The Miraculous
Contents ( 65)
- Part One
- THE BIRD
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Part Two
- THE STONE
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Part Three
- THE WITCH
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Part Four
- THE LETTERS
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Part Five
- THE BRANCH
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Part Six
- QUESTIONS
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Part Seven
- THE TREE
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Contents

Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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For my father,
who believed in this story
and in me
from the very beginning,
and who taught me
to approach this miraculous world
with curiosity, humility, and a sense of wonder.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
—E. E. Cummings
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.
—Mary Oliver
Part One
THE BIRD
Chapter 1
On the night before the funeral, Wunder Ellis stopped believing in miracles.
Before that, he had really and truly believed. In fact, he had been a miracologist.
He became a miracologist when he was five years old. It happened like this:
It was dusk, and he was walking with his mother and father through the woods on the edge of Branch Hill. He had been in the woods before—the woods full of sprawling oaks and knobbly kneed cypresses and Spanish moss that cascaded down branch after branch like so many gray-green waterfalls.
He had been in the woods before. But he had always stayed close to his parents.
That evening, full of after-dinner ice cream and end-of-the-day adventurousness, he ran ahead.
He ran down the path that was potholed and cracked, but paved nonetheless. Above him, a bird cawed out a sunset song.
Then he came to a particularly toweringly tall live oak. It was covered in brilliant green resurrection fern, and beside it there was a dirt trail.
From the path he could see that the trail led to a house, a house in the middle of the woods. He could still hear his parents not far behind him—his father’s voice low and slow, his mother’s faster and full of dips and rises. They were so close that he felt brave.
Brave enough to turn down the trail.
The house was like nothing Wunder had ever seen—a ramshackle, crumble-tumble collection of widow’s walks and towers and sagging porches and broken windows. It was made of a wood that looked black in the fading light.