A Sudden Light: A Novel (16 page)

“Okay.”

“And for heaven’s sake, go to sleep. I love you, my baby.”

I hung up and returned the phone to the stand. I started off to the library, but, before I did, I checked in the kitchen drawers and the pantry. I didn’t want to light up the whole house and thought maybe I’d find a flashlight. I did: under the sink. I took it to the library, retrieved the Muir book, and retreated to my room. I left my door open, since I knew he would just open it again if I closed it. I clicked on my flashlight and opened the book to the bookmarked essay, “A Wind-storm in the Forests.”

I immediately fell into Muir’s words; the way he described nature and the world around him was captivating. The essay told the story of John Muir finding a valley of beautiful trees and then, upon seeing an approaching weather front, climbing to the top of a tree and clinging to it to ride out the raucous storm, which whipped him back and forth in the wind and the rain. When the storm passed, he climbed back down to the ground and felt transformed by the experience. The sun shone on the tree branches so gloriously, it seemed to be saying, “My peace I give unto you.”

Reading the essay didn’t make me sleepy, as my mother had hoped, but it did give me an unusual sense of contentment. I read straight through until I got to the final words: “Never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, so joyous, so immortal.”

So fresh. So joyous. So immortal.

The words echoed in my head. No—they echoed in my heart, in my soul—and then I felt sleep draw over me. I set the book aside, turned off my flashlight, and closed my eyes. As I fell into a dark sleep, I kept hearing the words:
My peace I give unto you.

L
ooking back on that summer, I wonder why it wasn’t obvious to me. There was a reason my father had jumped the gun on getting the power of attorney signed and had called the notary too soon. He wanted to fail. He could have executed the plan properly—if he had laid the groundwork, as Serena had said. But he hadn’t. Because if he had, the problem would have been solved, and then we would have gone on our merry way, our pockets stuffed full of cash. We would have headed for the white cliffs of Dover, scooped up my mother, and lived happily ever after.

But my father didn’t want to solve the problem that easily—or, at least, he didn’t want to solve the problem we all saw. There was something deeper he was getting at. I didn’t know what it was. I’m pretty sure Serena didn’t know, either. I’m not even sure my father knew. But it was there. I could feel it rumbling under the surface of everything we did. Riddell House was no longer dead. The old trees that held up the walls
and the roof were stirring. They were waking from a long slumber, and their sap was flowing once again.

*  *  *

I woke early the next morning, and, though I hadn’t gotten much sleep, I felt refreshed. I ate my breakfast quickly and hovered around the kitchen, waiting for Serena to go to work and for my father to go off and do whatever he did during the days, which was still a mystery to me. When they had cleared out, I returned to the linen closet and checked around carefully to ensure that I hadn’t been followed by Grandpa Samuel. I opened the false wall in the back of the closet, turned off the light, and slipped behind the shelves, closing the door after myself and making sure it held fast before I turned on the flashlight I had retrieved from under the kitchen sink. Up the narrow spiral staircase I went, winding around until I reached the landing at the top, where I had seen Ben’s apparition. It wasn’t really a room. More of a short corridor. Though it was difficult with only a flashlight, I examined the walls as best I could. They were smooth, and the space had no doors or openings. Maybe it was a dead end. Just a small chamber to hide in or something, like Serena said. Hide your priests here.

I decided to examine the walls by feel, not by sight, so I turned off my flashlight and tucked it under my belt. In the blackness, I placed my hands on the wall at shoulder height and slid them along as I traced the perimeter of the space, feeling for some clue. On my second pass of the area (which I paced off and judged to be twelve feet long at most and five feet wide), I held my hands at waist level, and, when I reached the short wall opposite the staircase, I felt a piece of the wall move. I pulled out my flashlight and shone it on the spot. There was a bit of wall, about two inches by five inches, that was flush and almost invisible because of the grain pattern but was loose and hinged on the top, so, when I pushed on it, it flapped open. I slipped my fingers into the hole and felt a latch. I pulled the latch, and the entire wall swung away from me. Humid, musty air flowed into the landing from beyond. I aimed my flashlight past the
threshold of the hidden door, but the light couldn’t penetrate the thick air, heavy with the dust I had already disturbed. The corridor appeared to continue another ten feet or so to a narrow, steep staircase—really, more of a ladder—that climbed upward again.

I stepped into the corridor. The walls were made of unfinished wood. Douglas fir, I thought confidently, as if I had inherited a shred of intrinsic tree sense from my ancestors. (I came from a long history of timber giants, after all.) The wood had a tight, sturdy grain and a distinctive fragrance, still, even after a century. There were no handrails, so I was careful to mount the stairs without touching the walls. I knew it was probably silly, but I wanted to preserve the integrity of this secret place. It was like going into King Tut’s chamber for the first time. At the top of the stairs was another door, but this one opened with a regular doorknob. I guessed whoever built this place figured if you’d made it that far, you must know what you’re doing.

The room at the top of the stairs had a window and was dim but not dark. I turned off my flashlight to preserve the battery. As my eyes adjusted to the light, a somber, manly room came into focus. A rich crimson and tobacco rug stretched nearly wall to wall. Those walls were about twenty feet apart, I judged—though I didn’t pace it off—and each wall was composed of a dark oak floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The shelves were filled with leather-bound editions. If this place were some kind of a safe room to protect people from kidnapping bandits, as Serena suggested, the occupants would have had plenty of reading material. Across from a small dormer window was a modestly sized fireplace—at least when judged against the other fireplaces in Riddell House—constructed with smoky brown tiles cast with reliefs of nature scenes. A high-backed velvet sofa, an ornately carved coffee table, and two dark leather club chairs were gathered nearby. A writing desk and chair stood near the window. Several light fixtures adorned the walls. The lamps had kerosene reservoirs; the room, built before electricity, apparently had never been discovered to electrify.

It felt like something of a violation for me to be in that place. I examined the ceiling, which had dark beams crisscrossing at three-foot
intervals with an elaborate wood carving set within each square of the grid. Scenes of trees, of loggers, of men working, and of horses hauling. Scenes of men climbing high into the branches, clinging to the top. I remembered my dream, which seemed more like a vision now. A visitation. I thought of John Muir and his essay, and I wondered what this place was. A place to hide? A sanctuary of some sort? A place to worship. A place to be safe. Not from bandits, but from the rest of the world.

The dormer window was too high for me to see out of, and I thought that was something of the point, because beneath it was a wooden step stool; clearly, no one could see into the room from the meadow. I climbed up on the stool, which enabled me to look out over the sill, and it was all there: the meadow, the bluff, Puget Sound. A beautiful view. But the one thing I noticed most of all was a single tree, perfectly centered in the window frame. It was taller than all the other trees around it. Considerably so. It stood out from every other tree I could see. I wondered how old it was, what secrets it knew.

I turned back to the room and let my eyes adjust. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a second door. I opened it and turned on my flashlight to see what was inside. A storage closet. The shelves were filled with boxes of blankets, tins of meat and sardines, stacks of tins with
HARD BREAD
stamped on them, bottles of wine and bottles of water, really old matches, some survival gear: a shovel, a hatchet, and a knife. The only other thing was a sturdy case—not a footlocker, not nearly as large, but built in the same fashion. I opened it and saw it was filled with notebooks. None of them had titles stamped on their spines, so I removed one. A journal. I opened another: a sketchbook with drawings of a house in it. Riddell House. There were other books, too, which appeared to be accounting ledgers. I removed another book and opened it. It was the diary of Elijah Riddell.

Tuesday, September 13, 1904

I begin this diary to address events of a mysterious nature, which have occurred since Ben’s death two days ago. I must record these
events for fear of forgetting them, or worse—convincing myself that they never happened at all.

To begin, we must go back a step to Sunday afternoon, when I found a letter left for me in my study.

“Dear Father,” the letter read. “I had hoped to depart with Harry yesterday. Alice had promised to look after business affairs in my absence. She is quite bright and intelligent—though her father may doubt her—and she is very capable of managing the companies. As such, she willingly granted my wish: to spend my life with my true love, which is not her but Harry. But she knew that already.

“To my dismay, an accident occurred last night, and Harry is dead; I have buried him on Observatory Hill. My heart is broken, Father, and I cannot stay here. I must go in search of him, for I know he is waiting for me; I will find him.

“With much love, I remain forever your faithful son, Benjamin.”

It was six-fifteen yesterday morning when I was awakened by Mr. Thomas, who told me a groundskeeper had found a body. The body was Ben’s. He was dead.

I was exhausted by evening, having felt so many emotions at the death of my son. It is impossible to describe, so I will not. Mr. Thomas brought soup and brandy to me in my study, and, after eating and drinking, I must have fallen asleep at my desk. I remember having vivid dreams. In these dreams, strange things happened. I climbed trees with my deceased son. I spoke with him, as well. Benjamin. He spoke to me. And while I couldn’t discern his words, I felt anxious at his presence, and my sleep was disturbed.

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find a pen in my hand and surprised, further, to find a card on my desk with writing on it . . . writing in my own hand! Could I have written it in my sleep? It seemed impossible, and yet . . .

“I will stay here with you, Father,” the card said. “Bury me on Observatory Hill, next to Harry. You have never understood our love,
but do this for me, as it will show me that you understand we are all connected. If you do this, I will stay with you to look after The North Estate until it is returned to the forest. When it is, your redemption will be complete. My peace I give unto you, Ben.”

This morning, as I sat in my study gazing out the window at the trees which fluttered in the breeze, I saw him standing by the curtains. My Ben! He was with me. I know it is true, and this diary will serve to prove it to myself, else I convince myself my visions are the products of an addled mind.

I was fascinated by this entry. Harry died somehow, just as he and Ben were going to elope, and Ben died the next day. It must have been terrible. But what I found most intriguing was Elijah writing a note in his sleep. A note from Ben, after Elijah had such vivid dreams. It was Ben, the ghost, who had written the note, clearly, channeled through his sleeping father, as he used Grandpa Samuel to write for him.

I turned the page and read the next entry.

Saturday, September 17, 1904

We buried Ben today. A cold fog lingered near the ground in the morning, lifting later. It didn’t rain. (It wouldn’t dare rain on the day my son was buried.) The turnout for the funeral was impressive. Thomas counted four hundred at least. Food was served to all, per custom. A feast with much port tapped—only the finest. Why should I hoard it? For what gathering would it be better suited? I briefly considered having an altar erected and a lamb sacrificed, as I thought Ben might get a laugh out of that. Thomas suggested such a gesture might play wrong in the press. I briefly considered having a newspaper editor or two sacrificed at an altar so I could eat their hearts. Again, Thomas’s better reason prevailed.

I don’t think our guests will leave soon. As of now, they are encamped on the meadow—many have traveled from Portland and
Aberdeen—and some of his classmates from back East have come as well—a testament to Ben’s nature.

I shall miss him. I already do.

I keep his card in my pocket—his last note to me. It was written by me, which I don’t understand, but do understand as well. I slip my hand into my pocket and finger it at times. The sharp corners poke into my fingertip, and I can make it hurt if I like.

We buried Ben next to Harry—on Observatory Hill, as Ben wished. I hope that they will find, in death, a peace together they were unable to find in life.

I found the diary too hard to resist, so even though I could hear footsteps through the wall, and I could hear people calling for me, I read two more short entries.

Monday, September 19, 1904

The guests are still here. Sixty of them at least. I have told Thomas to slaughter a fresh lamb each day they stay—we are on our third.

Truth be told, I don’t want them to leave. Their campfires, which burn day and night in the dampness, are beacons for Ben. I walk among the mourners each evening, embracing the bereaved, and talking to them. I feel Ben is with me on these walks, and he likes what he sees.