Inside, I saw that he had a bible and a stack of letters. I flipped through them, and found myself smiling. They were love letters from my grandmother. He had saved hers, just as she had saved his. I picked up the Bible, which I hadn’t seen before, and a sealed envelope dropped out of it. In my grandfather’s handwriting, I recognized my name. Excited and curious, I wondered why he had left it here for me to find, or if that was what he had intended at all.
I tore open the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper from within it, then started to read:
My Dearest Jenna,
If you are reading this now, I must be dead. It is not in your nature to go through my things without permission, so I have no doubt that I am gone. I am so sorry for you, my dear. You have been left alone in the world, and for that I can only pray that you have the strength to carry on.
I could not put this letter in my estate materials. The lawyer would have thought I was suffering from Alzheimer’s. There is something you must know and little I can tell you … as close as I was to your grandmother and your mother, the secrets kept in a woman’s heart are deep.
In the attic, you will find a trunk with your grandmother’s belongings, including a strange board that she told me was called the Board of the Winds. I overheard her and your mother once talking about it, and referring to themselves as its Keepers. What this all means, I do not know, but I do know one thing: you were meant to have the Board and protect it, just as your mother was. When she died, your grandmother took the Board out of your mother’s house and brought it here along with you.
I wish I could tell you more, my precious Jenna, but there is little else I can say. I questioned your grandmother often about it, but she wouldn’t speak of it, and she died before I could do more than ascertain that you were to play some role in the Board’s fate and that she was keeping a journal of some kind for your reference.
I have never been able to find the journal, Jenna, but it must be here in Miller’s Crossing. She spoke of it just a few days before she died. If you can find it, perhaps it will guide you where I could not.
Don’t be scared, Jenna. I have always felt that some amazing destiny awaited you; your grandmother felt the same. Seek it out, my dear … you are too bright a star for this sleepy town. Go out into the world and shine.
Loving You Always,
Your Grandfather
I felt the hot sting of tears on my cheek and I wondered what a Keeper was and where the journal—that Simon obviously knew existed—could have been hidden. If it took me all night, I’d tear the house apart and find it.
I had to have answers about this mystery that had entered my life and turned it upside down.
I reached up and grasped the medallion that had belonged to my grandmother, peering at it closely. Secret societies and keepers and magical boards? None of it made sense, and yet I felt a stirring within me that I could not deny.
I pulled the necklace off and studied it again. Sitting on my grandfather’s bed, the letter beside me, I wondered how long my grandmother had worn the medallion. I wasn’t sure, but my grandfather had told me that she wore it every day.
The metal was smooth and warm from resting against my skin and I traced the odd design on the front. Strangely, the medallion’s weight didn’t match its thickness. It should be heavier, and I hadn’t noticed it before. But there were no hinges that would have hinted that it was a locket.
I tapped lightly on it with my fingernail and listened carefully. Yes, it was hollow. Puzzled, I tried to figure out how to open it. There was no obvious latch and not even a visible seam, yet …
The design wrapped from the front to the back, in an obvious pattern. It ended in an odd, star-shaped symbol right in the center of the back. Guessing, I pressed down on it hard and heard a sharp click from within.
The two halves of the medallion fell open and a small slip of paper landed on the floor. Setting the pieces aside, I picked up the tiny piece of paper and unfolded it.
It read ST. ANNE’S. MOTHER MARY. 3RD FROM RIGHT.
I stared at the small script in stunned disbelief. Could all of this somehow be true? Was Simon right about my grandmother—and my mother—being some kind of … special Keeper?
Could the Board truly be a magical artifact?
I didn’t know for sure, but I intended to find out.
5
“My Lord, our contact failed. She still has the Board, and Simon accosted her again in the parking lot. We almost intervened—”
“And it is well that you didn’t. The more Simon rambles on about what he thinks he knows, the less likely it is that she will believe him.”
“She’s going to the church where her grandfather was buried.”
“It’s time to bring this to a close. Collect her—and the Board—there, but keep it quiet.”
I had told Father Andrew that I would think about coming to Mass on Sunday, but a visit to St. Anne’s was necessary now. Plus, he still had a lot to answer for as far as Simon Monk went.
I hadn’t been able to figure out how to put the medallion back together, so I’d slipped the paper in my pocket, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the church. The winds had dropped to mere spring whispers again, so at least I wasn’t wandering in a hurricane like earlier that day.
Parked outside the church, I saw Father Andrew’s car in his reserved spot. He was here somewhere, probably in his office, but the grounds were large enough that looking for him would take some time.
I wasn’t sure what the note my grandmother had left meant, but St. Anne’s had been a part of my grandparents’ lives every week for years. Miller’s Crossing was a small enough town that the church was still left open twenty-four hours a day, for those who wanted to come in and pray at odd hours.
Leaving the shelter of my car, I slung my backpack over my shoulders and crossed the parking lot. As I stepped inside, childhood memories flooded my mind. This is where I’d been baptized, learned my catechisms, and become an adult. Off the main sanctuary, there was a little chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and I made the sign of the cross out of long habit before entering.
It was a reflexive gesture and it caught me off guard. I hadn’t been to church in a long time, and while I still believed in God, my connection to Him was distant, like a childhood memory.
I sat down in a pew and whispered a prayer under my breath. “Mother Mary, I think … I don’t know what to think, but if you can help me find what my grandmother wanted me to, I would be thankful.”
For some reason, the prayer made me feel better.
On the altar, candle votives flickered in the subtle drafts of air in the church. A dim glow of light spread across the blue altar cloth and the painted image of Mary, gently looking down on her supplicants. That small, sad smile is on her lips, as though she feels sorry for the folly of her children.
I pulled the slip of paper out of my pocket and studied it again: ST. ANNE’S. MOTHER MARY. 3RDFROM RIGHT. Well, this was St. Anne’s and I was standing in front of Mother Mary. What was third from the right? I looked at the gilt frame and saw nothing that could be a hidden anything. Frustrated, I started poking at the embossed flowers on the frame, grumbling to myself.
“Jenna? What brings you here?” a voice said behind me.
My startled scream echoed through the whole church, and I spun around with my heart in my throat.
Father Andrew caught my arms. “Whoa,” he said. “I’m sorry to have frightened you. Are you all right?”
“I’m … I’m fine, Father,” I said. “I was just … how are you?” I sounded like an idiot to myself, so there was no doubt that he must have thought I’d lost my mind.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Were you lighting a candle for your grandfather?”
I nodded. Now I was lying to a priest and in church. Perfect.
“I just stopped by for a minute,” I said, hoping he would accept my lame excuse and not ask me why I’d been poking at the picture frame.
“I
understand,” he said. “How are you getting along?”
I suddenly remembered that I was going to talk to Father Andrew about Simon. “I meant to ask you. You do know that Simon Monk is not completely sane, don’t you? He’s obsessed.”
“Why would you say that?” he asked. “Simon is a very. learned man, Jenna. And highly respected in the Church.”
“He thinks this board I found is some kind of magical artifact and he lied about why he wanted to meet me.” I didn’t mention, of course, that I’d just lied, too, but that was because it didn’t seem relevant at the time.
“Well, lying is wrong,” Father Andrew said. “I won’t deny that, and I’m sorry to hear that he misrepresented why he wanted to meet you. On the other hand, there are mysteries in the world, Jenna, and the Church is familiar with many of them.” He looked up at the painting of Mary, at the frame I’d just been poking at, and his familiar features suddenly seemed strange to me. His face, always so friendly and gentle, now looked almost suspicious. “If I were to hazard a guess, there are mysteries in your life that you are trying to unravel right now, yes?”
How much did Father Andrew know about all this, if anything? I wasn’t sure, but now I wasn’t sure if I could even trust him—or anyone else for that matter—right now. In the distant past, I had made confessions to him, but now wasn’t the time or the place, even though I couldn’t believe he knew anything for sure.
“I was just leaving,” I said. My voice sounded odd and distant in my ears.
“You look a little pale, Jenna,” he said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I wanted to tell him I was perfectly fine, and to not worry about me, but the words got lost on their way from my brain to my mouth. I felt lightheaded and my breath was coming in short gasps. Father Andrew took my arm and gently guided me back to a pew and helped me sit down.
“Take a couple of deep breaths,” he said. “You’ve had a tough few days.” Outside the wind howled again. “And this strange weather is enough to make anyone nervous.”
“I’m fire,” I managed to say, forcing the words out. “Really.”
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, nothing, thanks,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” I managed to get my breathing under control and not sound like I’d just run a marathon.
“Well, after so many years of being a priest, I’ve tried to learn not to fuss over people who don’t want to be fussed over.” He smiled. “I’m not good at it, I admit, but I’m trying.”
I smiled back at him. No matter what he did or didn’t know, Father Andrew wasn’t a threat to me or the Board. He was practically a member of the family. I realized that I hadn’t taken the time to eat anything all day, so it was no wonder I was feeling a little woozy. Maybe my hunger was making me paranoid, too, since Father Andrew couldn’t harm a fly.
“You really have gone through a lot, Jenna,” he said, patting my arm. “You can’t expect to recover instantly from a loss like this. Are you getting plenty of rest, giving yourself the time you need to grieve?”
I almost laughed aloud. Time to grieve? I had barely had time to breathe!
Father Andrew must have mistaken the look on my face for pain. “Jenna,” he said in what I called his I’m-a-Priest-and-You-Should-Listen-to-Me voice. “I’m not going to give you a bunch of platitudes about how time heals all wounds and God’s will and all that. Some people find that sort of thing comforting, but I don’t think you would. Your grandfather was a wonderful man and the last of your family. Losing him must have hurt you deeply and it’s going to take time to deal with.”
“I know,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I wished I could tell him that it wasn’t just my grandfather’s death bothering me, but the strange things going on in my life. It would feel good to open up to someone, but I’d already spilled my guts to Tom, and was starting to wonder if that had been a good idea—not because he might tell anyone, but what if Simon tried to come after him?
“You’re strong enough to handle this,” Father Andrew was saying. “Your grandparents, and even your parents, gave you what you need to carry on.”
I hoped he was right, considering that the mysteries that had sprung up around my family were deepening by the hour.
“Now, my sermon is over. Would you like to come over the rectory for some tea?”
I cleared my throat. “No, thank you, Father. But I would … I would like to ask you a question.”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything.”
“Did my grandmother …” My voice trailed off as I tried to figure out how to phrase what I wanted to know.
“Did she what?”
“Did she ever … I don’t know … say anything strange to you? Anything at all?”
Father Andrew looked surprised. “Not that I can recall,” he said. “About what?”
I sighed. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I wish I did.”
“Every family has its secrets, Jenna,” he said. “You’ll figure it out. Perhaps you should pray about it. Your grandparents were such stalwarts. I don’t think they ever missed a Sunday, either one of them. And your grandmother did so much work in the garden here.”
I nodded, getting to my feet and picking up my backpack again.
“The roses never bloomed half so well after she died,” Father Andrew continued. “And your grandfather, too, was always fixing something around the church. Do you remember him repairing the pedestal of that statue? He worked so hard on the pedestal, getting the bricks just right.”
And suddenly I did remember. My grandmother kneeling, her floppy straw hat on her head, the knees of her jeans black with potting soil. That was an image of her I’d carried with me all these years. The memory sharpened with thought … Grandmother was weeding and I was picking violets and blowing dandelion fluff. My grandfather was there, too, in the dirty, paint-splattered coveralls that he always wore when he was fixing something. He was shoring up the pedestal of Mary’s statue with new bricks and fresh mortar. A statue in the garden.
Was Father Andrew trying to tell me something? I didn’t know, but it seemed worth a try.
“Thanks for the talk, Father,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Come by anytime, Jenna.”
I quickly shook his hand, then turned and almost ran out of the church, anxious to get to the statue.
ST. ANNE’S. MOTHER MARY. 3rd FROM RIGHT. The words on the scrap of paper rang in my head as I cut across the half-frozen grounds to where the statue was placed. I felt an excitement brewing in my blood, and as I reached the statue, I slid to a stop, then knelt on the ground.
The third brick from the right … third from the right. My eyes roved over the pedestal, until I saw it. The mortar on the top layer was loose. I put my fingers in the grooves on either side of the brick and pulled.
It fell into my hand easily.
Behind it was a dark space, and I slipped my hand inside, wondering what I would find. The bricks and mortar were rough and damp on my skin. My fingers inched their way forward, skimming dirt, until I felt something slick and smooth—a plastic bag.
I pulled the bag out. It was a large Ziploc and inside was something wrapped in white cloth. Still kneeling next to the statue, I opened the bag, pulled out the bundle, and tugged the cloth loose. Inside was a book.
It felt too heavy for its size, almost as though it were made of stone instead of leather and paper. I glanced at the spine and the front cover, but there was no lettering on either surface. The pages curled slightly at the edges because of the damp and age, and on one corner, a dark stain, almost a deep brown, had soaked through the cover and into the pages below.
The cover felt soft and smooth to my fingers, and though it should have been cool to the touch after spending years hiding within the brick pedestal, it was as warm as the flesh of my hands. Briefly, the idea that there were veins and arteries swimming beneath the surface of the leather, that this book somehow
pulsed with a life of its own, ran through my mind. I shuddered.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glint of light and looked up to see one of the curtains in the rectory windows twitch. Perhaps it was Father Andrew walking by and he’d brushed the curtain with his shoulder … or maybe he really did know more than he was willing to let on. I wasn’t sure.
It must be the excitement, I thought, of finding out that there really was a book. I was eager to look at it, to explore the pages within. I opened it and quickly saw that every page was handwritten—it was a journal!—but before I could begin to make sense of the words or decide where to start, I heard whispered voices coming my way.
I replaced the brick in the pedestal and shoved the book into my backpack, then stood up. On the other side of the gardens, three men with dark skin and long overcoats were looking around the grounds carefully.
Suddenly, one of them spotted me. “There she is!” he yelled.
For a moment, I had no idea what he was talking about, then I realized that he meant me! All three turned my way and began running toward me.
I stood there, frozen, and then Simon’s words rang in my mind: many people would willingly kill for it. Was the Board what these strangers wanted? I took another look at the men coming my way and reached a decision. I didn’t know for sure that it was the Board they wanted, but their intentions were definitely not friendly.
I turned and ran toward the parking lot and my car.
A voice shouted from behind me. “Cut her off!”
Looking up, I realized that there were several more men in the parking lot. I was trapped between the two groups and had nowhere to go.
I felt a sudden constriction in my chest, and wondered if anyone would hear me if I screamed for help or if Father Andrew still around? I clutched my backpack to my chest, spinning and trying to keep both groups of men in sight as they rushed toward me.
Keeper of the Winds Page 6
