Dana Bell - Blood of the Maple

One raised eyebrow was all it took to remind Parker that, yes, his friend would know. “I warned you off her.”

“Yes, mama.”

“But no, you had to have a piece o’ that.”

“Fuck off, Greg.” He stared at the blender.

“So now you’re stuck with the freakiest curse on the planet and a degree in botany that you never wanted.”

He inched closer to the counter where the blender rested.

“You’re not taking it apart to lick the blades. That’s just wrong. I use that to make smoothies, and I don’t need that picture in my head while I do it.”

“Aw, man.”

“I mean, who curses a vampire to drink green, leafy blood anyway?” Greg grabbed a clean spoon and tried to salvage his dinner. From the burned smell he wasn’t going to have much luck with that.

“Terri, that’s who.”

Greg poked him in the chest, smearing soy sauce on his shirt. “She turned you into Bunnicula.”

Parker growled. So did his stomach. “Look on the bright side. At least I’m not sprouting things like she is.”

“Next time I tell you to stay away from the crazy, what are you gonna do?”

“Run past Go, do not stop, do not collect two hundred dollars?”

“Damn straight.” Greg blinked. “How did you get soy sauce on your shirt?”

Parker rolled his eyes, snagged the blender and headed for his room.

“That’s wrong, damn it!”

Parker slammed the door shut with a grin. He could hear Greg grumbling long after he’d licked the glass clean.

Maggie’s Grove, Maryland, Twenty-five Years Ago…

“Oh. Would you look at that?”

She stretched her arms out to the sun, young and eager to bud. Her sap began to flow under the caress of the spring sun.

It was a good day to be alive.

“Who are you?”

She opened her eyes to find a stranger sitting next to her tree. She tilted her head up at the person—the woman— wondering what she might want.

“Can you speak, dear?”

She watched the woman’s mouth move, learning the shape and the grain of the words. “Hello.”

The woman smiled. “You’re a young dryad, aren’t you?”

She was?

Yes, she was.

“Which one is your tree?”

Oh, that one she knew. She placed her hand on the trunk of her tree. The sap running through it was comforting. The roots dug deep into the earth.

“Ah, the Schwedler Norway maple, eh? Very pretty. It’s my favorite tree in the whole garden.”

She preened. The woman thought her tree was pretty.

“Do you have a name?”

Name?

“Mine is Glinda Gershowitz. I’m the one who planted your tree, though I didn’t know I’d get you too.”

She frowned. She didn’t understand.

“Oh, you’re that new, are you? May I help you pick your name?”

“What’s a name?”

“A name is that which other people call you. When people see me, they know I’m Glinda.” Glinda placed her hand on the maple. “When they see your tree, they think Schwedler maple.”

Oh. That made sense.

“Would you like your very own name?”

She nodded, pleased at the thought. Glinda was very nice. She had nice brown eyes and silver hair. She smelled of sunshine and warm earth. Glinda would help her, she knew.

“Well, I would suggest, since you come from a Schwedler, that your last name be Schwedler.”

Last name? How many names would she get? She hoped not too many. She might have trouble remembering them all.

“Hmm. And since your tree is Norwegian, how about…Helga?”

She wrinkled her nose. Helga? No, that didn’t sound right.

“Olga?”

She shook her head. That one wasn’t right either.

“Wait, my niece just had a baby. Let me get my baby-name book, and we’ll pick one out, hmm? Maybe we can find a name together.”

A book? What was a book?

The woman disappeared into a strange glass cave covered in something that felt…dead. She reached out to touch the wrongness, but before she did, Glinda came back. “Here it is.”

Glinda held something that was dead. Something strange pulsed in her veins, something that felt like fire.

“This is a book. I know it’s made of paper, which comes from trees, but I promise it was only taken from trees that had already passed on into the Summerland.”

The fire died. If the dead wood had been dead before Glinda mutilated it, then that was the cycle of life. She was all right with that.

“Now, let me see… Aesa? No? How about Brigitte? No? Hmm. Let’s forget the Norwegian and go for something we both like, hmm?”

They flipped through the book, Glinda reading off name after name until they came to one that made both of them stop. “How about Amara? In Greek it means eternal and unfading, and in Sanskrit it means tree.”

She paused. Amara?

She liked the way it sounded. Ah-MAH-rah. It was almost as pretty as her tree. She tested the name on her tongue. “Amara.” Joy bubbled through her; the name felt right.

It was hers.

Glinda closed the book with a snap. “Amara Schwedler it is.” She stood and held out her hand, bending until she was level with Amara. “Welcome to Maggie’s Grove, Amara.”

Amara took the woman’s hand and allowed her to lead the way.

Maggie’s Grove, Maryland, Sometime in the 1990s…

“What are you doing?” Amara watched in horror as sweet Glinda ripped a living plant from the soil and tossed it into a pile.

“Pulling weeds, Amy.”

“Weeds?” A spurt of pleasure almost threatened to overwhelm her anger at Glinda’s actions. Only Glinda called her Amy. Everyone else in town called her Amara. When they spoke to her at all, that was. Most adults simply avoided her or talked around her as if she weren’t there. She wouldn’t begin to discuss how the people her age treated her. Every time she did, it seemed to make Glinda sad. For some reason, not even other dryads would play with her. She didn’t understand it. She’d done nothing to earn animosity from the people around her, other than be herself.

It hurt more than she wanted Glinda to know. Other dryads avoided her like she had some sort of disease—and the rest of the kids?

Best not to say what the rest of the kids liked to try to do. Amara had bloodied more than one nose in self-defense, and if Glinda found out she’d been fighting, she’d be grounded for a week, regardless of who’d started it.

Humans could be weird that way.

“Yes. Weeds.” Glinda yanked on another plant, almost succeeding in pulling it out.

Amara put her hand over Glinda’s. “Please stop.”

Glinda sighed. “My dear, this is why I do this when you’re not here.” Not here. Their code for when Amara joined with her tree, communing with it in perfect serenity.

“Why are you killing them?” She couldn’t understand it. Glinda loved plants. She was the one who’d picked Amara’s tree, who’d directed where it should be planted. She’d chosen all the beautiful flowers and trees in their garden.

“Because if I don’t, it will kill all the other plants.”

Amara blinked. That fiery something flickered to life inside her, the something that had reacted to the first book she’d ever seen. “It…will?”

“Yes.” Glinda gestured around the wild, secret garden they’d planted at the base of the mountain. Not even Rock knew about it, and he was her best friend. She bit back her sad sigh, not wanting Glinda to hear it. He was her only friend. “Do you see that vine climbing that tree over there?”

It was hard to miss. It was healthy, vibrant and glowing. The tree beneath it… Something was wrong with the tree.