“The closer we get to the building, the more the blue dot flashes,” Cricket comments. “So it’s definitely there.”
On the outside of the structure, there is an old empty trash bin, some broken beer bottles, and other various pieces of rubbish. I notice that several of the windows are broken and chunks of brick are lying here and there. The asphalt around is cracked, tufts of weeds and grass poking through. “What are we supposed to be looking for anyway?”
“Well, it’s usually some sort of container,” Cricket replies. “It’s sometimes just a piece of paper where you sign your name and date. I’ve also heard of people leaving objects to put inside the container.”
“Well, it must be a pretty small container,” I mention. “I mean, unless it’s the trash can.”
Cricket laughs. “No, nothing like that! It will be very well hidden. And sometimes there are clues. Here, check the app to see if there are any.”
I read the clue.
“Mortal alliteration will give you piece of mind.”
“Mortal alliteration?” Cricket scoffs. “Gee, we have a poet on our hands. Great. Although, my English teacher would appreciate that, I’m sure.” She jots down something in a small black notebook that she’s just retrieved from her pocket. “What do you think it means?”
“Well… mortal means death.”
“It also means limited, as in limited time on this earth, like a human being or something.”
“Good point.”
“So… limited alliteration.”
“Alliteration? That’s a big word.”
“It means when two words have a similar sound, but not a rhyme. Like ‘tasty treats.’ The ‘T’ sound on the beginnings of the words make them alliterative.” She paused. “And actually the ‘li’ sound in ‘limited’ and ‘alliteration’ work.”
I sigh. “Ok, thanks for the poetry lesson, but that doesn’t tell us where the thing is.”
“True.” Cricket looks around. “Read the clue out loud again.”
“Mortal alliteration will give you piece of mind.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh crap, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. I’m not this smart.”
Suddenly—don’t ask me why, but I’m standing there looking at those old bricks, and I notice how they are breaking up, the mortar falling in random chips on the ground. “Mortar,” I say out loud.
“Mortar….” Cricket repeats.
“Mortal,” I add, looking at her intently.
Her face is blank for a few seconds, then recognition. “Mortal and mortar.”
“Alliteration, right?”
Cricket eyes the brick wall. “It’s in the mortar.”
“Exactly,” I add.
We both start running our hands across the bricks. “It could be anywhere,” Cricket groans.
“Wait. What’s the second half of the clue? Give me the phone.” I read the clue again, focusing on will give you piece of mind. “Did you notice how piece is spelled? Like a piece of something—p.i.e.c.e. Not p.e.a.c.e.”
“Ok that’s weird. What does it mean?”
I examine the wall, then the ground. “Well, have you noticed? There are pieces of this thing scattered everywhere.”
Cricket grins with a nod, but still looks confused. “Yeah…?”
“Maybe it means we will find the clue in the pieces…or in a piece…or maybe in the hole left where a piece was.”
“You’re a stinking genius,” Cricket says, looking more earnestly in between the cracks and crevices between the bricks. “Come over here so we can see where the blue dot is.”
“Got it.”
We move along the wall, the blue dot flashing closer and closer to the target. “It’s close,” I say. “Here.” I pause, my hand resting on the brick. “It’s here.”
I reach into a crack and pull out a tiny cylinder.
Cricket squeals with delight. “Oh my gosh! You found it! Let me see!”
I hand her the cylinder and she rolls it around in her hands. “How the heck do you open it?”
I shrug.
“Ok, this is like some childproof lid or something,” she says, grimacing and twisting the cap. Finally, it pops off, and she reaches in with her pinky and pulls out a slip of paper. “Oooh, I’ve got goose bumps!”
“What does it say?”
She unrolls the paper. “Ok… it says: Congratulations. You have found the first clue. Are you ready to continue this adventure? It begins where the trees are fuller than usual.”
She looks at me with a skeptical half-smile.
“It’s another clue,” I point out.
“Of course it is,” she sighs, pulling out her notebook again, scribbling. “Well, at least this will make for an interesting English paper.”
“No doubt. Let me see that.”
I read the clue again. “Well, the first question is: Do we want to continue this adventure? Yes or no?”
“Are you kidding? I have a feeling this is more than a simple geocache. Maybe there’s a real treasure hiding out there!”
“Doubtful, but ok. So yes. We are continuing. Now. It begins where the trees are fuller than usual.”
“We live in Colorado. There are trees literally everywhere. In other words, I’m not too optimistic about finding this second clue.”
“Well, it says where the trees are fuller, so what do you think that means?”
“Who knows? It may not even be about trees. Remember, we’re dealing with a poet.”
“True. Symbolism?”
“I am seriously not the person to be asking this.”
“All right. Where would trees be fuller than normal?”
Cricket’s brow furrows. “I dunno. Somewhere really wild? Unkempt?”
“Makes sense.”
“But remember, it may not be specifically about trees.”
“I know. Ok. Let’s examine each word.”
“It begins.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“The adventure. Ok. Where. Definitely a place.”
“Good,” Cricket says with sarcasm. “Isn’t that the whole point of this? To find a place?”
“Shut up! Ok. Where the trees are. A place with trees.”
“Again. Good.” She smiles.
“Fuller.”
Cricket gets a funny look on her face that I can’t place, and she gasps a little.
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“No seriously. What?” Her eyes stare into mine, locked in something like knowing fear.
And then it hits me. Fuller. Fuller Park.
Cricket says, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Zach
My mom lets me sleep in on Saturday, which is a good thing, because I stayed up late reading last night. When she knocks on my door at around 10:00 a.m., the first thought in my mind is the last chapter I remember finishing. The Time Traveler comes across a strange tentacle creature that frightens him so that he scrambles to get back to the time machine and return to civilization. I realize that I have had a night-long dream about that terrible beast. I try to get back into the seat, to return through time, but I keep falling off, the thing getting ever closer to me. I am covered in sweat.
“Zach, it’s time for breakfast!” I hear my mom’s voice, a beam through fog.
“Ok, just a sec,” I mumble. “Be right down.”
I kick off my covers and sit up on the edge of the bed, ruffling my hair. What a nightmare, I think. Good thing time travel, by today’s standards, is relatively benign. At least, I hope it is.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and head downstairs, smelling the bacon long before I reach the last step.
My mom is standing in a cloud of steam. “Good morning,” she chirps.
“Morning,” I say, planting myself at the table.
“Sleep well?”
I rub my eyes. “Not so well.”
She turns and looks at me. “Are you anxious?” She says it lik
e she’s my therapist or something.
“No, just a weird dream.”
“About what?” She clangs some utensils and plates and presents a plate of pancakes and eggs. “Bacon?”
“Yes, please,” I say gratefully.
“So, what was your dream?”
“I dunno. I was reading late last night, probably something related to that.”
“What were you reading?”
“The Time Machine.”
“Ah. H.G. Wells.” She replies, with a knowing glance.
“How’d you know?”
“Your father used to talk about that book. Even when we first met. He was obsessed with it.”
Now my mind is turning circles. Does she know about dad’s research? Or is this a passing reference to something that interested him?
“Oh really?” A safe response.
“Oh, you know…your father was into all sorts of offbeat things.”
A cryptic response. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know….Books and scientific anomalies, mostly.”
“Scientific anomalies? Such as?” I take a healthy mouthful of syrup-laden pancake, topped with fluffy eggs, my favorite. “Mmmm. It’s good, Mom.” I smile, with a full mouth.
“He was really into thunderstorms.”
“That’s not an anomaly. That’s nature.”
“I know, but there was just something about them. He studied them closely. He mentioned once that there were ‘things in those clouds that no one can ever imagine.’”
The tone of my mother’s voice suggests to me that she’s on the peripheral of my father’s research, having had just enough information to be intrigued, but not enough to actually comprehend the scope of it. “Interesting,” I say. “Dad was one of a kind.”
My mother sighs and crosses her arms as if she got a chill all of a sudden. “He certainly was.” Her eyes drifted past me, toward some intangible, or inexpressible, memory. I take this as my cue to drop the subject, for now.
I eat my breakfast with renewed hunger. “What time are we headin’ out?”
“We’ll leave before noon and then stop for lunch on the way back. Sound good?”
I nod. It occurs to me that maybe I should take something to my father’s grave—some token or memento of some kind. After all, I never have, and that’s just one of those things people should do at a loved one’s grave.
As if my mom had read my mind, she announces, “I have some mums to plant around the headstone.”
I take note of her phrasing, the headstone, as if distancing herself from it as any sort of connection to the man who was her husband. I agree, to say his headstone just seems wrong, somehow. It doesn’t belong to him. And, the thought of him actually being buried underground, in a box is wrong, too, now that I think about it. For a man capable of traversing time and space, to be confined within a place forever is not only ironic, it’s unsettling.
“Sounds nice,” I reply.
“Wear some old jeans,” she adds. “For digging.”
“Got it.” I finish up my breakfast and go back upstairs to change my pants.
The drive to the cemetery isn’t long, but the silence is overwhelming. My mother stares ahead, and I watch the trees race by in a blur, trying to think of something to say. I keep wanting to turn on the radio, but I don’t want to make my discomfort apparent. I try to busy my mind with thoughts of the emails. Is it even possible that my father is contacting me, somewhere from the future? And if so, did he actually die? Is he still alive? Did he manage to cheat the irony of the grave? My thoughts are consumed with the enormity of possibility. And, with no one to discuss this matter with, I am even more disturbed. But it’s actually a good sort of disturbed…sort of like going into an old abandoned house just to explore what’s there—wondering the whole time if something ghastly is going to jump out. There certainly is a fine line between fear and excitement.
Thoughts of Tess also pervade my mind. She had been lovely the other day, standing in front of the lockers—so lovely in her absolute ignorance of what has transpired between us. I wonder, suddenly, if she has romantic interest in anyone else. The idea pains me, although I realize I must be prepared for the possibility. The prospect of winning Tess is difficult enough, but fighting for her, on top of winning her—that is enormous. My hearts flutters with the anxiety of it. I wish I could simply capture her and take her away to another time and place and never come back. I imagine this scenario so clearly—Tess and me, alone, holding each other, her long, pale fingers entwined with mine as I whisper love in her ear—but then, I am derailed from the reverie by my mother’s voice.
“We’re here,” she says, pulling into a parking lot.
We get out and she hands me some bags. We walk solemnly to the grave. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. For the first year after his death, we came several times a week, it seemed.
My mother immediately starts pulling up the weeds grown up around the headstone. She tells me where to place the mums and I busy myself digging the holes. The ground is hard and it’s more difficult than I imagined it would be. I make one straight line of four holes, then come out and make a second staggered row right in front of it. Year after year, the flowers would shrivel and die, the spent flowers feeding the roots that would stay insulated in the ground for the next season. I wonder how long they will bloom. How many years? Maybe forever. The natural cycle is timeless. And the thought makes me smile, as I gently place each mum in the ground, scooping the soil around each one, patting it down with care.
Tess
Cricket wrote down the clue from the bricks, placed the slip of paper back in the cylinder, and returned it to its hiding place. Within minutes, we are back in Cricket’s car on our way to Fuller Park. On the way to the park, I drive so Cricket can write more in her notebook.
“This is gonna be so cool,” she says, her pen going wild. “Hey, who do you think put the clues out?” She asks, looking at me.
“Who knows? Could be anyone….Ok, so to Fuller Park?” My heart skips a little, thinking about that place. But, for adventure’s sake…
“Absolutely!” Cricket is way too excited about this, I’ve decided.
It’s about 10:30 when we get to the park. The whole time in the car, I try to think about other things, but apparently my body wasn’t into that, because my palms are sweaty and my heart is racing by the time I park the car.
“You know? The trees are sort of overgrown here. It’s run down,” Cricket points out.
“Fuller has a double meaning, then. But would we expect anything less from a poet?”
Cricket chuckles. “Not at all. C’mon. I have the app loaded.”
We pass the phone back and forth, watching the blue dot. We pass the swings, the pavilions and benches, all the way to the edge of a small lake that contains a forest of cattails. “Now what?” I ask. “It can’t be under water.”
“Well, technically, I suppose it could.”
I shake my head. “No way am I going in there.”
“Me either. Let’s walk a little to the left and right and see if the target gets clearer.”
We move left first. There is a pile of flat rocks along the edge of the water, leading to a small dock.
“We’re actually getting closer,” Cricket notes. “Keep moving.”
We step cautiously onto the dock. It’s a bit worn and discolored, but still sturdy, and we begin looking around for any place where a clue could be hidden, but we find nothing.
Cricket sits down with a sigh. “It’s like we’re right on top of it. But there’s nothing here.”
“Maybe someone moved it. I’m sure it happens all the time.”
“Maybe. That would suck. I mean, without this clue, our adventure is pretty much over.”
She lies down on her back, her hands behind her head, and closes her eyes. “The sun feels good,” she says. Then, she rolls over on her stomach and places her chin on her hands. She is staring at the water. Suddenly, she crie
s out, “Wait a minute! What’s this?!” She reaches down near one of the posts and pulls up an old rusty piece of chain. Sure enough, there is a small black plastic container attached to it.
“Waterproof?” She mumbles, fiddling with the box. After a few failed attempts, she finally opens it and inside is another cylinder, exactly like the other one, with a slip of paper inside.
“I’m getting goose bumps again!” She exclaims.
“What does it say?”
She reads: “Congratulations, you have found the second clue. The adventure continues. Hard stone will not contain me, but its timeless message is of grave concern.” She rolls her eyes. “Here we go again. I think this guy enjoys confusing his treasure hunters.”
“Ok, a little bit at a time, just like before. Hard stone. Go.”
“Hmmm. Rocks, quarry, cliff…”
“No, I think this is something very specific. Think things made out of stone.”
“Sidewalk, wall, countertop, statue…”
“Let’s move on… maybe there’s a clue within the clue. …will not contain me.”
“That means the stone does not contain the clue.”
“Or maybe the person who planted the clue.”
“Good thinking.”
“But its timeless message…”
“Leave it to a poet to have a timeless message,” Cricket scoffs. “Perfect, right?”
“….is of grave concern.”
“Meaning, it is something very important…”
“Or something rather dark and foreboding….”
“Maybe both.”
“Also, somber or serious…”
“Hold the phone!” Cricket squeals. “Hard stone and grave! We are looking for a grave. Somebody’s headstone?”
“You know, I think you’re right.” I examine the words again and nod. “Yes, definitely.”
“So that just leaves the question of where.”
“Where’s the nearest graveyard?”
She snaps her fingers. “Hmmm. Maybe we can do a random geocache search with the word ‘cemetery’ in the search line.”
“Good idea!”
Surfacing (Spark Saga) Page 5