all casual like, making up conversation to fill the quiet, and everyone is praising how good Willa cooked the food. What’s missing is any conversation about lost Jenny, and to me they seem on edge.

Granny tells everyone she’s gonna take a nap after we clean up and put the dishes away. Willa goes up the pass-through to do whatever she does on Sunday afternoon. Billy is outside digging holes so he can set the posts that will anchor Willa’s low deck. The place he picked out is on the east side so she can catch the morning sun and the afternoon shade. Even though the sun has moved enough that there’s some shade, Billy has removed his shirt so all he has on is his undershirt. It is damp with sweat.

I wander easy-like around the yard until the path where I saw Granny emerge the other day is in view. I glance around to make sure Willa or Granny aren’t peeking out a window and Billy is busy, then I open the latch and walk through the gate into the wide meadow between fence and forest. I’ve been out here many times picking the wildflowers or taking a blanket and book to make a reading nest in the shade thrown by the tall trees. I love the smell out here of green grass, meadow flowers, and pine. Today, I have a different purpose. I keep walking, all casual like I’m looking for wildflowers to pick, and then with one more glance over my shoulder toward the house, I reach the start of the path under the two slanted pines that form a high peak.

My heart is going all pitter-patter and I can feel the baby hairs on my arms rise. I take a step and another until the darkness under the trees swallows me up. The air in the shadows is scented with the cinnamon fragrance of decayed leaves, the ferny fragrance of wet dirt, and pine sap.

It’s quiet, even the birds have stopped singing. Does that mean a bear is close? I sniff the air—no stink of bear musk. Maybe it’s just me that has stilled the bird chatter.

There seems to be a path cleared through the shrubs on each side. I take a few more steps, my feet on the shed pine needles so they make no noise. A cool breeze shifts around me. About the time I’m thinking how strange it is to have air moving in this close space, I hear a rustling to one side. I still don’t smell bear, but something is snuffling on the other side…

Don’t scream, I tell myself, but a squeak escapes. Everywhere I turn—front, back, one side, and the other—is a solid mass of green and dark scary shadows. I don’t know which way to turn, can’t find the path, I’m going to be eaten by a bear and be just as disappeared as my mom and Jenny.

Suddenly, there is a speck of daylight and I race toward it. I had only taken a few steps into the trees, but distances seem to have lengthened and the light looks so far away. I can’t hear anything but the blood pounding in my ears.

Then I’m through the opening, out into the sun and grass, meadow birds lifting from the ground. I run toward the house as fast as I can go. Suddenly I stop, realizing if I came in all sweating and panting like a bear nearly got me, there would be a lot of explaining I’d have to do.

I bend over, put my hands on my knees, and gulp big breaths. After a minute, my breathing slows, and my heart starts thumping normal again. I take one last look at the forest and walk slowly back to the house, trying my darnedest to smooth down my hair with shaking fingers.

I round the corner of the house, open the gate, and enter the safety of the yard. I wonder if this is how my aunt felt that day she returned home. What had happened to her that frightened her so bad that she refuses to leave the house?

“I wondered where you got off to,” my uncle asks, scaring the bejesus out of me—again. He’s sitting on a lawn chair under the tree that grows in the yard. His undershirt and hair are wet with sweat and he is sipping on a glass of lemonade.

I give a little shrug. “I was just out looking at wildflowers.”

He notices my empty hands and gives me the squint eye. “Didn’t pick any I see,” he comments.

“Didn’t see anything worth picking today, I guess.”

“Your hair is all sticking out like you got scared,” he comments.

Did I mention, I hate my curly hair. Bad enough it scrunches up in the heat, but it also follows my mood. Happy, it lies neater. Excited, angry, or scared, it boings up until I look like a sheep too long out to pasture.

“It’s just the heat and humidity, like always,” I say and start toward the house for my own glass of lemonade.

A breeze picks up. Billy lifts his head like he’s scenting something. It’s weird seeing him so still—not like Uncle Billy at all—that I stop my journey to the kitchen door and just watch. His eyes are closed, face turned in the direction I came from.

Then he opens his eyes and gives me a good long look.

“You didn’t happen to come ‘cross any those flowers in the woods, did you?” he asks.

It isn’t until I’m inside pouring a glass that what he said dawns on me. It makes goosebumps pop out on my arms. How could he know I went in there?

Books In This Series

Lost Lamb (Deidra Ann Adventures Book 1)