by D. B. Magee
TREE ROOT CAVERN
AND
THE CRYPTIC DISCOVERY
By
D.B. Magee
Copyright © 2016
D.B. Magee
All Rights Reserved No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
Prologue
Sometime ago, in an undisclosed location, an invaluable artifact was hidden away for safekeeping. But, as time went on and with the demise of its owner said artifact was abandoned and lost to the world. All that survived were old stories and narratives concerning its existence.
Over the years, however, some one or another would hear its tale and begin a quest of their own for the elusive object; fame and fortune being the anticipated rewards for the person who would find the item and discover its valuable secrets.
And so, this story begins somewhere amidst the hot, dry and dusty agricultural area of the San Joaquin Valley, along a narrow two lane road flanked by rows and rows of green and purple grape vines . . .
Ryan Gets Railroaded
SCREECH!!!
“That’s it!” Mr. Smith boomed, his throaty Middle Eastern accent echoing heavy throughout the small jalopy as it skidded to a halt. A look of grim satisfaction crossed his tawny, leathered face as he compared a worn-out picture to the scene outside. “After thirty long years,” he trumpeted, “I finally found it!” He planted a big fat kiss upon the photo.
“Let me see, Boss,” Bubba said, leaning over from the passenger seat, his rotund belly pressing firmly into his boss’s rib cage.
“Ugh!” Mr. Smith groaned, plowing his pointy elbow into his hefty American henchman. “Get off me, you big oaf!”
Just then, from behind, a horn blasted and a delivery truck swerved, just missing the back left corner of the clunker’s bumper. The trucker shook his fist, screaming, “You idiot! Get that rust bucket off the road!”
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Mr. Smith barked, after maneuvering his mechanical menace onto the soft dirt shoulder. “Give me those binoculars and help me out of this thing!”
Ignoring his overbearing employer, Bubba shoved his shoulder against the sticking passenger door, forcing it open, and stepped out into the arid San Joaquin valley air. A blistering wave of heat and dry, dirty air blew harshly into him. Breathing hard, he pushed forward into what felt like a blast furnace.
Perturbed at Bubba’s disrespect for his authority, Mr. Smith angrily snatched his walking stick from the back seat and thrust his own door open, all the while muttering disapprovingly under his breath. Then, grimacing from the pain in his bad hip, he struggled his way out and stood beside the car, coughing and hacking from the plumes of dust wafting past his face. Spitting dryly, he cursed the heat and aridity of this infernal place.
Peering over the top of the car, Bubba’s large frame cast a shadow on a California King snake as it slithered underneath their automobile. Across the street, a barbed wired fence marked and outlined a large country property. Beyond the fence and across a dry meadow, a blunt terrace called God’s Thumb jutted out from the bottom of a hillside. Upon the terrace sat a house and other structures. Visible above and beyond the roof of the house was the landmark that initially caught Mr. Smith’s attention: an African Baobab tree; a tall, foreign, strange looking, large-diameter tree with leafless branches that protruded from its top only, appearing more like roots than the crown of a tree.
“Hey, Boss,” Bubba said. “Now that you found the place, are you going to fill me in on what we’re looking for?”
“No!” Mr. Smith barked. “Your job is to be my muscle. That’s all you need to know.”
“Well,” Bubba pressed, “thirty years is a long time. How can you be sure the item is still there?”
Through dark sunglasses Mr. Smith silently surveyed the property as best he could from this distance. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied in a thoughtful manner. “That house,” he said, using his walking stick to point toward God’s Thumb, “was its last known location. So that is where we’ll begin our search.”
At that very moment, about a quarter mile down the road, two occupants in a royal blue SUV also had a reason for going to God’s thumb, and were on their way there now.
I don’t rightly know what she expects me to do for them, twelve-year-old Ryan pondered sulkily as he stared out the window while fidgeting anxiously in the passenger seat. Their family died; they’re supposed to be bummed out.
The sound of their car passing the seemingly endless rows of grape vines reminded Ryan of the sound playing cards make when slapping against bicycle spokes. Ryan removed his cowboy hat and let his head drop back against the seat. Why do I have to be the one to pull them out of their slump? I should be riding horses and exploring the mountains behind Granny’s ranch right now.
Driving the car, sitting smartly dressed and characterized by her purposeful mannerisms, was Mary Whitmore, owner and C.E.O. of Over the Top Sporting Goods, a chain of stores spanning thirteen states. To Ryan however, she was just good ol’ Granny.
Ryan looked over. “Gran’,” he said. “Why can’t they get someone else play nursemaid to those youngins? I came out here to spend the summer with you.”
Granny kept her eyes on the road. “They don’t need a babysitter, Ryan. They need a friend. And Lisa has already tried to motivate them,” she replied. “But Lisa doesn’t have your energy and charisma,” she added, with a flattering smile.
“But Gran, I don’t . . .”
“I need you to do me this favor, Ryan,” Granny interjected sternly. “It’s just for a few weeks.” She patted his knee. “Besides, I have a lot of work to do right now with the ranch, and the store, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much of a host at the moment, anyway.”
Pondering his predicament, Ryan gazed down absently at the prize belt buckle he won back home in Texas in this year’s junior rodeo. Finally, with as much feigned concern as he could muster, he looked up and said, “Gran, I really think I should stick around! You know you are . . .”
“I know, I know, older than a redwood!” she said with a laugh.
“Well—you are, and I think you need me around the ranch to help out,” he asserted.
As Ryan tried his darnedest to change Granny’s mind, their SUV approached a black sedan parked on the shoulder of the road. Ryan noticed two suspicious-looking men standing by the clunker and staring out across a dry meadow, toward an oblong outcropping at the bottom of the hillside. The lanky foreigner leaned on a walking stick and Ryan saw a scar on the man’s cheek was visible as they drove past.
Noticing something vaguely familiar about the disfigured gentleman, something that conjured up memories from her past, Granny shifted her eyes surreptitiously in the rearview mirror for another peek at the stranger, before losing sight of him. After making a mental note to herself, she returned her eyes to the road ahead and her attention to her grandson. “You’re right about my getting old, Ryan,” she said in reply to his earlier comment. “But I can manage a while longer—don’t you worry. You, on the other hand, need room to run around, and good friends to run around with. It’ll d
o you no good being cramped up in town and meandering around with hooligans.”
Ryan furrowed his brow and shot a hard, fixed look at Granny. “Okay,” he said. “But two weeks only, deal?”
“Deal,” granny said with a nod.
“Promise?” Ryan said (just for reassurance).
“I promise—unless you change your mind.”
Ryan peered out his window. Rows and rows of green, broadleaf grape vines filled his view. He turned his head and looked to the other side of the road. Nothing was visible but dry, dusty, uncultivated, tumbleweed-covered flatland, all the way to the hills in the distance.
Ryan looked at Granny. “I ain’t gonna change my mind.”
Moments later, Granny turned off the main two-lane thoroughfare and onto a private road. The mailbox near the open gate at the road’s entrance bore the painted name Walborg.
“Ah, here we are,” Granny said, “Stegosaurus Ridge, straight ahead.” She proceeded through the gate and up the long unpaved road toward the intriguing, rugged foothills that ran southwest, off of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Her tires made a crunching sound on the gravelly road as they forged along between the wide fields of tall dried grass. Large boulders dotted the landscape and became more frequent, the closer they got to the mountainside.
Ryan wondered about the uniqueness of this strange landmass. Something about it seemed mysterious; like it was hiding some deep, dark secret. “Gran, why do ya reckon they call it ‘Stegosaurus Ridge’?”
“If you were to see it from above,” she said, “you would notice that the mountain peaks look like the back plates of a Stegosaurus. Isn’t that fascinating?”
While trying to imagine what this mountain range might look like from above, Ryan’s mind began to wander, and he started to long for the mountains back home and the camping and spelunking trips he’d used to take on horseback with his friends.
Noticing Ryan’s gloomy disposition, Granny attempted to lighten his mood, “You know, Ryan,” she said, “I think once you get settled, you’re going to have a lot of fun out here.”
Gazing out at the acres of dried grass and tumbleweeds in front of him, Ryan frowned. “You’re sticking me out in the middle of nowhere, with no horses, none of my stuff, and nothing to do,” he muttered. “How much fun can I have?” A few minutes later, however, they passed a partially overgrown motocross track (woopty-doos and all). He raised an eyebrow. “That could have potential,” he said to himself.
Reaching the base of Stegosaurus Ridge, Granny swung the car to the left, up the long inclined road, until they finally arrived atop God’s Thumb. Sitting along this oblong terrace was a fairly large, two-story house with a steeple attic at its rear. The house resembled an old country church.
Granny swung the car left once again, and drove past the side of the house, beyond the newly painted picket fence that surrounded the small front yard of the family residence. At the front of the terrace, she parked between the multi-bay detached garage (where Mr. Walborg made his living running an auto shop) and the fenced-in scrap yard that sat beside it.
“Wow, look!” Ryan snapped, quickly struggling to release his seat belt.
Granny looked up, trying to figure out what had brought on the outburst. “What, that old junkyard?”
“That’s a treasure trove, Granny!” Ryan exclaimed, his face all aglow. He bolted from the car and scurried along the front of the scrapyard, peering through the surrounding chain link fence. “Look at all that stuff!”
Granny shook her head in amusement and opened her car door. “Ryan,” she called out. “Get your stuff and come meet the Walborgs.”
Ryan, still heading toward the other side of the terrace, skidded to a halt at its edge, kicking up dust that floated out over the family’s lake. Squinting against the blazing afternoon sun, he stared at the inviting water as he wiped beads of shimmering sweat from his forehead.
The Walborgs’ lake was the only body of water around for miles. As far as a private lake went, it was pretty extensive, and stretched all the way from the foothills, next to God’s Thumb, along the barbed wire fence by the roadway. Its far side was about a quarter mile away and bordered their neighbor’s property. Dotting the edge of the lake, on the Walborgs’ side, were various large, lush willow trees that provided wonderful little shady havens for picnicking, fishing or even an afternoon snooze.
Ryan’s gaze quickly fell on a beautiful blue and white Jet Ski, tied to the dock directly below him. I reckon two weeks here may not be so bad after all, he thought. Even if I can’t motivate the little tykes, I can still have some fun of my own.
On his way back to the car, Ryan suddenly noticed the Baobab tree that loomed menacingly near the back of the house. Wild and straggly thorn bushes surrounded the bottom twelve feet or so of the tree. His jaw dropped. “That sure is one mean looking tree,” he muttered aloud. Then, looking high above the knobby, branchless trunk, he spied a railed-in platform amongst the tree’s canopy and a sort of gangway leading to it from the vicinity of the attic. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed to himself, a thought forming in his mind.
“Gran!” Ryan huffed, a bit winded as he hustled up to her. “I know something I can do for these kids! I’ll build them their own tree house. The platform is already in place.” He pointed to the top of the tree.
Granny glanced at the tree. The soft stealthy smile that formed on her lips and the glint in her eye suggested a fond memory. “What do you know about building tree houses, Ryan?”
“Me and the boys got us a tree house back home,” Ryan said. “And we built it ourselves,” he added, a bit indignant at Granny’s doubting his capability.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Granny said, humoring Ryan while opening the back of the car. “Now, get your stuff and come and meet these fine folks.” She proceeded to lead the way toward the gate in the picket fence.
Ryan picked up his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and followed a few steps behind.
Granny looked back. “Be sure to mind your manners,” she warned. “These are very respectable people.”
“I will, Gran. Don’t fret.”
Granny frowned. “And go easy on your slang. This isn’t the eighteen-hundreds, and you’re not an old cowhand out on the lone prairie,” she said, less than pleased that he spent most of his time at home hanging around a bunch of old-timer rodeo roughnecks.
“Okay, Gran, okay. Don’t fre—worry. They’ll love me—you’ll see.” Ryan threw an innocent smile her way.
Granny opened the gate to let Ryan through. “See that they do.”
Meet and Greet
On the second floor of the Walborg house (a warm and loving home made available from time to time to foster children), in one of the five bedrooms, sat Stacy Johnson, age ten, one of two orphans presently in the Walborgs’ care. The other orphan was her twin brother William, whose room was across the hallway.
Slouched on the edge of her bed, her head hanging and her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders, Stacy was longing for her parents and grandparents, recently killed in a plane crash. Hearing a noise, she looked up and impatiently swiped at the single tear that rolled down her cheek.
Mrs. Ann Walborg, lady of the house, entered the room in her usual Pollyannaish manner, a laundry basket of folded clothes in her hands. Looking around the organized (but cluttered) room of computers, books, CDs, 3D glasses, and other computer accessories for a place to set the laundry, she settled for a small clear spot on the bed. The only thing in her way was an old tattered flyer that Stacy had found the other day, stuck between the floor boards in her closet. Mrs. Walborg quickly scanned the flyer:
Worlds of Paradise
Create your very own 3D Spirit World
Design and animate: People, Animals, Cities, Villages, Parks, Zoos, Aquariums, and more!
Watch your heavenly creations come to life within a paradise that you create.
Search online for your copy today!
Moving
the flyer out of the way, Mrs. Walborg put the stack of laundry on the bed and then sat down beside Stacy, gently rubbing the girl’s back. “Are you thinking about your parents, sweetie?” she asked.
Stacy nodded slowly.
Mrs. Walborg caressed her hair, and then using the corner of her apron wiped another tear from Stacy’s cheek. “Would you like to talk about it?” she asked. “I’m a very good listener.”
Stacy didn’t lift her head, merely shook it.
“Would you like some dessert?” Ann attempted. “I can fix you a bowl of ice cream.”
Stacy again shook her head.
Ann pursed her lips and patted Stacy on the knee. “Okay sweetie, maybe later.” Standing to leave she heard somebody knocking at the front door.
“He’s here, Mom, the new boy’s here!” Lisa Walborg, age twelve, squealed with excitement from downstairs. She raced to answer the door, her shoulder-length brown hair swishing behind her, her paralyzed left arm swinging limply at her side.
Granny knocks again. The door swung wide. “HELLO!” Lisa bubbled, though her voice quavered slightly, with nervous excitement.
“Hello, dear. I’m Mary Whitmore, and this is my grandson, Ryan,” Granny said, touching Ryan’s shoulder. “We’re here to see your mother. Is she home?”
Lisa silently nodded, unable momentarily to take her eyes off of Granny’s fascinating bracelet: an ornate gold serpent of sorts. Two slightly oversized glass eyes, the most prominent feature, seemed to stare back at her, with an almost hypnotizing effect. Finally tearing her eyes from the bracelet, she re-addressed her guests. “I’m Lisa,” she said, stepping back, her face beaming, and her voice now calm and steady. “Come in! I’ll get her.”
Granny stepped into the entryway.
“Hi,” Lisa murmured, with a quick wave to Ryan.