Concern: a woman named Grace Sandoval loved me for five years but risked her life and our future for a mystery. Also file under: driving need to unravel that mystery.
It seemed I inherited that need to know the truth. Would it cost me what it did her?
“Where’d he take you?” Mari asked.
“Who?”
“Finn!”
“He didn’t do the taking. I took him,” I said, irritated we were still on the topic of Finn when everything I thought I knew about my life turned out to be a treasure box full of crap. “I wanted to show him the redwood grove and the albino—” The faintest trail of an idea formed in my mind.
“Mari, will you take me to the redwoods?”
“Right now?”
“Now. Yes, now. I have to go there now.”
Dun poked his head between us from the backseat. “Intriguing. Could not have anticipated that request. I almost thought you were going to say ‘airport,’ but the woods, much more logical.”
The parking lot at the state park was empty, probably due to the rain that pattered steadily on the windshield. I threw my hood over my head and climbed out of the car. Mari leaned over. “I love you, girl, so I’m staying here to, you know, keep the car warm for you.”
“Want me to come?” Dun asked. I wondered if he knew he was shaking his head as he asked.
“I just need a few minutes,” I said and jogged toward the entrance.
Moments later, I was swallowed up by the forest. My forest. A gift from my father. The circular trail through the groves was the only place when I was little that Dad let me run free, out of his immediate vision. And it was the only place he ever opened himself up. I think he felt as I did, that no matter what we said, the trees would keep our secrets.
The rain was less intrusive under the large fingers of the redwoods, their foliage covering me in all directions. Steam rose from the split-rail fencing along the trail, and large spiral spiderwebs, so much like Finn’s tattoo, stood empty. I pondered what a perfect design the spiral must be if nature herself utilized it in so many ways. Water droplets fell from strand to strand, and the spiral web vibrated with the music of the rain.
My breath blew out in a vapor. I shivered, cursing myself for the fool’s errand I’d undertaken in the chilly drizzle. I stood in front of the albino redwood and stared.
Bury this under the ghost so no one will find it.
I’d written it off as an obscure Irish turn of phrase or perhaps something buried in a grave somewhere. But when Mari asked about my date with Finn, I immediately thought of the only ghost I’d seen with my own eyes.
Slowly, I circled the phantom tree. Hidden from the trail was a small hollow—like a fairy door—at the base of the tree. I squatted down, ran my finger lightly over the tiny hole, and immediately sensed the impression of panic. Not my own. It was like the tree had a memory and mine weren’t the first hands to do this. I dropped to my knees and started to dig.
First, I scraped away a layer of albino pine needles, white and spent, like tiny bones left out to dry. Then, the moist earth, dark and pungent with life. Water trickled down my nose as I clawed at the rain-soaked ground until the tips of my fingers were raw. Was I crazy to think there might be something here? In this sea of dirt, did I really think I could feel an emotional memory at the base of the tree? Despite my doubts, I couldn’t stop. Through the pain of tender skin, I kept my hands searching. The moment they fell upon something unnatural, I dug faster and seized a small velvet sack, ripping it up from the soaked ground like a dirty purple flower.
I yanked the top open and dumped the contents into my palm: a delicate silver key, no longer than my pinky and weighty with a sense of age. The top was ornately scrolled in the almond shape of an eye with two shimmering red crystal pyramids—connected at each apex like an hourglass—suspended in the middle where the iris would be. When I touched it, the gem spun, as did the forest around me.
I fell backward, hitting the ground with a thud. I tried to anchor myself by focusing on the trees above me, but my vision faded to black. I gasped for air as images flooded my mind, a kaleidoscope of whirling pictures and sensations.
Symbols and images from around the world fired at me, one after another. Triangles and pyramids, the triple spiral, the Star of David, Borromean Rings, the pagan triple moon, golden Hindu statues of some three-headed god, triquetras, and an ancient stone with a carving of the maiden, mother, and crone. Trefoil symbols in church windows in Moscow and on bridges in Central Park. The father, the son, and the holy ghost of the Christian trinity. Every manner of horrific death. Every method of inhumane persecution. The last of the images was an emblem I’d never seen before until I found this key: the two pyramids connected at the tips. All of these spun past my vision, demanding I capture their meaning.
My mother had clutched this key in her palm. I heard her voice in my head saying, “The Light Key.” I could feel her fear and see her trembling hands as she walked through a beautiful, cavernous library. She had needed to hide her journal, the written record of what she’d uncovered so far, knowing that someone very powerful wanted to keep its truths silent. Words on a sign spun past my scope: Turning Darkness Into Light. A wisp of memory, like smoke, carried her thoughts through time and space, and they somehow landed with me. Whatever truth about humanity she was uncovering was a huge one and an old one.
People killed to keep this truth buried.
And I was digging it up.
When the vision stopped, I lay gasping for breath in the mud, surrounded by ferns and clover. Mist fell upon my face as I looked up into the canopy of redwoods. They reminded me of a circle of elders looking down on me, witnesses to my absurd new life. My right shoulder burned fiercely as I clung to the key and stood on wobbly legs.
I stumbled from behind the albino tree and froze, thinking I heard the crackling of footsteps in the brush. I waited, listened, but heard nothing else over the calm patter of drops around me. I wanted to run but was shaking too badly. What the hell was happening to me? How was it possible to touch objects and be battered with images like that? When I felt my shoulder sting again like I’d been burned with a hot branding iron, I yanked the edge of my jacket down my arm and gasped at the unmistakable marking of the silver key above my biceps. With cold, trembling hands, I stuffed its physical twin in my pocket.
Somehow, one step after another, I reached the car. Exhaust trailed out of the tailpipe into the fog. Muffled music blared from inside the car where Mari and Dun sat in the front.
“Holy crap,” Mari said when I opened the back door and slid in.
“It looks like the mud won,” Dun deadpanned. My shoes were caked with deep-brown earth. My pants were soaked and muddy at the knees. Every nail was a crescent moon of dirt. I stuffed my hands between my legs to stop their violent shaking.
Mari asked in a quiet voice, “You wanna tell us what the hell happened?”
All I’d have to do was show them the key or expose my newly tattooed shoulder, and they’d believe me. They couldn’t think I was lying or crazy. But I saw death in that vision alongside the symbols. I knew that the people who wanted to protect the secrets the key held would kill anyone to do so. Had killed to do so. Death echoed in nearly every one of those strange images. That made it okay to sit quietly trembling and tell them I was fine.
“Dead end,” I finally answered.
Fifteen
I had never felt so alone. So freakishly, echoingly alone.