The day I turned ten, I went up the hill and stood under my great-grandfather’s tree. It was late August and there were so many apples they pulled the branches down around me. I touched the gash where lightning marked the tree. When I looked up, all I could see were Y’s. Big Y’s, little Y’s, straight and crooked, too many to count. I traced the straightest Y with my finger, but I didn’t break it off the tree.

This perfect Y is at the very end of a branch that grows toward Nana’s front porch. It will be an easy one to find again if Dad asks me to dowse for a well. Then I’ll finally learn whether my great-grandfather’s abilities were passed down to me or not.

If I could have chosen to be a dowser for my tenth birthday present, I would have, but I know Dad would say it’s not something anyone else can give you.

Chapter 2

Dowsing (water witching or water divining) is probably as old as man’s need for water. It is an “art” certain people have which enables them to find underground sources of water.

—Joseph Baum, The Beginner’s Handbook of Dowsing: The Ancient Art of Divining Underground Water Sources

BEFORE WE HEAD OUT into the icy field, James breaks a branch off a wild cherry tree for his dowsing stick. I pull my little sister, Birdie, behind us on her red sled. It’s so cold out the snow that falls is gritty like sand and won’t stick. It’s the kind my father calls dry snow.

James holds the Y-shaped branch the way my father and Uncle Lincoln do when they dowse—palms up, each hand holding an end of the V, elbows at his sides, the end of the Y pointing out in front of him.

“What should I dowse for, Henry?” James asks me. “A mammoth tusk like the one we saw in the museum?”

“How about Dad’s good hammer? He lost it at the top of the field when he was fixing the tractor last summer.”

“Then I’ll dowse in that direction.” James’s eyes are the clear blue of the sky reflected in the ice, and his blond hair sticks out from under his wool hat.

“Keek keek keek.” A small hawk glides overhead.

“Keek keek,” Birdie calls back. Birdie is only two, but she can make a cry just like a hawk.

“Keek keek keek,” the hawk screeches again, and flies off into the thick woods at the edge of the field.

“I think I see something!” James yells, running ahead with his branch. “Look! A deer antler! My best find yet!” He holds up the antler. “I bet this would sell fast on the yard sale table.”

James brings over the antler, and Birdie and I touch the hard, bony points.

Then Birdie starts wiggling her legs in the sled.