The door closed softly behind my mom.

"She wants to talk to you," she whispered.

I entered the room and closed the door just as softly.

"I'm not sure why she insists on keeping it quiet around here," Grams declared. "You'd think we were already at the funeral."

I couldn't help but smile. Even now, at the end, Grams was a character. "Full of vinegar," she used to say.

"I'll try to liven it up for you, Grams," I replied. "Would you like me to dance a jig?"

She laughed. Not the belly laugh that I remembered from my youth, but the weak laugh of a dying woman.

But it was a laugh.

"Amanda, you always could make me laugh. That's a gift you have. Never lose it." She paused for a few seconds to catch her breath. I moved closer and took her hand in mine.

"I have another gift for you," she said.

"Grams, you've given me - "

"Hush, don't interrupt. This is a different kind of gift. There are strings attached, the first of which is that you can't tell anybody about it. Can you accept that?"

"Of course."

"Hand me that envelope." She gestured to a small envelope on her nightstand.

"This contains the key to a family secret. It has been passed down through the generations. Only one woman is entrusted with it. You can't tell anybody. I never told your Grandfather Henry. You won't tell your husband, either. It's a secret we each bear alone. When the time comes, you will pick the next keeper and pass it on, just as your Great-Aunt Sophie passed it to me."

I reached for the envelope but she pulled it back.

"Guard this secret carefully. We've kept it for over twelve generations. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"There's more, but I’m getting tired. The note will tell you everything."

She handed me the envelope with a shaking hand. I took it and she sank back against her pillows, eyes closed. I watched her chest, hoping the stress of the conversation hadn't been too much for her weak heart. I jumped when she spoke again.

"Don't worry, I'm not gone yet." I could have sworn a small smile crossed her lips. "Do you have any questions?"

I silently contemplated the small envelope. "How do you know I'm the right one for this?"

"I've been planning this for years. I know. But the secret has a test built in, just to make sure."

"Did you pass the test?"

This time the smile was definite - and smug. "I sure did. But not everybody does. Great-Aunt Sophie never did, but she knew how important this was to the family so she kept it safe and then passed it on."

Her smile faded. "Now it's your turn. Keep it well. And remember me."

I held her hand as she fell asleep, watching her chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. I don't know how long I sat there, wondering about what she'd said. I started when a hand touched my shoulder.

"She'll be asleep for a while. Why don't you go get something to eat?" My mom slid onto the chair as I wandered out of the room.

I tucked that little envelope into my purse and went out for a bite to eat. By the time I got back, Grams had taken a turn for the worse and it was temporarily forgotten.

The next few days were a blur as Grams went to join her beloved Henry, leaving us behind to grieve. It wasn't until after we'd laid her to rest in the family plot that I remembered our conversation.

I removed the envelope from my purse and for the first time noticed its age. The ivory paper was slightly darker around the edges, as if it had been waiting many years for this moment. My name was inked on the front in Gram's handwriting. But the letters were written with a strong, firm hand, one untouched by age.

Inside was a note written in the same hand.

My Dearest Amanda,

Love,
Grams

Below her signature was a short poem.

Sweet little Susan stands all alone,
Waiting for someone to show the way home.
Alas, she will wait for eternity more,
She silently stands as a guard at the door.

Three spins to the left and then one to the right,
And sweet little Susan will smile quite bright.

I carefully folded the note and hid it in my dresser drawer. I'd have to find a better hiding place, but between the sweaters would do for now.

I wasn't sure what to make of the poem. For a few days, I wondered if Grams had lost it at the end, if maybe all of this was part of her illness. The other option was that Grams was wrong. Maybe I wasn't wise enough to be trusted with the secret. Or smart enough to find it.

A week later I visited Grams' grave. I placed fresh flowers on her grave and stood there, wondering if she was disappointed in me.

"Well Grams, I guess I'm meant to be one of the keepers, not a finder."

A flash of red caught my eye. A cardinal zipped past and landed on a crypt in the middle of our family plot.

"Sweet little Susan, surrounded by stone, Sweet little Susan, surrounded by bone…" I mumbled. Could it be this easy?

I slowly approached the crypt. Carved angels hovered above the door, flanking the name.

Susan Marie Zebley

I gently pulled on the wrought iron door and was surprised when it swung open on well-oiled hinges. Inside was a small granite casket, the size of a small child. In the corner was a marble statue of a little girl, maybe three or four years old, laughing as she held out a small bouquet of flowers.

I walked closer to the statue. The girl, her expression, the flowers - all combined to make one of the sweetest statues I'd ever seen. This had to be sweet little Susan. I stopped when I was directly in front of her face.

"Turn to the left and walk forward a pace."

I followed the instructions and found myself facing the small casket. I looked for something in my line of sight that might spin.

I was about to give up when I saw the lilies. Carved into the top, they were exquisite pieces of art. And just about the size of a woman's hand.

The lilies worked as smoothly as the gate. Three spins to the left and one to the right rewarded me with a soft but audible click.

I hesitated. Did I really want to learn about a family legacy that was hidden with the body of a small child?

I finally gathered the courage to swing the top out of the way. Instead of bones, I saw a small wooden chest bound with brass straps. The wood had been worn smooth by many hands and the brass had the patina of age.

Opening the lid, I saw a leather-bound book. Lifting it, I was shocked to see that it had hidden a small fortune in jewelry. Gold, silver, pearls and precious stones had been carefully placed in the chest. I recognized some designs popular in the 1950's, but most looked a lot older.

I carefully opened the book. In faded ink, the first page told the story of my many-times great grandmother, trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who beat her. Without resources of her own, in a time when respectable women didn't work, she suffered the abuse for years. But she swore that her daughter would never face the same situation.

"So I entrust these small jewels to you, my daughter. Keep them safe and let no man know of them. Use them wisely, in only the most desperate of situations, to save your life or that of your children. This is my legacy to you, dear daughter. "

Apparently her daughter had used them wisely and then passed them on. The rest of the pages were an account book of sorts, chronicling the history of the legacy chest. Most generations made small deposits - an emerald brooch here, a silver necklace there. Others made withdrawals, writing a few words of explanation. Over the years, the chest had fed widows and orphans and provided an escape to more than one abused woman.

I don't know how long I sat there, but the sun was low in the sky as I reverently placed the book back in the chest and locked it away. I'd found it. Now I would protect it, and add to it, for future generations. I prayed that I would never need it.

As I turned to leave, the setting sun streamed through the door and illuminated sweet little Susan's face. For just a moment, I'd swear her smile looked just like Grams.

I smiled back.

The sonorous, deep timbre floated down the stairs into the foyer where, just a moment ago, I had stood gawking at the high-vaulted ceiling, the beautiful paintings, the wide mahogany staircase (with a perfect-for-sliding banister), the perfectly matching furniture, and the expensive looking vase on an equally expensive looking table that I would never, ever put a glass on, all of it lit by the soft evening light coming in from the skylight. I had never seen a more beautiful house.

My mother was a talented violin teacher, highly sought after by the music community. Some of her students came from very rich families. This was one such student: a petulant, pouting boy I desperately wanted to poke. But my mother had made me promise to be good, so I decided to postpone my attack for a better opportunity. I'd been wanting to see this house for ever and ever and didn't want to get booted out to the car before I'd even had a chance to explore beyond the front door.

I was put in a corner and told to read while they started the lesson, but peeked out from behind the pages now and then to assess the stupid, whiny boy whose playing sounded like my youngest sister's screeches when we teased her. I was quite confident I'd never heard anyone make a more horrible noise.

Under the pretence of finding the bathroom, I left the room to go explore. I'd wandered through the living room, then had peeked around the corner into the kitchen only to lock eyes with the boy's mother. I instantly retreated to a safer distance, making sure to cover my retreat behind the tall plants. No better hideout than in a forest.

I came out of the forest into a meadow, where the sky opened up and the light touched everything with its golden splendour. The rich, expensive beauty of the foyer brought me back to reality. Indeed, it was a very lovely house. But it was hard to play here. It felt like hubris even pretending that the staircase might be ancient stone steps leading to unfathomable, ruined wonders. Lovely house, but I doubted it felt much like a home, even to Whiny Boy.

It was then that I heard it. It almost sounded like my mother's viola for a moment, the larger, lower version of the violin family, but I knew that it was not. The deep voice of this unnameable beauty beckoned me and I was helpless to resist it. Who was I to turn away from a siren call like that?

My promise to my mother vanished and I crawled up the stairs, staying close to one side and peering through the railings to check for any spies who might be following me. The sound drifted gently through the air and I thought I could even feel the dark wood beneath my fingers responding in sympathetic vibrations. I couldn't blame the stairs for wanting to sing with the mysterious sound. The sound was winding its way into me through my ears and fingertips, lifting the hairs on my arms up and giving me a tingly sensation down my back.

I reached the top of the stairs and found a long, darkened hallway with an open door at the end. Light spilled out and I followed it, creeping softly towards it, unable to heed the cautionary voice telling me I shouldn't be up here.

The caressing music pulled me forward till I was kneeling at the open door, peering in through the crack. The player was a young woman, her long red hair spilling over her shoulders as she bent over the neck of her instrument. Her long, delicate fingers knew exactly where to go as they danced over the fingerboard, the bow pulling sound from the bottom of the earth, making it spill over like a fountain I'd seen in front of a building once. It was telling me story I'd never heard before in a voice I didn't think I'd ever forget.

It was warm and bright and dark and red and deep green and loving and angry and sad and light and dancing and flowing and it seemed like everything I had ever known was wrapped up in that sound. It was like I'd been waiting my whole life just to hear the voice of that instrument sing for me. The sound that had been winding into me through my ears and fingertips and feet and eyes had pooled in my heart as if there were a dam there holding the music, as if there had been a space in my heart just waiting for the right kind of flood to fill it up.

The music stopped and the young woman looked up at me. I'd involuntarily crawled through the door into the room and was looking up at her with wide eyes from the floor, suddenly frozen. She smiled down at me and said hello.

I said hello in a far away kind of voice and then asked what it was she was playing. She said it was Bach, but I shook my head and pointed at the instrument. She looked down as if just noticing the shapely frame cradled against her body. She pulled the body of it away from her heart, studied it for a moment and then smiled a secret sort of smile at me.

“It's called a cello,” she said, “Now you know.” She winked at me and then started to play again.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, relaxing into the cello's richness. It already seemed as if I'd been listening to it all along, without knowing it.

At this point I was snatched up from behind by my mother, who apologized profusely to the girl before shutting the door. I knew I was going to be in for it the moment we left. My mother carried me down the stairs like a sack of potatoes and for the rest of the lesson I sat very quietly in the corner, staring intently at my book even though my mind was still up the stairs in the room at the end of the hall.

When we got outside I waited for the scolding to start. I was a curious, stubborn child, I knew, but I always tried to be good. My mother opened her mouth and I tried to put my sorry face on but then her expression changed. She stopped walking and I could see her brain moving about and her eyes doing their thinking thing.

“You liked that, didn't you?” She asked, finally. Then, laughing at my vigorously nodding head, she started walking towards the car again.

“I guess we don't really need another violin player in the family, do we?”

I got a tiny cello just my size as an early birthday present that year and ever since I had my first lesson and learned how to pluck the 'A' and 'D' strings for Pop Goes the Weasel, my cello has become my teacher in all things, requiring patience, love and passion of me before it will sing.

Its voice is more familiar to me than my own, and these strings have been under my rough fingers for as long as I can remember. It seems that I spoke with the music of this instrument long before I ever used words and if I could not play I would have no voice.

The cello rests against my heartbeat as I play and I can feel the deep, sympathetic vibrations coming up through my feet, in through my knees, my fingers and the bow, waking the blood in my veins as it travels through my body and my very bones till it goes through the deep pool in my heart where the music lives and out again through the cello and into the world.

He slid through the shadows, never appearing long enough to be considered anything but a figment of the imagination. He loved this time of night when the streets were empty of all but the sleeping vagrants. In this world, he was a king. No rich man’s house held secrets from him.

Flush with success from the night’s exploits, the shadowy little man finally stopped flitting about, resting against the cool brick of a chimney jutting from the top of one of the flat-roofed buildings that dominated the seedier areas of the city. He had been a burglar a long time, but he never lost the thrill of a successful heist.

He stared out over the city from his vantage point. The decrepit old building he chose for his respite was far from the tallest building in the city, but from here, the view was still spectacular. The mansions of the wealthy dotted the hillside, some still showing lights burning in spite of the lack of activity within. As the hill receded, the signs of civilization became more prevalent and much more crowded. Houses crowded next to more houses, the tightly packed neighborhoods giving way to the open squares of the market district, the castle-like city government building, and the once-grand cathedral that dominated the city’s center. As one’s view continued towards the sea, the buildings once more became more tightly packed, many built sharing a common wall to save money. The numerous alleys were tight, narrow passages, many dead-ending in piles of garbage and human refuse. From the burglar’s vantage though, the flat roofs were relatively pristine, guiding the eye gently and naturally to the majesty of the sea at the far edge of town. Several cargo vessels creaked and swayed in the gentle evening swells, temporarily abandoned by their crews for the company of broken-down whores and watered-down ale.

The burglar broke his reverie, turning to his take. The promise of riches untold caused his mouth to water in anticipation. He had never attained such mind-numbing wealth, but he could never get past the anticipation that tonight was the night. He squatted on the roof, carefully emptying the numerous pockets that appeared to make up the bulk of his clothing. One at a time, in precise order, he checked his shirt, vest, pants, and even the inside of his hat, withdrawing the various trinkets and goodies he had nipped from the fat men and their opulent lives. Coins, bits of jewelry (likely fake), and other small trinkets that had looked expensive when he grabbed them (not so much now) formed a small pile on the rotted boards between his outstretched legs.

Last of all, the burglar drew a small box from a hidden pocket deep in the folds of his shirt. This was the one; he was sure of it. Inside this box was a treasure that would allow him to retire to a life to which he would like to become accustomed. His grubby but nimble fingers plucked what looked like a straight pin from a seam in his vest. A couple of strategic bends, and the small piece of wire became a pick for the tiny lock that prevented entry to the box.

Taking great care, he probed the lock’s mechanisms. The box itself barely filled his open palm. The lock would have been easy to break, but the burglar considered himself a professional in spite of his tattered clothes and bare, calloused feet. A few precise flicks of the small wire and he heard the distinct click as the lock released.

He carefully straightened and replaced the thin wire lockpick, then turned back to the box. His gaze fell not on the box, but on the hairy, brown spider that was slowly crawling over the top of the box. The burglar had braved all manner of traps and guards, shared a room in the city dungeon with the rats and other human vermin, but he had never gotten over his childhood fear of spiders. He watched with a shiver as the arachnid crawled, ever so slowly over the top of the box. For a second, he was afraid that the monster had stopped, choosing to rest directly on top of the box, forever denying him the treasure he had worked so long and hard to obtain.

“Shoo!” he hissed at it. “Get off there!” He waved his hand ineffectually, trying to drive the spider away. Finally, the spider began to move, entirely of its own volition. It still crept agonizingly slowly for the impatient burglar, but he still kept his distance until it crawled under a loose board. He quickly gathered his treasures, sure that the spider was watching him, waiting to return. When he came to the box, he stopped his frantic gathering, once again entranced by the anticipated treasure within.

He slowly reached up and pried open the lid of the box. He closed his eyes, afraid of the disappointment that had plagued other such moments his whole life through. He stood like that for an interminable amount of time before greed and curiosity finally got the better of him. He slowly opened his eyes.

At first, he thought the universe had once again played a cruel trick, as he saw nothing in the black velvet interior of the box. Then he slowly realized that he was staring at the deepest black jewel he had ever seen. The smooth surface seemed to draw in light around it, giving the illusion of nothingness. The burglar pulled at the jewel, revealing a strangely beautiful ring. What had appeared to be a jewel in the ring turned out to be only the surface of the ring itself. The whole piece appeared carved from the darkest jet black material. It didn’t feel like stone or metal, but an entirely separate, indefinable object.

The thief marveled at the ring’s beauty, then slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand. At first, he was sure that it would be too large, but as he slid it down, he felt the ring gently pull at the circumference of his finger. It was a perfect fit. He continued to study the ring, noting for the first time the designs down the sides. The sides and bottom of the ring were tightly packed with intricate designs that resembled many overlapping spider’s webs. Too bad, he thought, since he had almost considered keeping the ring. It fit so well and was very attractive, but he hated spiders, so it had to go.

Admiring it’s beauty one final time, he reached out with his left hand to remove the ring. Pulling gently, he found the ring held fast. I guess the fit wasn’t as good as I thought, he said to himself. He paused and spun the ring around his finger, testing it. It spun freely, feeling as though it could spin right off. He pulled a second time, finding that once again, the ring wouldn’t budge from his hand. He felt the familiar tang of fear in the back of his throat as he imagined the webs that decorated the outside of the ring somehow reaching through to the inside to clasp and grab at him. He began to frantically tug at the ring, still making no headway on removing it, when he felt a small tickle on the back of his right hand.

A small black spider skittered across the back of his hand and started climbing up his arm. The spider made the thief pause for a second. It appeared to be made from the same strange metal-stone as the ring. He was frozen in fear as it continued to climb up his forearm, finally disappearing under the dirty shirt sleeve. With that, his fear tightened into action and he frantically slapped and swatted at his shirtsleeve, finally tearing it from his body and savagely stomping the shredded cloth.

He left the fully trampled cloth where it was for a moment, then tentatively reached out and picked it up, searching for sign of what had to be a dead spider. His mind would not rest until he was sure the tiny beast was gone. He turned the sleeve inside and out, but could not find sign of corpse nor stain as sign of the spider’s passing. He finally came to the conclusion that it must have crawled off or been cast away in his frenzy. He laughed to himself, once again feeling silly at having such a strong reaction to such a tiny thing.

That was when he once again felt that familiar tickle on the back of his hand. The spider was back! And this time, it wasn’t alone. Another spider had joined the original, both seemingly carved from the jet metal-stone. The thief could only stare in abject terror as a third spider crawled from the depths of the ring’s surface, followed quickly by fourth, then a fifth. A horrible scream finally wrenched from his soul as the ring began to produce more and more spiders, far too fast to count. In seconds, the whole of his right arm was black with the squirming swarm.

As the mass of spiders continued to grow and spread over his body, he felt strangely calm, having reached a level of terror so high that he was overwhelmed. Numbness filled his mind and spread through his body as his consciousness began to slide away. One witnessing this moment would swear that there was never a small man where the mass of spiders still shifted restlessly.

The mountain of spiders began to reduce, slowly at first, then as rapidly as they had appeared, they disappeared, revealing only a few small bloodstains surrounding the now ownerless ring. The engulfed thief was no more.

A tall stranger, clad head to toe in the finest black silk, stepped from the shadows. He strode noiselessly across the rotted warehouse roof and effortlessly bent to retrieve the shiny black bauble. He raised his right hand to eye level to see one final jet black spider crawling across the back of his hand. It paused and turned, seemingly making eye contact for a moment. The man watched as it sized him up, then it broke and scuttled around his slowly revolving hand. When it reached the ring, it paused once more, then stepped forward to be absorbed into the surface of the ring.

Crashing through life's paper-thin scenery, I am your hopes, your future, I am your past, your present, your worst nightmare. Some people call me Ahab, others call the space cowboy, some people even call me Maurice. My name is my own, and I am the bard for all time. I am the keeper of records and of time, the keeper of stories you hoped would never be told, the keeper of secrets and keys and grounds. My songs are of arms and of a man, a million love songs, songs that could even turn back time.

As I walk in the footsteps of millennia of kings and princes, heroes and fools, history is paved with yellow bricks and adorned with clothes fit for emperors. And as I walk along I wonder, I wonder about those things lost but never found and those things found that were never lost...

Let me tell you a story.

***

Star light, star bright. He sighed, yawned and shifted the monkey slightly on his back. It had been another day of non-too-many dollars, and anyway, the exchange rate wasn't great against the Euro right now. The neon loneliness stretched on as far as he could see. The truck shuddered but resisted the temptation to succumb to its inner jitterbug as the fuel gauge limboed into the red zone.

"Life is a journey," he’d been told. He was on the road - the road to nowhere, the road to Hell, it made little difference.

The truck stop. Of all the places in all the world, it had spirited him back here. Star light, star bright, he never thought he'd end up here again; he tossed his ruby slippers into the passenger footwell - looks like they might need reheeling anyway - and headed on over to the pumps.

This was the place, this truck stop diner, where it had all started, days ago, or was it decades? Star light, star bright, the sky had shone that night, 'twas not just Lucy in the sky that night, but the whole staff of the Cartier store. You learn as a long haul driver to take whatever life throws, and this had been a night to just roll beneath the flurry of left hooks, jabs and metaphors. To the backdrop of Hotel California playing on an unseen jukebox, Japanese tourists were recounting tales of flying men and cheerleaders, a lady in knitwear sat stroking a log, a man whom he could have sworn had more than one head declaring this diner to be so grand that it was indeed the restaurant at the end of the universe, much to the dismay of a dressing gown attired companion... He had double, triple checked his watch, its wasn't Halloween, it wasn’t even close.

And suddenly he felt the eye, perhaps an unsleeping eye in a dark tower, or maybe it was just the waitress' persistent flirting. Star light, star bright, he was beginning to lose count of the number of vertically challenged people in the truck stop that night, and butterbeer was apparently the beverage of choice for those cloak wearing curlers - what other sport could involve so many brooms?

It was the tall distinguished fellow with the long beard and the grey cloak - no, not that one, the other one - that caught his eye, and that's when he'd seen it. There it was, when the bearded one left, glinting on the table. Perhaps he'd been a magpie in a past life, or maybe that's what the crystal orb held for his future, but his truck was littered with all that glittered, that lamp, a couple of mirrors, his favourite slippers and that odd glass one, which incidentally fit him perfectly.

There it was, a ring, a single band of gold. His heart burned inside with the Hell-furnace of kleptomania, and within a fiery shake of a chimera's tail, it was on his finger.

Star light, star bright! He was falling away from the world. Wow! This thing had power! Or was it just one Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster too many? He stowed his precious find safely in his pocketses, and exited the building, the force was clearly with the two fighting with fluorescent strip lights in the corner, subtly picking up a shiny knife on the way, it wasn't long before he found himself back on the road again.

Back in his truck, feet relaxing into the ruby slippers, narrowly avoiding a trans-dimensional knight bus and a far too eager dandy highwayman, his truck safely negotiated its way back out onto Route 66.

***

And so it was here that he had been spirited back, like a jukebox on constant repeat. The raven, black against an obsidian crystal midnight sky, sung her fables of doves and sparrows, of snakes and peacocks and of rats who feared the labyrinths of nevermore.

His journey had taken him both near and far, he had saved the cheerleader, hell, he had saved the world! He had fought against armoured bears; he had followed yellow bricks and found emerald courage for his feline friends; he had journeyed through wardrobes and partied with hatters and happy cats.

And yet, here he was. He touched that precious ring in his pocket and slipped it onto his finger for one last time, and they were there - all of them! Sauron and Zabulon, Voldermort and Satan in all his guises... looks like 'Expelliarmus' isn't gonna work this time...

One day my parents took us to the beach, my sister and I. They all loved the beach; the sun, the water, the seagulls, the sand, the driftwood. They liked everything about the beach while I liked nothing at all. The sun always scorched my skin, the water smells like fish, and the gulls poop all over the sand.

I’ll admit that I did my share of complaining when they announced the trip. Okay, more than my share of complaining. I complained all morning and for a good portion of the ride there. I just don’t like the beach.

It’s not like they ever go anywhere I want. We never tromp through the forest or explore caves where nature is so much more natural. The beach is nothing but trash on the sand and fish carcasses.

It wasn’t a total loss, though. I mean, that’s where I found the blue rock and all.

It was the weirdest thing; I stood there at the shoreline, waves washing over my feet and ankles while I stared out at the distant horizon. I’ve always been sort of mesmerized by the vanishing point where the water and sky become one. A particularly large wave came in and knocked me off balance a little. I stopped myself from falling be re-adjusting my footing, but my foot landed on something warm, polished, and hard.

It freaked me out a little bit at first. I mean, you’d be freaked too if you everything in the water was cool and suddenly you stepped on something warm. I think you’d freak anyway. I freaked.

I moved my foot and looked down to see a brilliant blue stone that seemed to pulsate with light. I stared at it for a while not sure what it was and fighting the compelling urge to pick it up. After some mental deliberation I bent down and grabbed it. As soon as I touched it I was filled with a sense of peace.

It wasn’t a large stone, somewhere between a pebble and a rock, but its color was intense. It was a shade of blue I’d never seen but somehow it seemed like the color was named after the stone. It was the most captivatingly beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

Something told me not to show anyone else, so I slipped it into a pocket and kept my mouth shut about it. Through the fabric I could feel its warmth pulsating, comforting me.

I took it home with me and slept with it under my pillow. It whispered to me in the night, its voice weak but angelic. It told me things, things no one is supposed to know, things I dare not repeat. Secrets.

In my dreams the strange blue stone was fixed in the sky like a strange star, it’s light bathing me with peace and tranquility. As a star it sounded stronger. It spoke to me from above, telling me the secrets that I needed to know so that I could do what needed done. It told me I was chosen, that I hadn’t found it at all but the other way around.

When I woke the next morning I was filled with an inner calm that I had never before experienced. There was no anger, no suppressed frustration, and no animosity. I was alive, so very alive. It was like chugging volumes of coffee but without the jitters or the hyperactivity. Okay, maybe not so much like coffee. I guess it’s kind of hard to explain. I was awake but completely calm, like one of those Zen heads, fully at peace with everything.

I left for my walk to school the same as I did every morning except that I didn’t walk to school at all. I had another destination. Though my feet did the walking, the warm blue stone in my pocked guided me.

I soon entered a local park that was seldom used. I’d only visited the place once or twice in my youth. Behind the rusted swing sets and see-saws was a patch of wood. I remembered little about the park, but I remembered this thick bit of wood quite vividly.

Something was off about the woods, there was an eminent sense of foreboding about the place. I realized that there was a presence somewhere within the cluster of trees, an evil presence. Undoubtedly this was the reason the park was so seldom used, the chill from bad trees did not make for a comfortable place to play.

The stone tried to comfort me with warmth, but I didn’t want to go in there. I wouldn’t say I was scared, necessarily, just... Okay, I was scared. Maybe terrified is a better word for it. This was no ordinary patch of trees, mind you. Something evil was lurking in their shade.

You must move forward, the stone urged me. Put away your childish fears, this must be done. I will guide you, I will protect you. There was something in its voice now that I hadn’t heard before, a sense of urgency that bordered on panic.

Despite my best judgment, I moved my feet forward and reluctantly stepped into the cluster of trees. Their shade engulfed me like the night. Outside this little grove it was daylight, but within it was the darkest of midnights. The sound from the park outside was swallowed by silence within.

The blue stone lead me to the very heart of the wood where the trees became twisted and ugly and the only sounds were the chilling echoes of my footsteps and the beat of my heart. A cold sweat lathered my skin and my breath came in short and shallow. My legs were weak, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I my stomach had that weightless feeling that it gets when mom drives fast over the dips in the road. To say that I was nervous would be an understatement.

I tripped over a root and landed hard on the ground, my face landing mere inches from something cold. A dark glow pulsated from a black stone. Against all instincts I reached out for it and took it in my hand.

The pain was intense and immediate. I wasn’t even aware that I had been screaming until my voice had given out and my breath was coming hard. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the dark sky, still clutching the stone in my hand. The pain was sharp and piercing and cold, like being stabbed in a hundred places by a hundred ice cycles. It was a constant steady pain. Soon it became too much for me and I found myself slipping into unconscious.

It spoke to me, told me things; terrible things, things I never wanted to know, things I dare not repeat. Secrets.

“You’re ridiculous!”
“I’m sorry!”
“I hate you!”
“I’m sorry!”
“Why would you do this to my family?” I cowered in the comfort of my bed, hearing every shout and scream thrown back and fourth between my mother and father. The screaming grew louder and louder, then abruptly ended with the unmistakable sound of a smack. I winced, the tear which was clinging to the edge now finally pouring down my cheek. The silence continued, every second lasting hours.
“You little!” I heard through the door. Then, after four abrupt crashes, my door opened quickly and slammed shut. I looked up. My mom stood in my room, shaking and gasping for breath, one hand over her cheek, the other twisting the lock on my doorknob. Silence reigned again.
“Mom?” I whispered. She whipped around.
“Oh sweetie!” she wailed, falling to her knees and sweeping me into a bear hug. “Every things going to be okay. Don’t you worry. Its not your fault. Its not your fault, okay?” She pulled me out of the hug and stared into my eyes. I looked down.
It was my fault though. I was the one who snooped around in my fathers office. I was the one who opened his drawer. I was the one who discovered the countless heated love letters he had saved from someone named “Victoria.” I found the letters. Letters in plain white paper, holding secrets which I wished were kept secret. Truths which I thought did not apply to my family. Affairs. Cheating. Pain. All in the form of these letters, in vanilla folders, and addressed to Mr. Smith, my father.
Now my mother and I had something new to find. a new footing. A new home. Away from those letters. We stood outside the house, suitcases in hand, waiting for the taxi to arrive. My mother stared foreword, I looked back. My father stood in the doorway, regret filling his eyes. He wordlessly apologized, and pleaded me to return to his side, to stay with him in his house. Tears fell down my cheeks. I did want to stay with him. I loved my father. I loved him with all my heart.
But that house held those letters. Those letters held my pain. My father couldn't have cheated on my mother. It was just the letters. The letters I found ruined everything. It was the letters.
The letters.
The letters.

~~~

“You’re Ridiculous!” I shouted. I was infuriated.
“I’m sorry.” He replied cooly.
“I hate you!” I screamed, my face hot, my throat dry.
“I’m sorry.” He replied again, slightly agitated.
“Why would you do this to my family!” I hollered, shoving the letters into his face, yelling at the top of my lungs.
He slapped me.
I stood there, eyes wide, jaw unhinged, my head tilted to the side. My cheek stung with ridicule and hurt. I looked up. His eyes were furious, his fists balled. He seethed, leaning in towards me, the anger emulating from his body in the form of overwhelming heat. He breathed in my face, his breath wreaking of the tuna fish sandwich I had just made him just moments before I found the letters in his desk.
“You little wench!” he roared, interrupting my thoughts and lunging toward me. I dodged and fell back, scrambling to my feet and charging to the closest room. I slammed the door in his face, and fumbled with the lock as he pounded on the wood, shouting my name and cursing my mother. I shouted back, tears pouring down my cheeks and pooling at my chin.
“Mom?” The little voice behind me made me jump. I wiped my face and turned. My son cowered, his toys abandoned for the safety of his corner. I looked at my son, but a younger me stared back, scared for her mother and father, afraid of what was going to happen next. As another tear slid down my face, I slid down the wall next to him, my arm around his shoulders. He leaned into my chest, his small body quivering slightly.
“Everything is okay. Mommy just found some letters that upset her okay? There is nothing to worry about.” My son looked up at me, slightly reassured, then hugged me around the waist, now crying like the little 6 year old he was. I stroked his hair, and looked at the letter I held in my hand. it was encased in a vanilla folder just like the ones from my childhood, and, just like from my childhood, held truths I did not believe applied to my family. Affairs. Cheating. Pain.

I thought of my father. I thought of how much I loved him, how much he meant to me. Then i thought of my husband. The man I entrusted my life and my children with.

Why did I have to find the letters?