Mistwalker by Terri Farley

learn that bronc stop, Darby thought, butright now she had her hands full with Navigator.
    The gelding loved to jump. Though he didn’t have room for a running start, he settled for a trot, then blasted off with such energy, he cleared the flume by the length of his own body.
    Darby had held on tight enough to keep from falling, and her mom gave her a high five as she trotted past, trying to persuade Navigator that a walk was fast enough.
    â€œNow, we’re going to—okay, I remember. We’ll pass this weird tree we used to call the witch tree. It has this long, pale root that points out in front, and another root that looks like a snake.”
    Roots on top of the ground? Darby was skeptical, but only for a few seconds.
    â€œI see it,” Darby said.
    She also saw four stairs, probably made of stone, but it was hard to tell because they’d been blackened, maybe by a fire. The stairs climbed and stopped. Right there, along the third step, a root lay like a lounging snake.
    â€œWhat are those steps for?” Darby asked.
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe part of the factory, or the plantation. There used to be houses here, too.”
    Darby nodded, remembering Tutu had said her cottage had been a worker’s shack. Darby was about to tell her mom, but Kona was spooked by the witch tree.
    He squealed and shied, then bounced off theground, giving a few cranky crow hops.
    As bucking went, it wasn’t rodeo-quality, but that was her mom in the saddle!
    â€œRide ’em,” Darby cheered.
    Giggling like a girl, Ellen managed to sound humble when she said, “I’ve still got it!”
    Darby applauded, then dismounted along with her mother.
    Once she was on the ground beside Kona, Ellen circled the gray’s sweaty neck with her arms.
    â€œI hugged Jonah’s horse,” she whispered to Darby. “Shhh.”
    â€œYou don’t have to be quiet,” a voice piped up from the forest of ferns. “There’s no one here but us.”

Chapter Ten
    M enehune.
    Astonishment flashed through Darby. Menehune were early Hawaiians driven into hiding by tall warriors. Or helpful little people, finishing work by moonlight. Or imps.
    In Darby’s mind, they looked like Shakespearean fairy folk. Was she about to discover the truth?
    â€œAloha,” Ellen called out. She looked at Darby with raised eyebrows. “Who’s there?”
    Her mom’s voice was playful. The ride had transformed her into a carefree woman, excited rather than unnerved by the voice.
    â€œAloha, over here.”
    This time the voice was definitely human, a boy’s.
    As Darby and Ellen followed it, they came upon a trackside wooden dock. Legs dangling over the edge, Patrick Zink sat on the dock.
    â€œPatrick, right?” Darby called up to him.
    â€œYeah, Darby and Ellen Kealoha Carter.” He bowed his head, which was topped with a pith helmet. “Welcome to the A-Z Sugar Plantation. I’m one of the Z’s.”
    Patrick appeared smaller than he had when he’d been all dressed up at Sugar Sands Cove Resort. Now his shorts showed skinned knees, and his hat—which looked like straw woven over a hard, ventilated helmet—dwarfed his freckled face.
    â€œOne of the Z’s.” Ellen glanced at the faded letters on the flume.
    â€œPatrick Zink,” he announced, “at your service.”
    Pushing his palms on the wooden dock—which was about six feet high, Darby guessed—he launched himself to the ground in front of them. The jump was meant to look like casual gallantry, but one of his ankles twisted when his hiking boots hit the ground. He fell on the seat of his khaki shorts.
    Ellen’s arm barred Darby from going to help him.
    Patrick stood, brushed off dust, picked a sliver from his palm, then squared his hat on his head and began talking as if nothing had happened.
    â€œI’m glad you got here before the mosquitoes came out,” he