Me and my daddy was livin' in the small coastal town of Burns. Townspeople would jokingly say, "Burns is famous for not much of anythin' at all." Ta me and Freck, it was one of the most specialist places on earth, not the town itself, but the evil ol' woods just outside of town. It's true that the only ones who knew about the mysterious forest are the people in Burns and the Seminole Indians that used to live 'round here. It cain't really be called famous since not many people are in on it—can it?

Our town was purty small, 'specially compared ta big cities like Tampa which warn't that far away. At the time I didn't think of it as little. If a nearly twelve-year-old could walk from the houses on the outskirts ta Main Street where the movie theater was in two shakes it's pretty doggone small, don't ya think? The proud wooden sign on the town line boasts, "Welcome to Burns, Pop. 2,022."

There was one main drag and all the high schooler's would show up on Friday and Saturday nights to make downtown theirs. They could have it. With the 'ception of lover's lane, they left the Howlin' woods and tadpole marsh alone. That's all we cared 'bout After all, there ain't any real adventure on Main Street.

Ya can tell my neighborhood was around for a good long while, 'cuz of the cracked sidewalks and stripped to the wood fences. Even the elm trees, for which the street was named, were hunched and worn-out as a row of gap-toothed beggars. They had lots o' missin' branches. Great big storms, some as huge as hurricanes, come rippin' through, knockin' over trees and tearin' off limbs, leavin' behind ragged, jagged stubs.

I doubt them trees were very happy about losin' branches. Trees cain't speak, ya know. I 'magined if'n some kid climbin' 'em got a cut, or sliver they'd be pretty darned pleased. They might even chuckle to themselves. Anyways, they always looked cranky enough to stick a kid on purpose—if they only could.

Those spiky nubs made it easy ta climb, though. They was a kinda ladder, and if ya went high enough, ya could spy the turquoise green Gulf. Up real high was a good place to pretend ya was a pirate, searchin' the horizon for ships ta plunder.

It warn't sad—Elm Street that is—oh no. It wasn't sad at all. It was more like an interestin' character in a book, a really wrinkly old grandma wearin' a head kerchief they call a babushka, who smells funny, and serves ya odd sour food from the old country.

◽️◽️◽️

My best friend Freck, didn't have no mother neither. Her mommy died when she was just a tiny baby. I guessed that's why the two of us, Freck and me, understood each other so good. Life gave us both doughnuts with no jelly.

But Freck warn't her given name, ya know. Her real name was Frieda Ann Motley. Her father nicknamed her Freckles, and I was the one who shortened it to Freck. Somehow it stuck. Everyone called her Freck after that—even her daddy.

Freck was always a tomboy. Sometimes it was difficult keepin' up with her. "Come on Wishes," she would holler if I fell behind, "you're slower than a clock that ain't been wound."

Her hair was dark brown, but when the sun shined through it was kinda reddish. Just an eensy bit red, like the bark of the cherry tree in the back yard. Her honey colored face and arms were covered with millions of freckles rangin' from light pinkish tan, to cinnamon brown. That's what you'd see first, freckles, freckles ever'where: on her cheeks, on her nose, on her neck, on her legs, on her hands, and on her toes.

We are 'bout the same height and both somewhat scrawny for our age. Maybe that was 'cuz we didn't have no mothers to make us eat healthy.

Of course, being a girl and all, Freck's hair was longer than mine; her daddy did what he could, but mostly she was on her own to keep it as nice as possible. A quick brushin', a couple of mismatched rubber-bands for pigtails, and she was ready for high adventure. Since her play clothes were all hand-me-downs from older brothers, they never fit too good. They were kind'a loose and baggy, which made her seem smaller.

People said we was two peas in a pod. I cain't see how that was true since my hair is so blond it's nearly white and I ain't got no freckles. That's not even countin' that she's a girl and I'm a boy.

Now that I think about it, I didn't even actually realize that Freck was a girl until we started school, or maybe I did, but it didn't matter.

On the first day of school I stammered, "Fr . . . Freck, why ya wearin' a d . . . dress?"

"Duh, Wishes, that's what girls, wear to school. Ain't it purty?"

"I don't know. I never did see ya put on a dress before. I guess it's okay, but it seems kinda weird."

After school, she changed into her play clothes, so I decided it was all okay. Freck was still Freck, and if she had to wear a doggone dress to school, it warn't her fault. It was just the rules. After I thought on it some more, I decided that I would think of Freck as a friend who just happened to be wearin' a dress. Besides, some men wore dresses. Take Scottish warriors, and Roman soldiers, they wore skirts. No one would dare call 'em sissies or they'd get pounded for sure. They might have ta face the wrong end of a razor sharp blade.

Stupid ol' dresses didn't change her none. After school, she still climbed trees and waded through ponds huntin' for globby headed, grayish-colored tadpoles. We'd take 'em home to raise into spotted army-green and black frogs. The fun was in watchin' them grow arms and legs. It was a gen-u-ine miracle.

When they hatched they warn't nothin' but big, oblong, slimy heads, bubbly eyes, and wiggly tails. Over a couple of weeks they sprouted back legs and the tail started to get sucked back into the body. Then came the front legs. Once fully growed, but still pretty tiny, we'd take them baby frogs back to where they was from. We warned the stretch-necked blue herons, with their long pointed beaks, to leave our frogs alone. We explained that our frogs were bred special to stick in their throats if they tried eatin' 'em. At night when all the frogs was singin', I 'magined that our babies was thankin' us.

▫️▫️▫️

One day after a tad hunt, me and Freck was layin' back on a patch of wild, kind'a coarse, centipede grass. Our bare feet was danglin' in a pond. I was watchin' an orange monarch butterfly flittin' from here ta there. "Freck," I said, "did I ever tell ya my momma was a butterfly?"

"Sure Wishes, lots o' times."

"When I see a butterfly, I always think about my momma. I wonder where she is, and what she's doin'. It makes me kind'a sad. You're way better off Freck, 'cuz at least ya knows where your momma is."

As soon as it left my mouth, I knew that it was the wrong thing ta say, 'cuz her momma was dead and all. I turned my head. I watched Freck sit up sudden-like, and start to cry. I sat up too. "I'm sorry Freck; I warn't tryin' to make ya cry or nothin'."

I felt real bad, but I didn't know what to do to make it up to her, so I said, "Ya wanna hit me in the arm real hard?"

"Why would I wanna do that?" Freck sobbed.

"'Cuz, I said somethin' that made ya cry. Hittin' me might make ya feel better. B'sides I owe ya. I hurt ya, so's ya get ta hurt me back, okay? Then we're even."

"No Wishes, it ain't okay. I ain't gonna hit ya. Just leave me be for a minute. Ya just don't understand."

So we waited by the pond until her tears stopped. Then I very carefully presented an idea I'd been chewin' on, "Freck, what if there was a way to get our mommas back? But what if it was very, very dangerous and we might get ourselves kilt? Would ya do it?"

"What are ya talkin' 'bout Wishes?" Her eyebrows were scrunched tight, so's I could tell she was still plenty upset with me.

"I've been thinkin' real hard on this. Ya knows 'bout the Whistlin' Salamander, right? Have you ever heard its whistle?"

"No, I cain't say as I have. Have you, Wishes?"

"Yep," I said, bustin' with pride. See, not everyone gets that particular honor.

She turned around ta face me mopping up tears with her sleeve. Freck blurted, "How did ya know it was the real life actual Whistlin' Salamander?"

"The sound is like nothin' ya ever heard before. Still ya knows it immediately anyways. Some say it's just the way the wind blows through the trees, but for someone havin' heard breezes blowin' around corners, rufflin' marsh grass, or slidin' through holes in fences, I knew better. It ain't the North, South, East, or West wind. It's a sound so unearthly it just cain't be natural. It could only come from the throat of a magical creature. A critter so rare it exists in only one place in the whole wide world, right here, in our terrible, horrible, Howlin' Woods."

"I knows 'bout the salamander," she said with growin' excitement. Her eyes were wide and eyebrows raised. "They say that just hearin' that whistle brings very good luck. Howard Woolsey heard it when he was searchin' for his lost huntin' dog in the woods. Right after hearin' it, the hound jumped right over a tall bush and ran straight ta him. Mr. Woolsey had been scourin' the forest for two whole days.

When they got home, there was a letter from a lawyer. It said he had inherited a whole buncha money from a relative he didn't even know. They say that poor Mista Woolsey was totally broke, without a dime for a shoeshine, until then. How's that for lucky?"

I added, "What 'bout Alice Beaumont? She was out birdwatchin', and feelin' all lonely. Unexpected-like she heard a strange whistle. She was almost forty-years-old. Findin' a husband, settlin' down and raisin' a family was just a dream. A year later she was married, with a child on the way. She tells people that she ain't lonely no more thanks ta the Salamander."

"Remember Tina Jane Shipley, Wishes?"

"Warn't she the winna of the state spellin' bee?"

"Yessiree. Tina was only nine years old when she heard that whistle. She was studyin' up to enter the school spellin' bee, but she warn't doin' too well. She was tryin' real hard, but just couldn't keep everythin' straight in her head. Then she heard it. It was an eerie whistlin' sound comin' from the woods. Right then and there, she could remember ever blessed word, like it was written in the air, right in front of her, in big red letters. Tina went on ta win the state championship."

"I heard tell about that too, Freck."

"So, how come you heared the whistle Wishes?"

I gulped, "It happened right after I got into big trouble at school a couple of years back. I played a stupid joke on a girl that I sort of liked. Did ya know Crystal Adams? Her family moved away from Burns a while ago. Crystal's desk was smack-dab in front of mine."

Freck screwed up her face and slowly pronounced each word separate like four questions instead of one, "What? . . . did? . . . ya? . . . do?"

"Oh, I dropped a pencil on her leg and she thought it was a black widow spida bite. It made the whole classroom bust out in a conniption fit. Crystal fainted and Mizzus Appleton sent me ta the principal's office. I was real ashamed over what I'd done. I thought I was makin' a joke and we'd all laugh, but it didn't turn out that way. I feared my daddy was gonna switch me six ways from Sunday. The Salamander somehow saved me from a blisterin', even though the truth be known, I truly did deserve it."

She looked up and twisted one of her reddish pigtails and looked at it for a second before sayin', "Have ya noticed that those who get ta hear the salamander are pretty danged upset? It's almost like he's attracted ta woe. He shows up just at the right time ta help folks who have a big ol' fret that they cain't solve by themselves. Then he magically fixes it somehow and makes it all better."

I mused, "Ya know, if you catch him and kiss him on the head ya will be stone lucky for the rest of your life . . . ?"

Freck interrupted, "I heared that tale about catchin' and kissin' the salamander. Kissin' it would grant all your wishes, every blessed one of them forever and a day."

"That's why I'm thinkin' Freck, that maybe the Whistlin' Salamander can help us. We have a problem that we cain't possibly fix, and it makes us sad. We sure could use his help. There ain't nowhere else ta turn."

Freck tugged at her earlobe and wondered, "Just suppose the salamander has'ta help? Maybe he don't have no choice, you know, like Aladdin's lamp. If you rubbed it three times the genie had ta come out and grant your wishes. He couldn't just stay in the lamp and ignore those rubs. He has'ta obey the magic call. What do ya suppose we'd have to do ta make that salamander help us?"

"I really don't know what it would take, but for sure, we would have ta catch it first. If we don't catch it, it won't matter at all." Then I lowered my voice to a whisper and said, "Of course we would have go inta the Howlin' Woods ta find it. That's where's the big danger is."

"I know, Wishes. There's somethin' really fearsome out there. It's said people who go in there, never, ever come back out again."

Freck looked at me real hard, straight in the eyes, "Do you really think, Wishes, that the salamander could grant every wish even if it's the most impossiblist thing ya could imagine? Ya know my momma died when I was just a baby. I never knew her at all." The deep crease she gets above her nose when she was worried showed up, "Ya would think that a person couldn't miss what they never had, but I know I misses my momma. There's a big holler place inside, right where she oughta be. Sometimes it aches ta the moon and back. Havin' my momma is the bestest thing I could ever imagine, but that cain't really happen could it?"

"I don't know for certain Freck, but in all those stories of magical beings, like genies, people wished for all kinds o' impossible stuff and they got 'em. Who are we to say what a magical salamander could or couldn't do? Anyways, it would be worth a try, wouldn't it?"

"Except . . ." Freck's face clouded over, "except like you said, to catch it we would have to go inta those awful woods, right?"

"Yes . . . if'n we go in, we might never come back." No sooner had I said it than I felt chill bumps. It was gramma's goose walkin' over my grave again.

She thought about it some more and said, "Think on this: as far as anyone knows, nobody else has ever seen it, let alone held and kissed it. What if'n it's just somethin' someone made up?"

"I knows its whistle is as real as fried chicken on Sunday. The kissin' thing we're just gonna have ta find out for ourselves." I thought ta myself that we might be barkin' up the wrong tree, but what else could we do? We just had go for it or die tryin'. Our missin' mommas would expect nothin' less.

From that day on, plannin' our dangerous adventure sucked up all my thoughts. The words die tryin' kept rollin' around in my head. Was I worried? Yeah, I was worried as a cornered rat squarin' off with a salivatin' snake. When there ain't no choice, ya just gotta take your best shot. Everybody's gotta die sometime. Maybe this was ours. I truly hoped not.

Freck was always a tomboy, that's for danged sure. Som'times I found it hard keepin' up with her. "Come on Wishes," she would holler if I fell behind, "you're slower than a clock that ain't been wound."

Her hair was dark brown, but when the sun shined through it was kinda reddish. Just an eensy bit red, like the bark of the cherry tree in the back yard. Her honey colored face and arms were covered with millions of freckles rangin' from a light pinkish tan, to cinnamon brown. That's what you'd see first, freckles, freckles everywhere: on her cheeks, on her nose, on her neck, on her legs, on her hands, and on her toes.

We are about the same height and both somewhat scrawny for our age. Maybe that was because we didn't have no mothers to make us eat healthy foods.

Of course, being a girl and all, Freck's hair was longer than mine; her daddy did what he could, but mostly she was on her own to keep it as nice as possible. A quick brushin', a couple of mismatched rubber-bands for pigtails, and she was ready for high adventure. Since her play clothes were all hand-me-downs from older brothers, they never fit good. They were kind'a loose and baggy, which made her seem smaller than she actually was.

People said we was two peas in a pod. I cain't see how that was true since my hair is so blond it's nearly white and I ain't got no freckles. That's not even countin' that she's a girl and I'm a boy.    

Now that I think about it, I didn't actually realize that Freck was a girl until we started school, or maybe I did, but it didn't matter.

On the first day of school I stammered, "Fr...Freck, why ya wearin' a dress?"

"Duh, Wishes, that's what girls wear to school. Ain't it purty?"

"I don't know. I never did see ya in a dress before. I guess it's okay, but it seems kinda weird."

After school, she changed into her play clothes, so I decided it was all right. Freck was still Freck, and if she had to wear doggone dresses to school, it weren't her fault. It was just the rule. After I thought on it some more, I decided that I would think of Freck as a friend who just happened to be wearin' a dress. Besides some men wore dresses. Take Scottish warriors, and Roman soldiers, they wore skirts. No one would dare call them sissies or they'd get pounded, if'n they was lucky; otherwise they'd be run through with a sharp blade.

Stupid ol' dresses didn't change her none. After school she still climbed trees and waded through ponds huntin' for globby headed, grayish colored tadpoles. We'd take 'em home to raise into spotted army-green and black frogs. The fun was in watchin' them grow arms and legs. It was a gen-u-ine miracle.

When they hatched they warn't nothin' but big, oblong, slimy heads, bubbly eyes, and wiggly tails. Over a couple of weeks they sprouted back legs and the tail started to get sucked back into the body. Then came the front legs. Once fully growed, but still tiny, we'd take them baby frogs back to where they came from. We warned the stretch-necked blue herons, with their long pointed beaks, to leave our frogs alone. We told them our babies were bred special to stick in their throats--if'n they tried eatin' 'em. At night when all the frogs was singin', I imagined that our frogs was thankin' us.

▫️▫️▫️

One day after another tad hunt, me and Freck was layin' back on a patch of wild, kind'a coarse, centipede grass, with our bare feet danglin' in a pond. I was watchin' an orange monarch butterfly flittin' from here to there. "Freck," I said, "did I ever tell ya my momma was a butterfly?"

"Sure Wishes, lots o' times."

"When I see a butterfly, I always think about my momma. I wonder where she is and what she's doin'. It makes me kind'a sad. You're way better off Freck, because at least ya knows where your momma is."

As soon as it left my mouth, I knew that it was the wrong thing to say, 'cuz her momma was dead and all. I turned my head and saw Freck sit up sudden-like and start to cry. I sat up too. "I'm sorry Freck, I warn't tryin' ta make ya cry or nothin'."

I felt real bad, but I didn't know what ta do ta make it up to her, so I said, "Ya wanna hit me in the arm real hard?"

"Why would I wanna do that?" Freck sobbed.

"'Cuz, I said something that made you cry. Hittin' me might make ya feel better. B'sides I owe you. I hurt you, so's ya getta hurt me back, okay? Then we'd be even."

"No Wishes, it ain't okay. I ain't gonna hit ya.