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  HANNAH & THE WILD WOODS

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  CAROL ANNE SHAW

  Hannah & the Salish Sea (2013)

  Hannah & the Spindle Whorl (2010)

  Hannah &

  the Wild Woods

  Carol Anne Shaw

  RONSDALE PRESS

  HANNAH & THE WILD WOODS

  Copyright © 2015 Carol Anne Shaw

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16

  Cover Art & Design: Nancy de Brouwer, Massive Graphic Design

  Paper: Ancient Forest Friendly “Silva” (FSC)—100% post-consumer waste,

  totally chlorine-free and acid-free

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Shaw, Carol Anne, 1960–, author

  Hannah & the wild woods / Carol Anne Shaw.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55380-440-6 (paper)

  ISBN 978-1-55380-441-3 (ebook) / ISBN 978-1-55380-442-0 (pdf)

  1. Tohoku Earthquake and Tsunami, Japan, 2011—Juvenile fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Hannah and the wild woods.

  PS8637.H383H8 2015jC813’.6C2015-902994-5C2015-902995-3

  At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.

  Printed in Canada by Marquis Printing, Quebec

  for Peter and Kim

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Hannah and the Wild Woods went through numerous drafts. I loved it, hated it, wanted to burn it, wanted to paper the walls with it, stared at it, threw it out, started again, and then finally stopped moaning and finished it. I guess some books are just like that. I ended up loving the story. I hope you do, too.

  My heartfelt thanks to my writing group, FRANK: Kristine Paton, Cameron Bucknum, James Funfer, Kimberley Phillips, Selinde Krayenhoff and James Holland. You guys keep things real, and for that I am so grateful. Tim and Gillian Coy, thank you so much for opening up your delightful cottage on Gabriola for me to escape to from time to time. Your generosity and kindness is appreciated. Shawnigan House Coffee, your homemade chocolate is food of the Gods. Ron, Veronica and fellow Ronsdalians, thank you for all you do. You are all such pros, and I continue to learn much from all of you. Richard, thanks for reminding me of the three stages of book writing, especially when I was stuck in stage two. (Stage two: I can’t write and I hate everyone.) Nick, thank you for being such a patient sounding board, and Trevor, that little heater rocks! Eddie (Shiny Bob), what would I do without my morning couch companion? There was never a better muse.

  And finally, a huge thank you to all the young readers I have met visiting local schools and libraries in the past few years. When I feel my energy lag, it is your questions, gorgeous drawings and heartfelt letters that get me back in the game. You are the reason I write.

  Table of Content

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The girl sees the fleeing of the birds, then feels the fast rush of air. For a moment she cannot comprehend the surge of raging muddy water that crests the seawall and spills into the streets below.

  The chaos is immediate. The world spins. There are screams, sounds of wood splitting, metal grating and, above everything, the deafening roar of rushing water.

  From where the girl stands on the roof of the building, she can see in every direction, and she knows her city will never be the same again. Not after this. She kneels on the roof, watching debris rush past her on a river of water and mud that has consumed everything it its wake. She grasps at the glass ball on the chain around her neck, feeling it pulse and grow warm in her frigid hand. She is suddenly awake. Aware. Her ears prick and she smells the air.

  A woman struggles in the water below, and the girl quickly drops to her belly and extends both of her arms.

  “Hurry!” she insists, and the woman takes hold with a fierce grip. But another surge hits, and the woman lets go. A moment later she is gone.

  Almost immediately, a small boy appears clutching part of a boat.

  “Take my hand!” the girl screams. There is terror in the boy’s eyes, and he paddles furiously toward the girl but it is no use. The force of the water is too strong.

  There are more people in the water. The girl tries over and over to pull them to safety, but no one is a match for the wave. One by one, they vanish below the surface.

  The girl begins to panic. Surely she can save one! Surely one of them can hang on long enough.

  Someone surfaces directly below her and pleads for help, and the girl lunges for the outstretched arms and misses. A flailing hand grasps the necklace she wears and it breaks. The arm disappears, and the girl watches in horror as the glowing glass ball drops from the broken chain at her neck and then vanishes into the dark water. She throws her head back and cries out—a wild sound that is more animal than human.

  Chapter One

  “Morning, kid.” My aunt stands bleary-eyed at the kitchen counter. She pours herself a cup of coffee, the first of the morning. “Running a little late, aren’t you?”

  “It’s okay,” I say, pouring cereal into my bowl. “I don’t have to be at the government dock until 9:00.”

  “Well, you don’t want to dawdle.” Aunt Maddie has the worst case of bed head I have ever seen. Really! On a scale of one to ten, it’s about a fourteen. Instinctively, I smooth out my own hair, but it doesn’t really do any good. I guess the bad hair gene runs strong in our family. Even my father’s hair was ridiculous, before it all fell out, that is. Now he’s just bald.

  Aunt Maddie has been around for a few days, having told Dad, who left last week for a writer’s conference in Ontario, that she “needed a break from the city.” But she isn’t fooling anyone, especially me. I know she’s just here because of my recent meltdown—the one I had
when Dad brought up the subject of moving to Victoria. Again! I know things are serious with him and Anne, and I’m happy he’s found someone, but there’s no way I’m leaving Cowichan Bay and going to a new school next year. Dad says our houseboat needs too many expensive repairs, and it isn’t worth hanging onto in today’s market, but I disagree. Our houseboat is priceless. It’s our home!

  When I’m finished my cereal, my aunt snatches my bowl away and plunks it down on the counter.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me or something?” I bend down to scoop up Chuck, my fat orange cat, from a patch of sun on the floor. He immediately becomes boneless, a trick he loves to perform whenever he is roused too early from one of his epic naps. I drop him on the kitchen counter, and he quickly checks out the milky puddle in my cereal bowl. His bad mood evaporates instantly. Chuck is a sucker for those toasty little O’s.

  “Hannah!” Aunt Maddie glares at me over her coffee cup. “What would your dad think?”

  I don’t answer. These days I’m not sure about anything my dad thinks.

  Aunt Maddie looks at my backpack and frowns. “Are you sure you packed enough socks, Han?” She looks genuinely worried, as though my sock situation is a fate worse than death.

  “Yes,” I say. “I have eighty-seven pairs. Pure wool. Made from rare and highly prized merino sheep.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Come on, kid. It’s a legitimate question. Tofino is a damp place, especially in March. I should know. I did field work up there for eight straight months. I grew moss between my toes and mushrooms in my boots!”

  Thankfully, there’s a knock on the front door—one I’d recognize anywhere. A second later the door swings open.

  “Good morning, Izzy,” I yell as I rinse my now-empty cereal bowl in the sink. Lots of people just walk on in our front door, it’s one of the things I love most about living here. My friend, Izzy Tate, has been doing it for two years, and I never fail to recognize her distinctive knock: two loud raps. Confident and no-nonsense, just like her.

  “Oh good,” Izzy says, tromping into our kitchen. She’s wearing gumboots with hand-painted daisies on them and an orange sweater. “You’re still here. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to say goodbye.” Her hair has grown out since last summer, and lately, she’s taken to wearing bright bandanas tied around her head. Today’s is red with white polka dots. Not everyone can pull off that Rosie the Riveter look, but Isabelle Tate sure can.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” I say after popping one of my aunt’s toast crusts into my mouth. “I wanted to remind you again about Chuck and Poos.”

  Izzy sighs. “I know, Han. Chuck likes Cheerios, and Poos doesn’t like getting his feet wet. You’ve only told me, like, a hundred times.”

  As though on cue, Poos appears outside on the deck, his mouth forming a silent “mew” to be let in. The diamond-shaped patch of white fur between his blue eyes looks a little furrowed, a sure sign he’s impatient to come inside.

  “Speak of the devil,” Aunt Maddie says, opening the door. “Come on in, cat.” She refills her coffee mug, and waves the pot in the air. “Want some java, Iz?”

  “Thanks, but I have to fly.” Izzy watches as Poos winds his little grey body around her ankles. “And Tyler said he’d drop me a coffee at work a bit later. I should actually go. If I don’t get that kayak painted by noon, I can kiss my job goodbye!”

  Tyler is Izzy’s boyfriend. Ever since she met him, I don’t see much of her anymore. I’m not whining really—Tyler’s a nice guy—I just miss hanging out with Iz, that’s all. When she’s not at school, she pretty much splits her time between him and the coolest part-time job in the world: painting the boats at Blue Moon Kayaks. Right now she’s doing a stylized image of Tango and Oscar, the semi-orphaned eaglets we cared for last summer. Like all of Izzy’s artwork, it’s going to be awesome.

  A horn blasts from the marina, and Aunt Maddie jumps in the air. It’s probably the coffee. Too much and she gets all twitchy.

  “That’s the Tzinquaw,” my aunt says, clutching at her heart dramatically.

  She would be right about that. Riley Waters, one of the original boat dwellers in the Bay, is a sea dog of many habits —one of which is to sound his boat’s horn every day at 9:00 a.m. No one really knows why he does it, but no one has ever called him on it either.

  “See? You are now officially late,” Aunt Maddie says.

  “And so am I,” Izzy says, making a beeline for the door.

  “I’ll text you when I can!” I call after her. “Don’t forget about my kitties!”

  She gives me the thumbs-up and closes the door behind her. I’m not really worried; she loves the cats just as much as I do.

  Two minutes later, Aunt Maddie and I are rushing up dock #5 toward the shops along the road. I feel weighed down by my loaded backpack, and the hiking boots (my aunt’s old ones) that are tied to the frame slap awkwardly against my hip with every step I take.

  “Slow down, Han,” Aunt Maddie says when we reach the road. “I wanted to talk with you for a minute.”

  “But you’re the one worrying about my being late,” I say, not slowing down. Access to the government dock is at the other end of the village, and the clock is ticking.

  She grabs my arm and stops me. “Come on. I just want to talk for a second.”

  Great. When relatives say that, it’s never good. I look up and see Nell, who runs the Toad-in-the-Hole Bakery, hanging the bright yellow “Open” sign in the shop’s window.

  “It’s about Victoria,” Aunt Maddie says.

  I knew it!

  She squeezes my arm. “You know, Hannah, moving to Victoria isn’t such a bad thing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to sooner or later. I spoke to your dad last night. It looks like he and Annie have found a house.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “It’s right near Beacon Hill Park, a little cottage. Honestly, it sounds adorable. There’s a fenced yard and everything. You guys could finally get a dog. I think—”

  “They found a house, and I’m the last to know about it?” I feel my ears start to burn.

  “He called really late last night, Han. You were fast asleep.”

  Nell opens the door of the bakery and gives us an enthusiastic wave. “Hey, ladies! Need a bite for the trip, Han?”

  Saved by the Nell!

  “Thanks, but no time,” I say, walking away from my aunt. “I have to go.”

  “Too bad,” Nell shouts. “I have a bag of warm cinnamon donuts here with your name on it.”

  I stop. She did, after all, say “warm” and “cinnamon” in the same sentence.

  A moment later, Nell is pushing a brown paper bag into my hands. “You can never have too many donuts.”

  Despite my cumbersome pack, I lean in and give her a hug. I’ve known Nell since forever, and the thought of living far away from the Toad is not a pleasant one at all. “Thanks, Nellie,” I say. “You’re awesome.”

  “I second that,” Aunt Maddie says, half a donut stuffed in her mouth.

  “Yeah, I know,” Nell says. “Awesome is my middle name.”

  Mornings in March can be pretty chilly. At least they are in Cowichan Bay, and this one is no exception. Aunt Maddie and I bounce on our feet while we wait beside the float plane tethered at the end of the government dock.

  “Where’s Mike?” I ask.

  “Probably up there grabbing a coffee,” Aunt Maddie says, looking up toward the road. Thankfully, she doesn’t bring up the subject of the Victoria move again. Instead, she begins fussing like a mother hen. She picks up the end of my scarf and winds it twice around my neck so that my chin, not to mention most of my face, pretty much disappears.

  “Aunt Maddie,” I plead through the wool. “I’m getting into a float plane, not a cold-storage unit!”

  “Right. Sorry.” She steps back and stuffs her hands into the pocket of her rain jacket. “I can’t help it,” she says. “You
know I’m a chronic fusser. It’s what I do best.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  “Now, what about Gravol? Did you take any Gravol? You know, in case you get airsick. You’ve never been in a float plane before. They can really rock around. You should probably take some. Wait. I’m sure the drugstore has—”

  “I’m FINE!” I tell her. “Really. I won’t get sick. I have an ironclad stomach. Honestly.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All set?” We turn to see Mike, the pilot and Aunt Maddie’s we-think boyfriend, jogging along the dock. But boyfriend or not, it’s seriously cool of him to deposit me in Tofino on his routine flight up island. He has a travel mug in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Aunt Maddie gives him a broad smile and swoops in to steal the mug.

  “Hey!” Mike says, scratching his full beard with his freed-up hand. “That was mine!”

  “You snooze, you lose.” My aunt grins and takes a sip. “Mmmmm. Americano, right?”

  Mike pretends to be irritated, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that totally gives him away. He gazes at my aunt like a love-struck puppy, but after a moment he looks at me, clearly puzzled. “Wait a second … aren’t there supposed to be two of you kids?”

  “Two?” I say.

  Aunt Maddie slaps her palm against her forehead. “Wow! I almost forgot, Hannah. Mike’s right. Mrs. Webber called last night. She said there was a chance that—”

  “Here I am,” a voice says at the end of the dock.

  My breath catches. What? You’ve got to be kidding. But it’s no joke. Walking straight toward us is my nemesis, Sabrina Webber, wearing a bright-pink pea jacket along with a sullen expression. Her blonde hair is swept back under a scarlet leather hair band, a shade identical to the oversized purse she’s clutching under her arm. But it isn’t Sabrina’s talent for accessorizing that holds my attention, it’s the coral-coloured suitcase on wheels she’s pulling behind her that I can’t stop staring at.