Beneath the watcher tree, p.1
Beneath the Watcher Tree, page 1
Beneath
THE
WATCHER TREE
MYSTERIES, MISCHIEF, AND MARSHMALLOWS, BOOK 1
© 2023 C.C. Warrens
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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without prior written permission from the author. Brief quotations in reviews are permitted.
This novel is a work of fiction. Situations, scenarios, and characters in this book are a reflection of creative imagination and not representative of any specific person, group, situation, or event.
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™
Proofreading and editing by Deb Hall with The Write Insight (thewriteinsight.com).
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Beneath the Watcher Tree (Mysteries, Mischief, and Marshmallows, #1)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
I have wanted to write a children’s book for years, but I wasn’t sure what kind of children’s book I wanted it to be. Now I know—a cute, cozy mystery series that both adults and children can enjoy.
There’s mischief, there’s marshmallows, and there’s the magical quality of the unknown and the what-might-be (only without the magic.)
If you’ve picked this book up for your child, you can rest in the knowledge that it is Christian, it is clean, and it is filled with valuable lessons. There might be a few moments in this book that will spark your child to come ask you a question for clarification. Be prepared!
The best thing about this book (and the upcoming series) is that I now have four amazing nephews and two wonderful nieces to share them with. I hope you and your little ones have as much fun reading them as I am writing them.
With love,
C.C. Warrens
WORDS THAT MAY BE NEW TO YOU
Oma (Oh-ma): German for Grandma
Opa (Oh-pa): German for Grandpa
Liebling (Lee-bling): German for Darling
Quirk (kwerk): move or twist- usually to the side.
Scallywaggle (scally – waggle): Holly’s version of “scallywag,” which means someone who behaves in a mischievous way.
Mischief (miss-chiff): playful misbehavior. Mischievous (miss-chiff-us.)
STONY BROOKE, KANSAS
1998
Chapter One
Carrot-red hair swishing behind her like a superhero cape, nine-year-old Holly shot out the back door of the house and leaped off the porch. The wind snatched at the dress she wore over her leggings, but not enough to help her fly. She landed in the yard with a clumsy tuck and roll, and then popped to her feet.
She made a beeline for the woods, Mom’s voice snapping after her. “Holly Marie Cross, you come back here!”
Come back and pose for pictures like a doll? Not a chance. There were adventures waiting. Dirty, exciting, unexpected adventures.
Her sister, Gin, was the twin who enjoyed posing for the camera. Holly was “something else.” At least that was what Mom said when she put her hands on her hips and shook her head at her. Holly liked being something else. She could be a pirate, a treasure hunter, a scallywaggle.
She tore through the woods, bounding over familiar roots and skirting around brush. These were her woods—she played in them every day—and she recognized every lumpy trunk she could climb and every low-hanging limb she could swing from.
As she rounded an old pine, she smacked into something that shouldn’t be there—a person—and the two of them crashed to the ground like an overbalanced swing set.
Holly landed on top of the person with an oomph, the frilly bottom of her dress flying up over her head. She swatted it back down and brushed the tangled curtain of hair from her face.
The blond-haired, blue-eyed boy beneath her let out a groan and pushed at her shoulders. “Get off me, Holly.”
She’d flattened Jordan, her best friend.
Stumbling upright, she took one of his hands and tried to heave him to his feet, but he was too heavy. He was a year older and a lot bigger than she was, but she would catch up someday. She was sure of that.
“Were you pretending to be a tree?” she asked when he pushed himself up. It was certainly the place to be a tree.
“No, I was watching a squirrel.” He brushed a leaf from his hair and looked over her clothes. “Why do you look so pretty today?”
Holly drew herself up, insulted. “Take that back.”
Jordan ducked his head and scuffed a shoe in the dirt. “Maybe I don’t wanna take it back.”
She scowled and folded her arms. “Mom was taking summer pictures. I couldn’t sit still anymore. My legs were gonna run away without me.”
“That would be a story to tell.” Jordan’s dimples deepened with his grin. “I thought we could go treasure hunting. And Oma made fresh chocolate chip cookies. We could stop by her place after.”
Ooh, cookies.
Holly’s annoyance disappeared like a rabbit down a hole. She liked cookies. Oma, Jordan’s grandma, was always baking something, and she shared her sweets as freely as she shared exciting stories.
“Well, I guess I forgive you. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him through the woods toward one of their favorite places—the clearing. Campers and teenagers left all kinds of treasures behind. Someone had been camping there last week, so there was no telling what they might find.
Holly had found a broken, engraved bracelet there once. She loved it so much that Jordan did yard work all last summer so he could afford to buy her one for Christmas. It even had her name on it, and she wore it every day.
It made her feel sort of girly and pretty. Not that she would ever tell him that.
At the sound of voices, Jordan slunk behind a tree, and Holly crowded in next to him, stepping on his foot.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
They peeked around the sides of the tree at the clearing. Older, bigger kids hung around, joking and laughing.
Colton, Mike, and Dan—fifth graders.
Holly’s nose wrinkled. With fewer than fifteen hundred residents, the isolated town of Stony Brooke had few students and even fewer teachers. Multiple grades were crammed into one large classroom, with one teacher monitoring the book work. These three troublemakers always sat in the back row.
They enjoyed picking on younger kids. More than once, Colton had taunted Gin about the fact that she was mentally slower than everyone else.
Gin and Holly might be physically identical, but something went sideways when Gin was born, and her mind couldn’t keep up with everyone else’s. She had a special teacher for school.
Jordan’s voice shook as he whispered, “We should go before they see us. Mike really doesn’t like me.”
Holly didn’t want to tuck her tail and run off like a scared puppy, but she was half the size of the boys in the clearing. They wouldn’t come after her because she was a girl, but if they decided to use Jordan as a piñata, there wasn’t much she could do to protect him.
“Okay,” she agreed.
Treasure hunting would have to wait.
As they backed away from the clearing, Dan, who had more freckles than strawberries had seeds, spotted them. He smacked the arms of his friends and pointed. “We’ve got runts.”
“You mean rats,” Mike said, meanness glittering in his dark eyes. “That’s Sheriff Radcliffe’s boy. Hey, Rat-cliffe.”
Holly stepped in front of Jordan, anger bubbling up. “He’s my friend. You can’t talk to him like that.”
“What are you gonna do about it, runt?” Mike taunted.
Holly scooped up one of the pinecones from the ground by her feet and threw it at Mike. The pinecone plopped in the dirt, feet away from him, and the three fifth graders laughed. She picked up a couple more to throw. She would hit one of them before her arms got tired, and that would teach them to be nicer.
Jordan caught her arm after she hurled a second pinecone with all her strength. “You’re gonna make them madder, Holly.”
Mike grabbed a rock and tossed it up and down in his hand. “I think it’s time for some dodgeball. Wanna play, rat boy?”
“Time to go.” Holly dropped the pinecones and snagged Jordan’s hand, yanking him behind her as she broke into a run. He stumbled over his too-big feet before catching up.
Holly breezed through the woods like a dart through air, aiming for one of the ancient pine trees. She slipped in between the thick, drooping branches and pulled Jordan with her, burrowing in deep.
They huddled close, hearts pounding in their chests, as the fifth graders crunched closer. Mike wasn’t joking about playing dodgeball with rocks—he was mean all the way to his little toe—and he tossed the rock up and down in his hand.
“Rat-cliffe’s dad locked my dad in the jail for no reason this past Christmas,” Mike said. “If we find him, he’s gonna be sorry.”
Jordan’s hand grew sweaty in Holly’s, and she looked up at his frightened face. She wouldn’t let them hurt her friend. She would fight them all by herself if she had to.
“At least he let your dad go. Mine’s in prison,” Colton grumbled. “Mom says he’s never coming back.”
The boys kept walking and calling for the “little rats.” Holly waited until she couldn’t hear them anymore before releasing Jordan’s hand and inching forward, being as quiet as she was when she snuck downstairs for snacks in the middle of the night.
She peeked through the branches, searching, but they were alone in the woods. “I think it’s okay to come out now.”
“Good, ’cause I think I have Christmas tree in my mouth.” Jordan spat as he followed her out of their hiding place.
Holly felt sticky all over from tree sap, and she peeled a piece of hair from her forehead and another from her neck. “Do you think we should tell your dad they wanna hurt you?”
Jordan shook his head. “No, he’ll tell me to stand up to them, but I can’t. There’s too many of them, and they’re too big.”
Holly lifted her chin. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Thanks.”
She squinted in the direction of the clearing. “Why do you think they were in our treasure hunting spot?”
“Probably smoking some weeds.”
“Why would anyone smoke weeds?”
Jordan shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s something I heard my dad say when he got home from work one night. Something people do that they’re not supposed to or something.”
Jordan’s dad was the town sheriff, and he probably came home with all kinds of interesting stories. Holly wished she could be a fly on the wall of their living room when he shared them. But like a firefly, not a fly fly. Flies were gross and annoying.
“Should we go back to the clearing?” Jordan asked.
“No, let’s dig around here. See if there’s anything interesting.” Holly toed the ground with her shiny black dress shoes.
“Isn’t your mom gonna be mad if you get your dress dirty?”
Holly frowned down at the flowery outfit. “Yeah.” But she couldn’t help that. Mom should know not to dress her up in this silly stuff by now. She liked flowers and sparkles and purple things, but only in her bedroom, not on her body. They were too hard to play in.
Jordan shrugged one side of his book bag from his shoulder and unzipped it. “I borrowed Oma’s garden tools.”
“Perfect.” Holly took one of the miniature shovels and wandered around, looking for the perfect spot.
“Is your dad at the bookstore today?” Jordan asked, digging into the ground where he’d been standing.
“Yeah.”
Her and Gin’s dad owned the local bookstore, Criss Cross Books. It was one of Holly’s favorite places in the whole world. She loved going on adventures while sitting in a cozy chair with Dad and Gin.
She hoped she would someday stumble across actual treasure or a magical land like the kids in her books, but no matter how many times she opened and closed her closet door, Narnia never appeared.
“What’s your dad doing today?” she asked.
“Working on the shed in the backyard.”
“You didn’t wanna help?”
Jordan shrugged. “I asked if I could, but he said I would get in the way.”
The hurt in his eyes made Holly angry and sad all at once. “Well, I’m glad you’re here with me, ’cause treasure hunting is no fun alone.”
Holly’s parents trusted Sheriff Radcliffe, but Holly didn’t think he was a good dad. He never seemed to have time for Jordan, and if her dad was like that, it would make her sad.
Jordan offered her a half smile. “I’m glad you’re my friend, Holly.”
“Me too.” Holly found a spot and knelt down, jamming the shovel into the dirt.
“Hey, here’s something.” Jordan dug his fingers into the hole he’d made and plucked out a piece of plastic. “Nope. Candy wrapper.”
“And not even a good one.” Who ate Butterfingers?
“I brought a trash bag.” Jordan tugged a plastic grocery bag from his backpack so they could pick up any trash they found along the way. It was always tricking them into thinking they found something good when they didn’t. It was better to get rid of it.
Holly dug her shovel in deep for more dirt, and the tip hit something hard. She gasped. “I think I found something.”
“Another candy wrapper or a tree root?”
Holly brushed the dirt off the object with her fingers, and sunlight sparkled off a grungy metal box. “Jordan, look!”
“Wow.” He dropped his shovel and crouch-walked to her side. “Real buried treasure.”
They both dug at the dirt with their bare hands until they could lift the box out. Holly set it on the ground and wiped her muddy fingers on her leggings. “So cool.”
“Should we open it here?”
Holly looked over at him, but her answer caught in her throat. The tree she was digging near looked familiar, and a slithery feeling in her stomach told her they shouldn’t be here.
She pushed to her feet and walked around the tree, her fingers and toes going cold when she realized she’d been digging between the roots on the back side of the watcher tree.
There were only two trees in all of Stony Brooke she avoided: the dead one near her house that she fell out of last summer, and the watcher—the one with a face that everyone knew about.
Two slashes for eyes and a gaping mouth.
The hungry expression was frozen in the twisted bark, but she could almost feel it watching her, and it gave her the shivers.
Everyone knew the watcher tree rhyme. It had grown into stories that became legend, and it played through Holly’s head like a warning now:
I slumber deep
But still I hear
Every footstep
drawing near
My branches yawn
My roots stretch
And then I wait
For a child to catch
Come little feet
Find my roots
They’ll gobble you down
All but your boots
I see you now
In the dark of night
Wandering lost
Filled with fright
You cannot flee
You cannot hide
My roots stretch long
Far and wide
There’s nowhere to run
Don’t you see
You cannot escape
The watcher tree
Holly had heard the rhyme and stories all her life. From classmates, church camp leaders. Even Daddy, who spun it as a spooky tale around the campfire one night.
The legend said the roots could snake up out of the ground, wrap around a person’s legs, and drag them down into the earth. The person would never be seen again because they became a part of the tree forever.
“Jordan, it’s the watcher tree,” Holly whispered, taking a few nervous steps back.
The stories said it slept during the day and hunted at night, and if their digging hadn’t woken it up, she didn’t want their voices to. It would snatch them into the ground.
Jordan stood. “Dad says the watcher tree is something someone made up to keep kids from wandering around the woods at night.”
But Jordan didn’t sound so sure about that.
Tommy from school said one of the roots reached up and grabbed his foot when he walked by last fall. And then there was the little boy who wandered into the woods at night all those years ago and disappeared. All anyone found was his boot at the base of the tree.
Holly took another step back. “We should open the box somewhere else.” Somewhere far, far away.
“Let’s go to the fort.” Jordan squinted at their surroundings. “I don’t wanna be here if those guys come back anyway.”
“Okay,” Holly said, but she cast the spooky tree another glance as she backed away from it.
They gathered up their mysterious box of treasure and digging tools, then dashed through the woods to their super secret hideout.
Chapter Two
Jordan tossed away the pine branches leaning against tree trunks and fallen logs to help conceal the hideout from anyone passing by.
The fort was made of layered cardboard from restaurant shipping boxes, held together by tape and a few knots of rope. The roof drooped from the weight of last night’s rain, but it was still standing.
