by Amanda Vink
She unrolled the map on the table, recognizing the work of her father in the swirls of ink and detailed handwritten labels. This map represented a good portion of the Far East and the Indian Ocean. Locations were marked up with graphite.
“It’s so detailed,” Uncle Charlie commented. He leaned over her, supporting himself on the back of the chair. It creaked under the weight of both of them. “How will we know where to start looking?”
“I should think first you have to start with his notes, and then you have to retrace his steps. This, for example, is of interest.”
She pointed to a marking that curled north of the Red Sea. It was small and barely readable—as though scribbled in haste. 1: 2.8
“Just like him to write notes for himself that no one else can decipher,” said Uncle Charlie with a shake of his head.
“Huh,” Marjorie replied. She leaned forward, but it didn’t become any clearer. She was sure there was a reason for the marking—carefully, she wrote the numbers down in the margins of her father’s notebook.
Her brain started to turn. Very easily she knew she would find herself pouring over this map in the small hours of the morning. Her fingers felt a longing to run over lines in books, to try to figure out this mystery that her father left behind.
Abruptly, she sat back. No. It’s a myth and I won’t be taken for a fool. “Well, Uncle, you are welcome to take this map with you. I’m sure Sam will make good use of it.”
“Do you mind if I spend some more time looking at it?” Uncle Charlie asked.
“Of course. I’ll go make some tea.”
Yet even while descending the stairs, Marjorie still felt the pull of the map and her father’s letter. She could’ve kicked herself. This has already been thoroughly investigated. There’s nothing here but wild fancy. The Tree of Life is a myth. It isn’t going to save Mary or bring Father back.
Chapter Three
Winding roads curved around large, old trees and vast green spaces. Arched stone bridges connected land cut apart by serene creeks. These waterways remained the nesting places of different birds throughout the year. A wood duck with a beautiful green crown amicably allowed the current to take him where it would. After a time, he roused himself and motored through the water, his feet paddling quickly and his head bobbing in pursuit of a meal in the deeper waters of a small pond that reflected blue skies.
The perfect setting for a picnic lunch, people flocked from all over the city to Forest Lawn Cemetery. They spread blankets under the large trees near the gravesites of family members or out in the open where their children could run about and expel their stockpiles of energy.
Along one tributary, a line of mausoleums stood at ready. These sharp stone buildings cut the afternoon sun, which fell into shadows on the ground in the shape of fallen swords.
The marble shone bright white off the newest structure. The letters HART were carved carefully, crisp and easily read. The word was supported by two doric columns surrounding a shiny bronze door that, instead of glass, held swirling rods of metal left open to the air. Next to these columns stood perfectly sculpted evergreens and two large marble vases overflowing with flowers.
At the rear of the tomb, a stained-glass window only visible from the inside spilled colorful light onto the stone tiled floor. In this window, the image of another sun rose and painted the surrounding glass gold. Lilies lay on a blanket of greenery at the bottom of the scene, surrounded by columns that matched the ones of the real structure outside. Inside held the final resting place of Julian and Josephine Hart.
Marjorie carefully stepped up the path to the front of the mausoleum. She felt her heart beat, elevated from the brisk walk to the center of the large cemetery, which served as a reminder that among them, she was the only one still living. She reached out and rested her hand on the gate.
“Hello, you two,” she said.
The only response came from the soft ruffling of bright green maple leaves above. All around, the world got on, as it always did.
This is grief, Marjorie thought. Grief, yes, to watch the string section pack up their instruments and walk off the stage, never to return—yet the rest of the orchestra plays on without even noticing the melody is gone.
Ready to turn back, Marjorie took one lingering step off the platform.
That’s when she heard it—the sound of someone trudging over a cracked root. Click.
It wasn’t just in her head.
“Hello?” she breathed. Her heart beat faster.
Snap.
It came from around the side of the mausoleum. Her thoughts tangled between making a run for it and standing her ground. She faced the sound, ready for anything.
“Ah, Miss Hart,” a voice said.
Marjorie jumped. The man, dressed in a dark coat and waistcoat, emerged from the path between two mausoleums. His dark auburn hair was perfectly parted down the middle, and his moustache and goatee were exactingly groomed. He didn’t look pleased to see her, but he didn’t look surprised either.
While glad he wasn’t some specter sent from beyond, Percival Baxter was one of the last people Marjorie wanted to see. “Dr. Baxter,” she said. She couldn’t disguise the distaste in her voice.
He placed his walking stick under an arm and bowed in greeting. His movements were quick and jagged, an unnatural cadence, like someone who has learned a phrase in another language but cannot say it quite right.
“It has been some time,” Dr. Baxter replied. He spoke in a staccato rhythm.
Marjorie didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back to the mausoleum, hoping he would take the hint and go away.
He didn’t. He lingered and, finally, he said, “I never had the chance to give you my condolences. You see,” he paused, “I just recently returned from an extended trip to Turkey and Persia. I had heard of your father’s passing, of course. Very tragic.”
Marjorie doubted very much he cared about her father’s death. They were rivals in life. Indeed, Marjorie had heard that he had been abroad—he had been at a site her father had already looked into.
A sudden flash of memory hit her then: her father laughing, good naturedly, behind his desk when he received a letter from Dr. Baxter.
She recalled him swinging a leg up and over the other one, his pant yanking upward. He took a small sip of sherry from a crystal cut glass. “Poor man,” he said. “He’s been one step behind his whole life. I feel badly for him.”
Now that man stood in front of her, and Marjorie couldn’t feel sympathy—only anger. She was angry that he was standing here and her father wasn’t. She was angry that there were so many stones left unturned. She was angry that her father had never been angry with him, even though he should’ve been. It was no secret that Dr. Baxter had stolen her father’s research and applied for funds to go on an expedition. Marjorie always thought her father should’ve sued him, but he didn’t think it was worth the trouble.
“I must be going,” Marjorie said. She tried to step around Dr. Baxter, but he blocked her path. For a moment, she considered mowing him down. He was bigger than her, for sure, but she had the advantage—he underestimated her, surely.
“Please,” Dr. Baxter said. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“What could you possibly want to discuss?” she asked, her tone vicious.
He took a moment to look for words. Then, finding them, he got straight to the point. “Your father and I didn’t always see eye to eye—”
“You stole the funds he had rightfully earned,” Marjorie fired.
Dr. Baxter smiled, as though indulging a child. “It was a complicated situation, Miss Hart. Completely legal, I assure you. Besides, your father was a resourceful man. He was quick to find a patron without the money gifted to the research.”
“Dr. Baxter—”
“Please, Miss Hart,” he said. “I did not come here to fight with you. Even though we had our differences of opinion, your father was a brilliant researcher and cartographer. It�
��s only right that his work should be continued.”
In Dr. Baxter’s voice there was a question, and although Marjorie did not want to spend another moment in his company, she couldn’t deny that any mystery unsolved was a curiosity for her. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Dr. Baxter paused and Marjorie fought the urge to laugh. He always had a certain flair for the dramatic. He juggled his black walking stick between his hands. Marjorie noticed a regal silver leopard on the handle. Its jade eyes sparkled in the sun.
“Miss Hart, your father had in his possession a map he drew of the Near East. I had the privilege of seeing it while your father was in Cairo. Along with this map were possible locations for the Tree of Life. We can help one another, Miss Hart,” he said. “With your father’s map, we can more quickly find the location of the Tree of Life. To find its location would secure my position in the academic world for all time. My name would go down in history—and so would your father’s. It would be my honor to include him as an important researcher attached to this find. Honor his legacy. What do you say?”
For a split second, Marjorie considered. If she teamed with Dr. Baxter, she could get rid of this whole affair. She could continue her work. She could wash her hands of the entire project, and then if anything good came of it at least her father would get the credit he very much deserved. But she had already promised the map to Uncle Charlie. He was counting on her. Besides, she didn’t trust Dr. Baxter.
“You’re wasting your time,” Marjorie replied. “The Tree of Life isn’t real.”
“Ah! You are an unbeliever,” he said. “Surely then you won’t mind giving up the map.”
He spoke this eagerly, too obligingly, while taking a step toward her. Marjorie instinctively stepped back, only with the mausoleum behind her, there wasn’t anywhere to go.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said as her back pressed against the cold stone. She attempted to sidestep around him, but Dr. Baxter reached out and grabbed her arm. His fingernails dug into her skin, making her wince.
Dr. Baxter seemed to realize he went too far, for he suddenly let go. He stepped back and ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Miss Hart,” he said finally, “you don’t seem to understand the danger you’re in. Others will come for it.”
Marjorie darted past him. She moved quickly to get away, her heart beating. She heard Dr. Baxter call out, but she didn’t stop. She put distance between them as quickly as possible. Still, his words echoed in her ears. Others will come for it.
***
Marjorie slammed her front door closed and rested against its solid wood, letting the flood of emotions wash over her and ebb the more she calmed down. She’d come immediately from the cemetery, almost flying through Delaware Park as she retreated. The entire journey, she felt someone’s eyes watching her—she expected someone to reach out from behind a tree or a bush and grab her. Don’t be silly, she reminded herself.
Her breath returned to normal as she recovered. She stood still for several minutes, listening to the ongoing movement of the house and the muffled sounds of the world beyond. Uncle Charlie must’ve been in the library still, pouring over the map and Father’s other notes. She listened for the maid, but there was no sound. Likely the girl was upstairs tidying rooms and making sure Uncle Charlie’s room was ready for him. Jenkins was out, running a personal errand for his nephew. It was midday, the time for such things when businesses were open and people were out and about. Nothing was about to happen to her. Everyone was leading ordinary lives.
Marjorie took a slow breath out through her nose. Her heart still beat faster than normal. She could feel it in her chest, pounding away. She closed her eyes, focusing on each inhale and exhale.
Clang!
A cacophonous sound suddenly overtook the space. Marjorie stifled a scream, her eyes flying open. She looked around for some chaos, some danger, and something with which she could defend herself.
However, nothing in the hall moved. There was no one. She was alone.
Marjorie looked down. It was only the mail. It had dropped through the metal slot in the door and now lay in an unceremonious heap on the floor.
She started to laugh. This spring bubbled up and came out of her in measured relief. The sound echoed off the walls, wrapping her in warm comfort. She sighed, happy to be home.
She rubbed her wrist where Dr. Baxter had grabbed her, and as she opened and closed her fingers, she started to feel the blood return. He hadn’t meant to be so rough, surely. It was just this silly myth—this folly—that seemed to have everyone spellbound.
A fresh surge of anger coursed through her then. Throughout history, people had killed for myths such as the Tree of Life. She shuddered to think of all the blood shed in the name of religion—in the name of monuments, lands, and artifacts. The search for power and meaning: would it ever end? She very much doubted it.
“I’ll say, are you alright?”
Uncle Charlie descended the stairs, one hand on the banister while his footfalls flitted over the polished wood. Reaching the bottom step, he made his way to her. He looked shaken, as though he was expecting her to topple over from some unseen wound.
“I’m alright, Uncle Charlie,” assured Marjorie. She leaned away from the door and bent down to gather the pile of mail. “Just spooking myself, that’s all.”
At that, her uncle’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Marjorie studied him. Was he expecting something bad to happen? But he said nothing further. Finally, she asked, “Any luck with the map?”
Uncle Charlie spread his hands out in a gesture of defeat. “I’m afraid all your father’s notes mean nothing to me. Maybe Samuel will have more luck.”
“Maybe,” agreed Marjorie. “Father might have written him something that correlates. Uncle Charlie?” He didn’t answer. Instead, Marjorie noticed he stared at her hands, a strange look spread across his face. Following his gaze, she glanced down and noticed her father’s familiar handwriting sticking out on an envelope second down in the pile.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She fished the letter out, haphazardly discarding the rest of the mail on the side table next to the door.
The envelope was butter soft and beaten. It had many stamps on it—but the prominent one was decidedly international, the French postal system out of Egypt. Le Caire it said along the side, in addition to both English and Arabic. It was addressed to the house on Lincoln Parkway in her father’s familiar handwriting. He wrote in cursive, the lines neat and metered. Sometimes on the first letter of a word he added an extra embellishment, but not here. This letter, Marjorie realized, had been written in haste. There was no return address.
It was the twin of the envelope Uncle Charlie brought with him from Gracewood. She held it up for Uncle Charlie to see.
His eyebrows rose. “Oh, dear,” he said. He put his hand against the door, holding himself upright.
Marjorie’s hands were shaking, and so was the letter within them. Maybe I shouldn’t open it.
Then another thought ran through her mind: this was likely the last time she would ever hear from her father. If she saved it, if she put it away and didn’t open it, at least there would always be something still between them in this world.
But already, her fingers itched to know what it said. Shortly after, her curiosity got the better of her, as it usually did.
She retrieved the letter opener from the small wooden console next to the door, careful not to disturb the vase of gardenias on top of it, and ran it along the edge of the envelope in one swift cut. The letter opener was a small replica of a medieval arming sword, with the word “Excalibur” on the pommel. It had been a gift from her father when she was very young, presented during a time when she had become obsessed with Camelot and the Arthurian tales.
Hastily, she took out the letter and held it aloft. A small square, it was creased once in the middle. She unfolded it, and her eyes scanned the document slowly.
“What does it say?” asked Uncle Cha
rlie, impatient. He stood next to her, reading over her shoulder.
Marjorie, having finished reading, couldn’t find the words. They were stuck in her throat, malformed. She finally forced them to the surface. “It wasn’t an accident.”
Chapter Four
Marjorie held the letter over her travel chest and thought about tossing it in with the rest of the items she had packed for the trip. She couldn’t have said what was in there. She was having trouble concentrating, and besides, she didn’t know what she might need. She didn’t know exactly where she was going either nor how long she would be there. Besides, the problem of her father’s letter made no room for anything else in her mind. Eventually, she gave up packing and read his note again.
Dearest Daughter,
There are dangers here in Cairo, and I fear I’ve attracted the worst. I send this letter as an extra precaution. I hope it will be unnecessary. If providence works in my favor, I will send a telegram before you receive this. I fear the worst.
If this should be my end, Marjorie, I want you to know how proud I am of you. You have always been brave and intelligent. That’s why it falls to you to finish this quest. It is a matter of great importance. You must find the Tree of Life. You must prevent evil forces from getting ahold of it first. I shudder to imagine what the world has in store if the Tree of Life should fall into the wrong hands.
You must go to the ancient library at the Monastery of Saint Catherine’s. I have left something for you there. Look at the first book. No one else knows this. Don’t trust anyone—and do be careful.
With love,
Your father
It still didn’t make any sense. What “evil forces”?
For half a moment, Marjorie considered not going. She thought of ripping up the letter or—even better—burning it so she would never have to think about it again. She could go back to her photography, settle the scores of strangers for the rest of her life, and leave well enough alone.
