# 1 Humano Morphs

  M.D. Spencer

  The Secret of Bearhead Holler

  Chapter One

  I couldn't catch my breath. This was the scariest part yet! Mary had just opened the tapestry-covered door and discovered a little boy, crying in his bed.

  "Who are you?" the boy asked Mary. "Are you a ghost?"

  "No, I am..."

  "Amy! Amy Fay Jones!"

  "Wha-?" I practically jumped out of my seat. My library book went flying. It hit the top of the school bus with a thump and crashed back into my lap.

  "Oh no!" I yelled. "I lost my place!"

  Mary and the boy and everything else about my book, "The Secret Garden,"

  poofed away in an instant.

  Instead, I found myself staring into the grinning face of William Mott. He was hanging over the seat in front of me.

  "You better get your nose out of that book, Amy," William teased. "We almost at your stop!" His blond crew cut stood up on his head like a thatch of corn stalks from my Daddy's fields.

  "Don't know why you bother," he continued.

  "It's not even on the sixth grade reading list. You sure are dumb to do work you don't have to!"

  I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore him.

  I hated William. He teased me every day. It was like riding the bus with your little brother!

  He even looked like my kin. We both had the same straight blond hair. We each had light blue eyes. We were both real skinny. And we both had the kind of pale skin that got red and freckled after about five minutes in the sun.

  It was a Monday afternoon and we were heading home to Bearhead Holler. The gravel road was rough with pits and potholes. But I was used to the bumpy ride. All my twelve-year-old life, that's how the roads have been in our neck of the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky. Poor.

  In any case, dopey ol' William hadn't been teasing about one thing. My stop was right around the next curve.

  The bus lurched to a halt and all us kids from Bearhead Holler headed up the aisle. I am happy to say we didn't include William, who lived one holler over from mine. I sneered at him as I passed.

  "Smell ya later, William," I called. "And do I mean smell!" I pinched my nose, laughed loudly and jumped off the bus.

  I landed hard. Ow! A sharp stone stabbed me in the big toe.

  I looked down at my shoes cheap ol' Wal-Mart sneakers that were falling apart.

  The duct tape I

  used to patch them hardly did any good.

  A cold breeze was blowing, flapping my hand-me-down skirt and raggedy T-shirt.

  Underneath my T-shirt, my stomach was growling. All I'd had for lunch was a couple of biscuits and an apple. No ham. No cheese, even. Mama said we were having a tough month.

  Again.

  I sighed and began to walk up the dirt road that cut through the holler to my house. I lived at the far end of the holler, so I had a long haul home.

  While I walked, I thought of Mary in "The Secret Garden." Even though she was an orphan, Mary was still rich. She had lots of beautiful clothes, and servants to dress her, even! A massive mansion. And a secret garden! A place all her own, overflowing with flowers and, I bet, sweet things to eat.

  I sighed again and trudged along. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to cry out, "Why, oh why, am I so poor?"

  Chapter Two

  A holler is just what it sounds like a hollow, bowl-shaped patch of land that rests in the middle of a bunch of mountains. Hidden among the hills in these parts are a whole lot of them Camp Creek Holler, Lame Bird Holler, Huckleberry Holler, and others.

  Hollers are where most mountain people live. Since the coal mines closed, a lot of folks try to scratch a living out of their tired soil, or they become lumber men, or they drive to Lexington to work in factories. Like my older brother Jud, who works the night shift at a textile mill.

  'Course, a lot of my friends down the holler have only a welfare check to survive on. They live in rickety trailers planted among the trees. Or in shacks with tarpaper roofs.

  My daddy farms. Or at least he tries to. He says pollution from the old coal mines and erosion from cutting down too many trees has made our soil as dusty as a desert.

  Daddy's corn stalks are spindly. Half the potatoes, tomatoes and beans he plants turn sour. We only have enough grazing land to keep two cows.

  Still, because he can't find any other work, Daddy tries. That's just what he was doing when I finally caught sight of our house. He was crouched in the turnip field, picking rocks out of the soil furrows.

  "Hey Daddy," I called out, waving.

  He just grunted.

  I trudged up the porch steps. Compared to some of my friends, I'm pretty lucky when it comes to my house. We live in a sturdy log cabin my great-granddaddy built around the turn of the century.

  It's not fancy. We only have pump water, and a couple electrical outlets. But the house stays pretty warm, and the tin roof keeps the rain out.

  My mamaw (that's what all Appalachian folks call their grandmothers) was born here. And she lives here still, with me, Mama, Daddy and Jud.

  Right now, Mama and Mamaw were sitting on the porch. Mama was popping beans over a cracked bowl. She nodded at me and the cigarette dangling from her lips bobbled a little bit. But she didn't bother to say hello or offer me an after-school snack.

  "How are ya, Mama?" I asked. "Jud at work already?"

  She grunted a yes.

  I kneeled next to my grandmother's rocker.

  "Mamaw? Mamaw, I'm home from school," I said softly.

  Mamaw barely turned her leathery ninety-year-old face towards me. Her blue eyes were cloudy.

  But Mamaw wasn't blind. She was just, well, not quite there.

  "Are you the preacher?" she quavered.

  "No, Mamaw," I said sadly. "I'm Amy. I'm your granddaughter."

  I went into the house. Clutching "The Secret Garden" under one arm, I crawled up the steps to the loft, which doubles as a bedroom for Mamaw and me.

  I read by the fading light that came through the window until Mama called me for dinner.

  Chapter Three

  "Betty, you've got to get some food in you!" my mama said, shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes at Mamaw's closed mouth.

  "I only eat my daughter-in-law's cooking," Mamaw hissed through clenched lips.

  "I am your daughter-in-law," Mama protested.

  "No you ain't," Mamaw croaked.

  She wouldn't take a bite. My grandma's delusions were growing as fast as her appetite was dwindling.

  Daddy growled angrily and shoveled in his meager dinner.

  A sullen silence hung over our table. The quiet felt heavier than the smells of Mama's fried pork chops and stewed tomatoes.

  As I gnawed on my tough meat, my eyes wandered to the log wall. Stuck carelessly in a tin frame was a photo I'd almost forgotten.

  It was Mamaw as a little girl.

  She looked to be about my age. But she was plump and happy. Her hair hung in long, brown corkscrews. She sat grinning on the front steps of this very house. She was surrounded by her parents and a whole crew of rosy-cheeked uncles and aunts and cousins.

  They sure look a sight happier than we are here today, I thought. Healthier, too.

  Mamaw's dress was snowy white. Her mother didn't have gray circles under her eyes like mine did. She looked relaxed, fat and contented.

  "Wow," I burst out. "From the looks of that picture, I'd say Mamaw was almost rich when she was little."

  "Naw," Daddy scoffed.

  But Mamaw seemed to sit up a little straighter. She looked at me! I could swear she was trying to say something. But no sound came out of her trembling lips.

  Mamaw used to talk all the time. She would tell me about Papaw, her husband, who had died when I was just a baby. And about the way the hollers bustled with life when the mines were still open, back when coal was king.

  When I was ten, Mamaw and I had made a crazy quilt together. While we sewed tiny stitches in the mismatched scraps of fabric, she'd weave fairy tales.

  She told stories about a long-lost family fortune. She talked about a black treasure buried beneath the foundation of our house. And diamonds under our very own feet!

  But nobody else in my family ever talked about the fortune.

  Only Mamaw.

  And she couldn't make sense anymore.

  I had to know.

  "What do you know about our fortune?" I blurted out. "Great-granddaddy's fortune. The treasure Mamaw used to talk about?"

  Daddy scowled. Mama laid down her spoonful of potatoes, looking exhausted.

  "There ain't no fortune; you know that Amy," Mama said. "That was just Mamaw's talk."

  I pointed at the photo. "But she said ..."

  "Listen to your Mama," Daddy interrupted. His face went red, and he jumped to his feet and gripped the edge of the table.

  "Daddy, I'm sorr- ..." I started to say in a trembling voice.

  He cut me off, roaring, "If there was some family fortune, we'd all be doing a sight better, wouldn't we? Now, if you want to babble any more of this nonsense, you can just get yourself up from this table and go to bed early!"

  Chapter Four

  It was almost midnight.

  I had been in bed all evening, sulking and reading by the light of my kerosene lamp. I was just drifting off to sleep when Mamaw stirred in her bed on the other side of the loft.

  "Mamaw?" I said, peering at my grandmother's tormented face.

  "Water," she croaked.

  I dashed downstairs and used the kitchen pump to draw Mamaw some cool water.

  She drank the whole glass. It seemed to calm her. She even opened her mouth, as if to speak.

  I dropped to my knees beside her bed and leaned forward. "What Mamaw?" I breathed. "What is it?"

  But Mamaw turned her tired face to the wall.

  "Mamaw, please," I said. "Please tell me your secret. What happened to our family? Our fortune? Why are we so miserable?"

  Mamaw didn't _ or couldn't _ answer. I couldn't take it anymore. Sobs leapt from my throat. I hid my face in Mamaw's quilts.

  I cried until I couldn't anymore. Then I slept, curled up on the rag rug next to my Mamaw's motionless form.

  Chapter Five

  Mamaw got worse.

  On Tuesday, she stopped talking. By Thursday, she'd stopped eating. We couldn't even get her out of bed.

  By Saturday morning, I was really scared. And frustrated.

  I stomped onto the front porch. Daddy was whittling, dropping shavings in a pile on the floor.

  When Daddy took to woodcarving, he went off in his own world. There was no talking to him.

  I stomped back inside and turned on our black and white TV. Up here, we only got two stations. On the first station was football. Blech! I flipped the channel. The Frugal Gourmet? "Argh!"

  "Amy!" Mama snapped, poking her head out of the loft.

  "Whoops," I called. "I thought that 'argh' was just in my head."

  "Young lady, you are het up!" Mama said sharply. "I know you're worried about Mamaw. But there's nothing you can do."

  She stopped for a minute, then continued.

  "Actually, there is something you can do," she said. "Why don't you go get some fresh air? We don't need you stomping around the house making everybody nervous."

  I grabbed my library card and flounced out of the house. As I stalked down the dirt road towards the bottom of Bearhead Holler, I wiped away angry tears.

  Mama was so mean!

  But a few steps later, I realized she was right. There was nothing I could do to help my Mamaw. I was worthless!

  I felt so bad, I didn't even want to go meet the bookmobile. And I never miss the bookmobile's Saturday visits to Bearhead Holler.

  When I got to the bus stop, which is also the bookmobile stop, I kept going.

  I was walking aimlessly up the main road when the bookmobile drove up.

  "You're going the wrong way!" called the driver. It was Bo, the Book Man. At least, that's what everyone called him.

  Bo wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. He was about six and a half feet tall and all bones. He stooped because he was too big for the bookmobile. And he always seemed to be tittering through his long, pointy teeth.

  Here's the thing about Bo the Book Man, he had a sixth sense about kids and books. He would look you up and down. He would peer into your eyes. Then he'd gently lead you to the perfect book, hidden somewhere on the dusty shelves.

  But today, I just didn't have the heart to choose a new book. Or to chat with Bo.

  "I'm not coming today," I said.

  "What? And break a three-year streak?" Bo exclaimed. "I don't think I can allow that!"

  "I'm just not in the mood," I insisted.

  Bo looked me up and down. He peered into my eyes. Then he said seriously, "I think there may be something for you here today. Something you wouldn't want to miss. Why don't you hop in?"

  Something in the way Bo didn't titter through his yellow teeth convinced me. I climbed into the bookmobile. Bo drove the short distance to our bus stop, where a small crowd of my Bearhead neighbors was waiting.

  As they clambered on board, Bo winked at me. He pointed to the back of the bookmobile with a long, bony finger.

  "At the very back?" I squeaked. "B-b-but, I never go back there. The light's been burnt out forever. And it's full of cobwebs!"

  Bo just winked again. And pointed again.

  "Go!" he hissed.

  I went.

  I crept past my usual hangout, the Young Adult section. I passed the newspaper and magazine rack where a bunch of grown-ups were gossiping. I slunk through History, Biography and War Studies.

  I took a deep breath. Then I sidled into the last nook. A dead light bulb

  swung from a cord over my head. The shelves were veiled in shadows. The section was labeled, "Travel/Vacation/Occult."

  "What a weird combination," I whispered. I inched down the aisle.

  A cobweb brushed across my face. I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from shrieking.

  But the books themselves? Well, they were far from spine-tingling. Or even interesting.

  One was called, "See Rock City!" Another was "A Guide to Your Country's Rest Areas."

  "Oh puh-leeze," I muttered. "This is no big deal after all."

  I started flipping through the rest of the books. Most were thin paperbacks.

  Then I stopped. A shiver skittered through me. I was staring at a massive leather book.

  It was tall.

  It was thick.

  It was heavy.

  It's spine was made of cracked, tea-colored leather. And it was so dusty that I couldn't read the title.

  With a trembling finger, I reached down and swiped away a gob of grime.

  Underneath the dust were gold, gothic-style letters. But they didn't seem to spell out anything except gibberish.

  At least at first! Suddenly, before my very eyes, the letters began to arrange themselves into a different order.

  I stared in awe. And when complete words finally formed, I gasped with surprise.

  Chapter Six

  "Hillbilly Witchery: Proceed At Your Own Risk," the gold letters read.

  I gulped. I watched my hand shake as it reached for the book.

  The chatter of the folks crowding the front of the bookmobile drifted away. It was as if I was in a cave, all alone, when I cracked opened the heavy, leather volume.

  The book's grainy onionskin paper gave me the chills.

  On the first page, I saw the book's subtitle: "Myths, Legends and Spells. Seek Power. See the World. Be Who You Are Not!"

  Underneath that was a date: 1916.

  "Wow, it's ancient," I whispered.

  I shivered.

  As I flipped through the pages, I noticed something funny. The letters seemed to squiggle into words only a split second before my eyes fell on them!

  For some reason, I barely paused to study these strange pages. I flew past ancient stories about life in eastern Kentucky. I ignored tales of slave rebellions and family feuds.

  As if my hand were controlled by some invisible puppeteer, I kept skimming through the book.

  Page after page.

  Until that invisible puppeteer made my hand freeze.

  I fixed my eyes on the squiggly letters. They scuttled into place to form... a recipe?

  Then with another little shimmy, more words formed at the top of the page:

  "The Morphology of Morphing."

  "Morphing," I breathed. "What's that?"

  I read on:

  "Of blood, of spirit, one may be, If this spell one dares to speak. Drink the potion, tell the plot, Become one whom you are not!"

  I blinked. The squiggly letters didn't move. I blinked harder. Yup, still there.

  I still couldn't quite believe my eyes. But my gut was shouting at me, "You can change! You can turn into someone else. You can _ morph!"

  In other words, I could escape!

  Chapter Seven

  I clutched the book and dashed to the front of the bookmobile. I thrust my library card at Bo the Book Man.

  Bo looked me up and down. He peered at the heavy, ancient book in my arms.

  Then he waved my card away. With a wink, he pointed out the door of the bookmobile.

  "Go," he intoned.

  I went.

  I raced up the long road to my house. My mind was racing, too.

  "I could become anyone," I breathed. "I could be Harriet the Spy, sneaking all over New York City! I could be an Indian princess, riding elephants everywhere I go. I could be on TV!"

  Before I hid the book in my school bag, I copied down the ingredients for the morphing potion. It included all sorts of odd stuff from around the house, like a bit of rotten cheese from an unused mousetrap and a swatch of hair from an ancestor.

  I snuck around the house, gathering scrapings from a cast iron skillet, a cup of lye, some hair from Mamaw's brush and eighteen broom straws. The whole time, I continued to mutter to myself.

 

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