by Layton Green
“What about Covent Garden?” Jake asked, and I knew what he was thinking. The Druids might have someone watching the tube stops nearest the museum.
We got our bearings and rushed to the city center. As I entered Covent Garden alongside a crush of pedestrians, I kept imagining furtive glances from the corners of the station, cowled faces watching our every move.
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Jake called Mr. Sofistere from a payphone at Heathrow, informing him of everything we had learned. Lucius was stunned by our discoveries, and gave us permission to take the letterbox to Lithuania to finish the quest. He also relayed that he had tried to contact the elusive Mr. Chenisdeaux again, to no avail.
I asked Jake if Asha had been on the phone, and he said she was. While I knew she’d want to be here, I was glad she was out of harm’s way. Despite my efforts to heal, I missed her terribly.
The seats at our gate were all taken. As we hunkered down in a corner, I glanced at Jake, leaning against the wall and watching the crowd, and Lou, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at his lap.
The only thing on Jake’s mind, I knew, was the logistical planning for our trip to the Hill of Crosses.
Lou, on the other hand, looked as pensive as I had ever seen him. Regardless of one’s convictions, the events which we had witnessed, combined with what we had learned from Dr. Clifton, would have given the greatest skeptic pause.
And Lou was the greatest skeptic.
On the taxi ride to Heathrow, Lou reiterated his long-standing position that there was nothing supernatural about anything we had experienced. He prophesied that the explanations would be revealed in due course, in logical clarity, and that Jake and I would be laughing at our gullibility. Yet behind the bravado and the simmering fear, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
I didn’t dispute the accuracy of the information imparted by Dr. Clifton, and I had to admit that incredible things had happened. But who, in the face of the impossible, does not harbor doubt? Even the stoutest of saints, the staunchest of believers: surely they have their reservations, somewhere in the depths of their souls. We are only human, after all, and can only speculate.
Or can we? Had we been presented with an opportunity to do more than guess? What awaited us at the enigmatic Hill of Crosses? Would we learn the truth behind the seemingly supernatural events we had experienced? Would something terrible be revealed, some horror from beyond? Or was the danger all too human, a group of religious fanatics who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted?
Why take the risk, I asked myself for the thousandth time? Why not get on a plane and go back to New Orleans?
But I knew the answer. The carrot in front of us now was the same one that had sprouted when I saw Asha’s hands pass through those of her brother at Castello di Selva. The same carrot that sustained me after the incredible events at Pere Lachaise, and Kutna Hora, and in Grimspound.
It was the carrot of knowledge leading us on, dangling within our grasp. Another bite of the apple, impossible to resist.
Perhaps, in the end, Lou would be proven right, and everything would be revealed as a deception of obscene magnitude. But the possibility remained. It was right before us now.
Even if our presence at the Hill of Crosses with the letterbox meant that we would be placing our lives, and perhaps our very souls, in peril, the lure of forbidden knowledge hovered before us like the world’s lushest piece of fruit, waiting to be plucked by our eager mortal hands.
LITHUANIA
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The flight passed without incident, though I remained on edge. Despite the cleverness of Jake’s exit strategy, I had a hard time believing we had given the remaining Druids the slip.
After an early afternoon arrival in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, we took a taxi to the central train station. Next up was a five-hour ride to Siauliai, the town nearest the Hill of Crosses. Lithuanian was a difficult language, even for Lou, and everything we had read suggested that it was very easy to get lost on the roads. It was a tough decision, but we decided public transport was the prudent choice. We couldn’t afford a detour.
I absorbed Vilnius as the taxi drove in. The city boasts one of the largest old towns in Europe, a king’s bounty of monuments and historic buildings spread throughout a jumble of cobblestone streets. Yet Vilnius possessed a dark and gritty edge that was lacking in other European capitals. Mindless Soviet high-rises ringed the city center; beggars and street urchins lounged on UNESCO world heritage sites; disaffected youth prowled wide frozen boulevards. A sense of chaos permeated the city, and as the taxi crawled through the center, I noticed a host of unmarked, dead-end streets and quaint medieval walkways that would turn, without warning, into cracked passages leading to abandoned ghettos.
I didn’t have much time to put my finger on exactly what Lithuania evoked in me. But the architecture, the remote locale, the antiquated culture . . . if nothing else, Lithuania felt old. Connected to the earth as it once had been. Even the local wares and handicrafts, hawked by street vendors and showcasing the country’s pagan roots, contributed to the feeling. Carvings of strange creatures stared back at us from streetside display tables: trees with human faces, rings of faeries dancing in the streams, fantastical forest dwellers trapped in amber.
Our train left at four p.m., and we holed up in an Internet café next to the station while we waited. Jake and I scanned the crowds while Lou did some research on the Hill of Crosses. Finally we took our seats on the rusty locomotive that would carry us to Siauliai.
It was almost dark when the train pulled out of Vilnius. We knew we were traveling through a vast, heavily forested landscape, but the premature nightfall of Lithuania’s northern latitude obscured the scenery. During the long ride, Lou recounted some of the shrouded history of the Hill of Crosses.
Due to its isolated geography, Lithuania remained the last pagan stronghold of Europe, holding onto its roots long after other countries had turned to Rome and Byzantium for spiritual guidance. Until a hundred years ago, the ruins of the various temples that had once crowned the Hill of Crosses had still been present, and the site remained a sacred shrine to the peoples of the region who still worshipped in the ancient ways. A century ago, however, the Lithuanian arm of the Catholic Church sent emissaries to destroy the ruins, attempting to Christianize it by erecting three large crosses on the apex of the hill.
After this, an odd phenomenon occurred: the hill began to fill up with crosses of all sorts. The cross was an important symbol to numerous pagan cultures, and the archaic versions sprouted up alongside the Christian ones. Church officials were mystified as to who was planting the crosses and attempted to remove them, but they kept metastasizing.
The Church was in a quandary. The site was too inaccessible to be watched on a regular basis, and further, Lou reported in a cynical but subdued tone, reports of hauntings and strange visions poured forth from the officials who visited the hill. Fits of insanity and suicides also occurred.
The Church decided to solve the problem by giving the hill its present name and, due to the quantity of spiritual activity reported, declaring it a holy site. The Church then proceeded to ignore the place entirely. The visits and reports from the Vatican ceased, and Lou found only sporadic mention of the Hill of Crosses during the previous fifty years.
“Not to add fuel to the fire,” I said uneasily, “but all of those accounts—they occurred without the letterbox.
“It all sounds like a huge bag of ignorant drivel to me,” Lou said. He shifted in his seat. While he may not have accepted as true what he had just told us, I could tell it had affected him.
“You’re welcome to run on home,” Jake said.
“I’ve come this far. Besides, who’ll be there to say I told you so when we don’t find anything? And since when did you start believing in pagan legends?”
Jake folded his arms as he turned to stare into the darkened forest. “I’ve learned one thing for sure in my profession: whether or not the Christian
record of God is an accurate one, and I do believe that it is, it’s not the only one out there.”
It was only nine p.m. when we arrived at Siauliai, though it felt like the middle of the night. As we stepped off the platform at the ramshackle train station, we saw a strip of cracked, weed-covered pavement marking the route into town.
There were no taxis. Soon after we started walking, the other passengers left the road for barely visible paths snaking into the forest. The three of us drew close together, a sense of foreboding already having descended. Minutes later, the road broadened to reveal a collection of houses and low buildings rising uneasily out of the darkness.
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We lodged at the first place we encountered, a boarding house on the edge of town. Lou managed to fumble through enough Lithuanian to pay for our rooms, and we crawled onto the thin mattresses.
I slept fitfully, my rest troubled by sepulchral visions. I would awaken with a start and then wonder, as I lay in a cold sweat in the darkness after my nightmares, whether the Hill of Crosses was invading our dreams.
Early the next morning, sleep-deprived but ready to get on with the journey, I wandered into the breakfast nook and found Jake and Lou sitting at a table, drinking coffee and smoking in silence.
I sat next to Lou. “I had terrible dreams.”
Lou looked up in surprise. “Me, too.”
Jake set the letterbox on the table. “Today’s the day. I just need to find out when the bus leaves, and pick up a few supplies in town.”
Lou shrugged. “I suppose we might as well get this superstitious nonsense over with.”
Jake started to reply when the door creaked open. We looked to see who was coming in, expecting another boarder or the landlord.
Instead, the last person I expected to see stepped into view, wrapped in a beige fur-lined coat and matching shawl, her dark hair spilling over her collar.
Asha.
She looked achingly beautiful, in the way a lover does after a prolonged absence, though we had parted less than a week before. Yet she also felt distant, a ghost from a life I once had led and a person I once had been. She looked at me, too, with new eyes: eyes that no longer expressed such openness to the world, eyes that had seen for themselves the terrible power of love and deception.
I rose to help her with her bag. She intercepted me with a hug. Though her embrace caused the familiar fluttering in my chest, it was no longer a sharp pang, but a dull ache somewhere deep inside.
“Good to see you,” Jake said. “I figure you’re itchin’ for a walk in the woods?”
“After what you found in London,” she said, looking straight at me, “I knew I had to be here. I jumped on a plane to Vilnius last night.”
“How’d you know where we were staying?” Lou asked.
“I was worried I’d miss you, so Mr. Sofistere hired a driver to take me to Siauliai overnight. It’s a tiny town, and someone at the first place I tried knew where the Americans were staying. I don’t think they get many visitors.”
“Good timing,” Jake said. “We’re leavin’ in a few hours.” He gave me a brief look, both commiseration and resolve reflected in his glance.
Lou told her about his research on the Hill of Crosses. She looked out the window, at the forest looming at the edge of town, and then at the letterbox resting on the table beside Jake. “Have you . . . experienced . . . anything yet?”
“Our dreams weren’t too pleasant last night,” I said.
“A subconscious reaction,” Lou said. “Who wouldn’t have nightmares after that kind of story?”
Asha turned to Lou, smiling for the first time. “Same old Lou.”
Jake leaned in, an edge to his voice. “Commie, you’re trembling in your boots right now. Admit it.”
“I’ll admit nothing, you gullible peasant. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something culturally significant.”
Lou’s words rang hollow. Jake’s mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes faraway, and Asha was looking out the window again.
I tried and failed to relax as I finished my coffee. In addition to my shock at seeing Asha and my fear that the Druids would find us, I couldn’t shake, as much as I tried, the feeling that someone—or something—was waiting for us at the Hill of Crosses.
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The bus was scheduled to leave at two. Deciding not to separate for any reason, we followed Jake into town to gather a few last-minute supplies, in case we needed to stay at the hill for longer than a few hours. We had no idea what to expect or how long it would take to explore.
Sleepy and nondescript, Siauliai had a timeless quality to it. Perhaps it was the stoop of the Baltic townspeople huddled in their drab winter clothing, or the provincial nature of the shops, or the ageless forest surrounding the town. Whatever the origin, it felt as if Siauliai had always been a forgotten outpost, hovering on the edge of civilization since the dawn of man.
A dusting of fresh snow salted the ground. We made our final preparations, stuffing the overnight gear into two backpacks. Jake took the heavier one and fit the letterbox snugly inside. I took the other. We forced down a few bites of dense Lithuanian bread, none of us possessing much of an appetite, and made our way to the station.
The bus out of Siauliai was a rusty artifact that ran from Vilnius to Kaunus. Lou showed the driver written instructions he had prepared, asking to be let off at the foot of the path to the Hill of Crosses. The driver gave him a long look, then a sharp nod.
We traveled a narrow road that cut straight through the forest. The sun had already begun its descent, adding shades of gray to the bleached landscape. Icicles dripped and melted over the latticework of branches, blurring the scenery into an eerie impressionist painting of a winter land.
“At least we shook the Druids,” Lou said.
Jake replied without averting his gaze from the window. “I hope you’re right. But this ain’t over yet.”
Asha left her seat to slide in beside me. I was glad she was seeing the quest through, but hated to see her put herself in danger again—both physical and mental. I knew what it must have cost her to renew her hopes for her brother.
“I know this isn’t really the time”—she gave the window a nervous glance—“but I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach the hill, and I wanted to say a few things.”
I waited for her to continue, unsure what I wanted to hear.
“I’ve done some thinking,” she said, hesitant.
“So have I.”
“You were right about the journal. About what was inside.”
I turned my head to the side.
She took my hand. “But it was only a little part of what I was feeling. A snapshot, a single line of a poem.”
“Don’t gloss things over,” I said quietly. “You weren’t feeling what I was.”
“I can’t deny that. But I was feeling, even if it wasn’t everything you wanted at the time. I admit, I probably would have reacted the same as you. But you were wrong about one thing—it’s not all or nothing. I don’t think love ever is. Would we even want to be with someone who doesn’t keep a tiny little piece of themselves?”
I stared at the seat in front of me. I needed time to think, and right now, we had other things to worry about.
“Aidan, I think things have—”
“What the hell is that!”
I whipped around and saw Lou’s face plastered to the window, peering into the gloom. He looked pale.
I looked outside and saw only trees, ice, and snow. “What?”
“I swear—I swear I just saw, right inside the forest, a body hanging from a tree.”
My hands clenched.
Jake stood. “Commie, you sure—”
Asha shrieked. “There’s another one!”
I spun, searching for where she was pointing, and saw it for myself. Just inside the edge of the woods, hanging from a noose strung from a low branch, was a body clothed in rags, its head lolling to the side. I gripped the back of the seat.
None of the other passengers seemed worried, and the driver gave a short, raspy chuckle. He rattled off something unintelligible in Lithuanian, swept his right arm at the forest, and then pointed up ahead, where another body hung from a branch.
“It’s some sort of scarecrow,” Jake said, and I realized he was right. Gray rags had been draped over a straw figure, such that from a distance it resembled a body hanging limply from the trees.
Asha shuddered. “I don’t care if they’re real or not. It feels like we’re in a forest with dead people hanging all over it.”
“Scarecrows are placed to scare things away,” Jake said. “Usually animals. But I don’t think these are here for the squirrels.”
“Ridiculous,” Lou huffed. “It’s the twenty-first century.”
“There’s something in these woods,” Jake said, fingering the silver cross necklace he had pulled out from beneath his shirt. “I can feel it.”
Lou snorted. Asha continued staring out the window, fists balled in her lap.
I sank into my seat. It all seemed so vital and foolish at the same time, so real and unreal. I felt as if we were in a collective dream, a child’s playground of the mind where fantasy and reality had at some point merged.
Yet I could not deny the things we had witnessed, the history of the dark place we were about to enter. An unnatural dread began to overtake me.
The bus ground to a halt.
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The driver waved us out, and we stepped off the bus in the middle of a thick forest. No other passengers exited. A wooden sign loomed beside the road, stuck into the ground on a rusty metal pole. A red cross had been painted on the sign. Beneath it, a barely visible footpath snaked into the woods.
Before the bus pulled away, the driver pointed at his watch and held up six fingers. We assumed, from having read the bus schedule, that he was referring to the only bus scheduled to return this way—at six o’clock in the evening. It was at least an hour walk to the Hill of Crosses, and the thought of spending the night in these woods caused my chest to tighten.