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Tideland

Dufour Editions

Chapter One

On my first evening in the back country, I skipped down theporch steps of the farmhouse?leaving my father inside andthe radio playing and my small suitcase decorated with neonflower stickers unpacked?and wandered toward the upside-downschool bus I'd spied from an upstairs window. Flankedon either side by Johnsongrass taller than my head, I followeda narrow and crooked cattle trail, extending my arms straightout for a while so my palms could reach into the grass andbrush against the sorghum.

    "You bend so you don't break," I whispered as theJohnsongrass slapped across my hands, half-singing the songmy father had written about me: "You bend so you don'tbreak, you give and you give, but you can't take, Jeliza-Rose,so I don't know what to do for you."

    And I continued along the trail for some time?windingleft, then right, then left again?until it ended at a grazing pasturesprinkled with foxtails and the last bluebonnets of latespring. A breeze shuffled through the humidity, and the skywas already dimming. But the low-growing bluebonnets werestill radiant, so I carefully stepped over them while movingfurther into the pasture.

    Behind me swayed the Johnsongrass.

    Before me rested the upside-down bus in a heap?the hulla mess of flaking paint and seared metal?with most of thewindows busted out, except a few which remained black andsooty. It seemed bluebonnets had sprouted everywhere, evenfrom under the squashed bus roof, where they drooped likebullied children. And the air was so rich with the scent oflupine that I sniffed my fingertips as I came to stand besidethe bus, inhaling instead an earthy odor which belonged tomy filthy dress.

    The bus door was ajar, an inauspicious entryway. Peeringwithin, I spotted the melted steering wheel, the upholstery onthe driver's seat bursting fuzz and springs. A smoky scentfilled my nostrils, bubbled plastic and corrosion. And eventhough I was eleven, I had never been in a school bus. I hadnever been to school. So I squeezed past the inverted door,glancing at the stairwell overhead, and delighted in the glasschunks crunching beneath my sneakers.

    Looking through the topsy-turvy windows, I shook a handat the Johnsongrass outside, pretending they were my parentswaving from a sidewalk somewhere. Then I put myself belowa seat in the rear, imagining a busload of fresh-faced kids fillingthe other charred seats, all smiles and chatter, smackinggum, spinning paper airplanes down the aisle, and I was leavingwith them.

    From where I sat, the second floor of the farmhouse wasvisible, jutting behind the high Johnsongrass. The upstairslamp was on, glowing in the third gable's window. At dusk,the old place no longer appeared weathered and gray, butbrownish and almost golden?the eaves of the corrugated steellean-to reflected sunlight, the thumbnail moon hung alongsidethe chimney.

    And soon the grazing pasture erupted in places withbright soft intermittent flashes, a lemon phosphorescence.The fireflies had arrived, just as my father said they would,and I watched them with my dry lips parted in wonder, mypalms sliding expectantly on the lap of my dress. I felt likerunning from the bus and greeting them, but they joined meinstead. Dozens of tiny blinks materialized, floating throughthe smashed windows, illuminating the grim bus.

    "I'm Jeliza-Rose," I said, bouncing on my crossed legs."Hello."

    Their flickers indicated understanding: The more I spoke,the more they blinked?or so I believed.

    "You're going to school. I'm going to school today too."

    In vain I reached out, attempting to snatch the nearestone, but when I unclenched my fist there was nothing to beseen. After several failed captures, I made myself content bysimply naming the fireflies as they flashed.

    "You're Michael. You're Ann. Are you Michael again?No, wait, you're Barbie. And that's Chris. There's Michael."

    The bus was suddenly populated by children of my owncreation.

    "We're going on a great trip today," I told them. "I'm asexcited as you are."

    The sun had almost disappeared. And if the train hadn'tstartled me so, I might have stayed in the bus all night, lost inconversation with the fireflies. But the train flew by withoutwarning, rattling the ground, and making me scream. I hadno idea that tracks were concealed in thick weeds beyond thepasture, perhaps fifty feet away, or that each evening at 7:05 apassenger train tore past the property.

    For a moment it seemed as if the world had started spinningfaster. A vagrant wind pushed into the bus, mussing myoily hair. Squinting my eyes, I noticed blurs of silver and fluorescenceoutside, glimpses of people riding in the coaches anddining car, followed by freight cars?and then the caboose,where a lone figure seemed to be waving from the cupola.

    Then the train was gone?so were the fireflies, havingbeen whisked afield by the wind. I was alone again, stillscreaming, terrified. I bit my bottom lip without thinking, feltthe skin crack, and tasted the blood as it swam onto mytongue. And everything became quiet, just the faint breezewhooshing the tall reeds, three or four solitary crickets tuningup for the night.

    I glanced in the direction of the old house, knowing myfather was in the living room, quiet and awaiting my return.Then I studied the rows of Johnsongrass, which had growndarker during dusk. That's where the Bog Man is, I thought,wiping blood from my lip. And I knew I'd better leave thebus before it got too late. I had to be with my father beforethe Bog Man stirred.

    I needed to unpack.

Continues...

Excerpted from Tidelandby Mitch Cullin Copyright © 2005 by Mitch Cullin. Excerpted by permission.
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