As I go deeper into the trail, under the cover of trees, the cooler air I’m hoping for does not materialize. Even here in the shade, everything is hot.
I have a water bottle with me, but it’s already empty. So I walk a bit. I’m almost at the fallen tree, the only place I know where I might find the ghost runner.
Yet when I go around the bend, expecting to see the tree trunk, it’s gone. I look around, thinking I’m in the wrong spot—but no, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Only there is nothing here.
Stranger still, there is no sign of a fallen tree at all. Even if Doug had gotten his crew out here to remove the tree, there’s no indentation in the trail, no tree branches off to the side, no sawdust as evidence that the tree had been chopped into pieces and carted away. It’s as if no tree has ever fallen here.
Could I have dreamt it all?
Standing here, soaked with sweat and blinking as it stings my eyes, I gaze around the forest until I find the area where I last saw her.
“Hello!” I call, and I wait for several minutes, hearing only a bird chirping in the distance. I wipe my burning eyes with my shirt, and when I can see clearly again, I am looking right at her. The ghost runner, standing in the woods just beyond the trail, is staring back at me.
I take a step off the trail, hesitantly at first; then I take another. The ghost turns and heads straight into the heart of the forest. I feel my heart leap, and before I can think, my legs propel me after her, over the sticks and dried brush, around trees and over stumps. I refuse to let her escape me this time. But I’m having trouble keeping up; she’s nothing but a wisp of white disappearing among strands of trees.
I speed up, eyes down now to watch where I’m going. I don’t look up again until I see water straight ahead, and I nearly run right into it. It’s a swimming hole. Not much larger than a baseball diamond and tightly surrounded by trees. I turn around and look for the ghost, but I don’t see her.
I turn back to the water. I reach down to splash water on my face, expecting it to be warmed by the heat of the air, but the water is icy cold.
Now I know I’m right about the ghost. This pond. This place—where my mother brought me when I was a child. The pond—spring fed, deep, the water bubbling up from far below, clean and freezing to the touch—it’s the same place I took that deep dive, the day I scared my mom by being underwater for so long.
But where’s the waterfall? I look around until I notice that the waterfall, which had loomed so high and large when I was a child, is only a small rock outcropping and, given the drought, is now bone dry.
I see no signs of camping or any other human activity, and I wonder if this remains a secret place to this day. My mom used to say it was her hidden watering hole. She said nobody knew about it but us. And my father has apparently forgotten all about it.
I look to my right and see the ghost. I tense my body, ready to chase her again, but this time she isn’t running. She’s approaching.
I watch her come forward, and there is something so familiar in her movements, in the gentle motion of her hips, her gracefulness, and as she nears I can see more detail in her foggy appearance. Long hair, now flowing over her shoulders, the sharp features of a face staring back into mine. And when she gets close enough for me to see her eyes, I know for certain: I am looking at my mother.
“Mom? Is that you?”
She nods.
I approach her, closer and closer until I can reach out to embrace her—and even though I’m wrapping my arms around nothing but cool air, I can feel the memories rush through me … the day she walked me to school when I was scared to go alone … the way she’d touch my forehead when I had a fever … the long hikes we took in the woods together … the sight of her leaving the house in her jogging clothes, heading off into the forest as she did the last day of her life.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“I miss you, too, Katherine.”
Her words are light and airy, almost as if they’re in my own head, and maybe they are. Either way, I don’t care. For the first time in years, I’m hearing her voice—a voice, filled with energy and love, that has been missing from my life for too long.
“I lost our land,” I say. “I don’t know how to get it back.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The land will protect itself,” she says. “And you will help.”
“How?”
“I brought you here for a reason. You have been chosen.”
“Chosen? For what? Why?”
I see her ghostly lips curve into a smile. “Don’t you remember when I took you up here?”
“Yes, Mom, of course. Those were the happiest days of my life.”
“Why were you so happy? Was it just because of me? Or something else?”
“I—I don’t know,” I say.
“When you figure that out, you’ll know. You’ll know everything.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will, darling. You’ll figure it out.”
“I love you, Mom,” I say. “I’m so sorry Alex took you away from me.”
“It was my time, sweetheart,” she says. “It happened for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. This was my destiny. And now I’m here to help you achieve yours.”
“It’s not fair. I want you back.”
“I know. But you need to let me go. It’s time for you to move on, to look forward. There are larger challenges ahead. You must be strong.”
“Don’t leave now, Mom.”
“I’ll be around. I’ll always be watching.”
And, just as suddenly as she’d appeared, she’s gone.
“Mom!”
I call her over and over, to no avail. Having a few more precious moments with her was so sweet that I feel more empty, more lonely, than ever before.
I take a deep breath, trying to recover, and look down at the pond, wondering why my mom led me here. What could an old swimming hole have to do with getting the Horton property back?
And then it hits me.
Why were you so happy? my mother had asked. The rock I found that day—the rock I thought was gold; I’d been overjoyed, and so disappointed when I’d lost it.
Could it be that my rock had been real gold? That there’s more down there in the depths of this pool?
I gaze into the water, but even the daylight isn’t strong enough to illuminate all the way to the bottom. I’ll have to go down there myself.
As I peer into the pool, I realize that it’s so dark I’ll need a flashlight, and I don’t have time to go get one and still make it to rehearsal in time. And nothing can keep me away from another rehearsal—not anymore.
I sit down next to the pool and sigh, feeling defeated. I look at my watch, wondering if there’s a tiny chance I might be able to race to town and back, when I realize I already have what I need—my watch. It has a powerful little light, not as strong as a flashlight, but it’ll have to do. I smile at the thought of my dad’s gift helping me undo the damage he has done.
I take off my shoes and dip my toes into the water. The freezing temperature is a relief from the dry, hot air, though I know diving in will give me a jolt. I take a deep breath and go for it.
My body heaves with shock as I enter the water. I tell myself to relax, that the cold never bothered me as a child, that I will be fine. And within a few seconds my body forgets about the cold, my entire being now focused only on going deeper into the darkness. I keep my right wrist out in front, holding the waterproof watch out like a headlight, my other hand paddling, my legs beating hard. As the daylight fades behind me, my little watch’s light seems to get stronger, not strong enough to illuminate anything more than a few feet away, but it’s better than nothing. What I’m looking for here is something that reflects light—all I need to see is glitter in the darkness.
I know that there will be no true bottom to this pond
, just the ever-narrowing passageways of a river cut through rock. I remember that the passageway bends; I remember that there were ledges near where I’d found the gold. I try to move quickly, despite the fact that my lungs are already feeling ready to burst.
I see a ledge ahead, and I scan the rocks for slivers of gold, anything that catches the light. But nothing jumps out at me. Nothing. My breath is almost gone, and I return to the surface for air.
I gasp as I reach the surface, treading water, wondering what to do next. All around me are trees towering above, and I feel as if I’m being watched again, that my heavy breathing surely can be heard for hundreds of yards. But I can’t leave now, not yet.
I ready myself for another dive, pushing out the air, sucking it in again, stretching my lungs to their fullest. I take a final breath and head back down. This time, I point my watch at the edges of the pond, on the rocky outcroppings, hoping for something to catch the light, a vein of gold if I’m lucky. And then I see something I don’t expect, a large opening in the rocks, like a cave entrance, with wooden pylons on both sides. Clearly this was made at some point by humans.
But before I can inspect it, I’ll need more air. Back to the surface I go. Once above water, I realize that it’s actually fortunate for me right now that there’s been a drought. Normally the water would be a foot or two higher, judging by the waterline. As I inhale and exhale, preparing for another dive, I’m grateful for any advantage I can get. I dive again.
I shine my watch on the rocky wall as I descend toward the cave. The entrance is large enough to swim into, but the darkness is hardly welcoming. My beam of light fades into black. I know I must venture inside, and I try to fight back the fear of getting stuck, unable to find my way out.
I swim into the entrance with one arm stretched in front of me. Even though I have the watch pointing straight ahead, I still want to avoid hitting any rocks or sharp pieces of wood.
I’m about ten feet into the tunnel, which seems to go on forever. I’m running out of breath. I’m about to turn around when the light changes, and I shine the light up toward whatever it is. As I extend my arm up, I feel it leave the water—it’s an air pocket of some sort. I follow with my head.
Air!
I am in a large cavern, its ceiling several feet above my head. The air is stale and musty, but I don’t care; it’s breathable. I take deep breaths and then begin to shine my light along the walls.
It looks as if the walls are lined with rows of sparkling yellow lights.
Gold.
Everywhere, chunks of gold glitter off the dank walls of the cave. Some are tiny, the size of dimes, others are larger, the size of dinner plates. Some spots are shiny, as if they’d just been polished, and others are dull.
I’ve discovered the Lost Mine.
I hear my mother’s voice again. You have been chosen.
This must be what she meant—that I was chosen to discover this place. Because I think I’ve just figured out how to get my land back.
Thirty-one
After I emerge from the cave, I run back to town and go straight to the Lithia Springs Hotel. I burst into the fancy lobby—thanks to the heat, my clothes are dry, but by now I’m drenched with sweat—and I try to ignore the suspicious look of the concierge as he calls up to Roman’s room. I pace back and forth across the Persian carpet, and then the concierge tells me that there’s no answer.
So I wait in a corner of the lobby for a little while, sitting near the window, where I can watch people inside and also out on the sidewalk, doubling my chances of seeing Roman. But all I see are irritated glances in my direction by hotel staff, clearly put off by my sitting in their lobby in my sweaty state.
Finally I have to leave—before rehearsal, I need to study both my lines for the play and material for Lindquist’s class. I’m not going to risk anything else going wrong at school. Seeing my mother, having that moment with her, has made me aware of just how fortunate I am. I have the feeling she is still around, that she’ll be watching over me during my next exam, that she’ll be in the theater on the opening night of the play. I won’t be alone—and I want to make her proud.
As for the gold, it’s been up there forever. It can wait one more day. At least, I hope it can. I hope it’s not already too late to save the land.
~
It’s our last night of regular rehearsals—tomorrow is the dress rehearsal, and then it’ll be opening night. For the first time since we began, Nate hasn’t interrupted to correct an actor’s line, to comment about tone or emphasis. Not once has he told someone to take a different position or to use a different gesture. He’s just been sitting in his seat watching, as if he’s no longer a director but an audience member.
And when we finish, all he says is, “I believe you’re ready. Now get out of here and get some rest.”
I believe you’re ready. I wish I could be so sure. I do look forward to rehearsing in full costume, performing as if the audience is out there. That will be a true test—we won’t be allowed to pause, start over, or ask for help. Everything will be in real time, with no breaks excerpt for intermission.
I think I’m ready.
But after everyone else leaves, I linger in the theater. I climb back up to the stage. The last few scenes have been giving me trouble; I’ve transposed my lines a couple of times, my tongue tripping over words like fedary and vastidity.
At first I feel self-conscious, speaking aloud up here all by myself, but soon I find it comforting to be alone in an empty theater, hearing my words echo back to me. In just a couple more nights, the theater will be full, and there will be no echo.
I take my time, repeating the lines more slowly than I have in rehearsal, and it helps—once I slow down, I no longer stumble. I go over the same scenes until I do them right three times in a row.
Suddenly, I hear clapping from the far reaches of the theater, somewhere in the dark, below the balcony. I squint and see an outline of a man. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might not be a good idea to stay behind this late, and I brace myself to run, noting which side door is closest to me if I need it.
Then the man enters the light, and I relax.
Roman.
“Brava!” he calls.
I bow for him as he stands below me.
“You’re standing in the pit,” I say. “It suits you.”
“Very funny, Isabella.”
“How did you get in here?” I ask, then say, “Never mind. I can guess. But I’m glad you’re here. I need your help.”
“I know. I got your many messages at the hotel.”
“Where have you been?”
“I’ve been at rehearsals of my own,” he says.
“You got your job back!”
“I did.”
“Congratulations, Roman. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you, Katherine. Now, what sort of help do you need?”
I sit down on the edge of the stage, so our faces are close together. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I promise,” he says, “and my promise means all. What is it?”
“You were a gold miner once, weren’t you?”
He looks startled, and I can tell his mind is turning in circles.
“Why do you ask such a thing?”
“Just answer my question.”
“Yes,” he says. “I worked in the mines. A very long time ago. How did you come to know this?”
“There’s an old photo in the antique shop. Of miners standing outside a tavern. One of them looks like you. Of course, you haven’t aged a day in the past hundred years, so I put two and two together.”
Roman nods. “Yes. That was me.”
“You got caught in that earthquake?”
He nods again. “I was working in one of the shafts when the ground began to shake. I was buried in there, along with about twenty others.”
“How did you—su
rvive?”
“Because I did something then that I regret even today.”
“What?”
He shifts away from me, and I climb down from the stage and put my hand on his shoulder, to turn him around.
“What happened, Roman?”
“Victor happened.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Victor owned the mine. How do you think he got that house on the hill?”
“I thought he was a rich European.”
“He came here, like so many others, for the gold. And it was the gold that built that house, that financed his travels.”
“So you two didn’t meet in Europe, like he said?”
“No. Victor says many things, and he tells many lies. When you’ve lived as long as he has, you forget your own stories. You learn to reinvent yourself. We do not age, you know. And so we must continuously move on.”
“What happened in the mine?”
“I was human then, just like you. Just a kid. And when the mine caved in, I thought I was going to die. I thought we all were. Our lanterns had been extinguished, and we were crawling over rocks and bodies, trying to find a way out. I lost track of the time—underground, you can’t tell night from day—but what I did know was that we didn’t have much of a chance. We stuck together in the dark, but when I could hear the men beginning to pray, to say their last rites, I knew I had to make another run for it. So I crawled off alone. I got lost. It was fitting. I was prepared to die and to die alone, as I deserved.”
Roman pauses, and I run my hand along his arm, encouraging him. “Then I saw a light,” he continues. “I thought I was dead then, that I was seeing the light of heaven. Only I wasn’t dead. The light was a lantern, and Victor was holding that lantern.”
“So Victor saved you.”
“Not exactly.”
Roman’s expression tells me everything.
“Because he was a vampire already,” I say.
“Yes. And he made me an offer in that mine shaft. He told me he would rescue me, give me eternal life. And I would probably have agreed to anything. I asked about the others. Would he save the others? Yes, he said. He would save them all. When I came to, I was above ground in a tent, and I was so weak I couldn’t lift my head. Victor told me I’d been down there for three days when he found me. Then he said something else, in Latin, something I did not understand. And I saw the fangs.”
The Ghost Runner Page 17
