by Layton Green
“Ogham,” Lou breathed, gently turning the pages. “This must be what the Druids were looking for.” He looked up. “He wasn’t lying. This is priceless.”
Next, Asha pulled a small jewelry box out of the sack. The box had a green velvet cover, with “Ashritha Rana” written decoratively on the front. She opened the box to find a silver ring inset with a saffron-colored gem, in the shape of a lotus flower that had just begun to blossom.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“In Hinduism, the lotus represents the true soul of an individual.” She slipped the ring on her finger and looked at me in shock. “It’s a perfect fit.”
My head was spinning with a barrage of thoughts as my eyes slipped to the spot where Mr. Chenisdeaux had been standing. With jittery hands, I bent to see what else was in the sack, pulling out a photograph in a simple metal frame.
My eyes widened. “Lou, I believe this one’s for you.”
The photograph depicted a pretty little girl with mocha skin and black curls walking down a dirt road lined with shacks. Her eyes glowed with an inner light, her radiance shining through the dirty face and tattered white dress.
Lou’s cigarette hung loose from his fingers. He took the photo and turned away. With a deep breath, I pulled another object from the sack. I knew the effect it would have on the person it was meant for.
“Jake,” I said, walking over to hand him an emerald pendant. He turned it over and traced a finger down a set of initials carved into the silver setting on the back, just below the stone.
“It’s hers, Counselor,” he said softly. “You see that slight imperfection, the little mark below the A? That was there when I bought it.”
Jake gripped the pendant and returned to staring off the hill. One item remained in the burlap sack, and I pulled it out.
The circular item had a protruding wooden handle carved in the same style as the letterbox, that curious splaying of the edges.I held it up and gazed at my own weary reflection.
It was a mirror.
We stepped carefully down the last remaining path, the one by which none of us had entered, still wary of running into Nyles or his cohorts. We saw no one, heard no more voices. The terrors of the Hill of Crosses had dissipated into the night.
The trail spilled out at the bottom. We re-entered the footpath through the woods that led back to the main road.
The woods were as calm as the hill, white with the innocence of snow. Asha spoke first, hesitantly, as if afraid to disrupt the spell. “My brother was at the doorway. He told me I should stay and that he was fine.” She had a distant smile on her face. “And that he loves me.”
She turned to Jake. “What happened up there? What did you mean when you told Mr. Chenisdeaux you knew who he was?”
“I was just talking,” Jake said quietly.
She regarded him for a moment, and I wondered what she was thinking—and if I would ever know. “Aidan?” she said. “What happened while you were alone on the hill?”
“I saw someone I knew, and made a choice.”
My tone implied that I didn’t want to explain. No one asked me to.
Lou was looking down at the photograph of Kika. “I’d really like to know how they pulled this one off. I bet some journalist did a photo shoot in the favelas and this ended up in some magazine.” He looked up. “Their twisted idea will probably make millions, you know. I wish I’d thought of it first. Spirit Tours, Incorporated. Brilliant.”
“There’s no spirit tour,” Jake said, in that same quiet voice. “Even with all that happened, even with your photo of Kika staring you in the face, it doesn’t matter. You’ll take any out you’re given.”
Lou stopped walking. “Didn’t you hear the man? We were tricked. Nyles is on his way back to England, and Chenisdeaux was some kind of advanced hologram, easy to pull off in this weird light. What’d you think he was going to do, show up in person and stick around to have tea with the four people he just cruelly deceived? It was the last trick, and you fell for it. He got you to destroy the letterbox, so there was no more evidence. These gifts could have all been procured by a corporation with ways and means, and you know it. They duped us. Live with it.”
“Commie, I just talked to my dead wife. Do you really think some corporate stooge overheard one of my confessions or found a page from your spiral notebook that’s been lost for a decade?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Jake waved a hand in disgust.
“You can’t blame Lou for his beliefs,” I said, “just as he can’t ridicule you for yours. We can study and research and speculate, perhaps even experience—but do we really get to choose what we believe?”
“You can open your mind,” Jake said.
“Yes,” I said, feeling the weight of the mirror in my hand. “That you can do.”
Epilogue
It’s always in the end that we remember the beginning.
On Christmas Eve, close to a month after we returned from the Hill of Crosses, I stood on the street outside Maison de la Voyageur, peering through one of the small windows. I saw the same table at which Lou and I had been sitting the night I met Asha—the same night I first heard mention of the letterbox and set upon the path that would lead to the whirlwind of incredible events.
Maison was set to close, and only a few stragglers remained. Lou was celebrating Christmas Eve with Fredda, his first girlfriend in years, in her condo in the Warehouse District. I was on my way to join them.
Despite the unusually cold weather, I had felt compelled to stop. To look inside and reflect.
Except for a brief and unsuccessful forage for information, I hadn’t spent much time pondering the journey. I had made my peace on that ancient hill, when I made my choice before the old man and the two doorways. As Mr. Chenisdeaux had said, whether or not what happened was real was irrelevant. I had gained all the answers I needed.
Which was good, because no more were coming. Our quest ended on the Hill of Crosses, and we were left with our own thoughts and speculations as to what had really occurred.
Only memories remained.
So I remembered.
As soon as I returned from Lithuania, I researched S.T., Inc. and M.A. Chenisdeaux from every possible angle—all to no avail. Just as Mr. Chenisdeaux had said, the corporation had dissolved the same day we reached the Hill of Crosses, and no record of S.T., Inc. remained. A blip on a radar screen, gone without a trace.
I finally heard from my P.I. on Nyles Kempthorne. Bobby had found a handful of people in the world with the same name, but no one who remotely fit the description.
What he did find was a Welshman named Gareth Clough, a former history teacher who had joined the Cardiff Theosophical Society under the name Nyles Kempthorne. Gareth had quit his job and dropped off the radar years ago, and Bobby couldn’t find a photo. The only other reference was a decades-old microfiche article in the South Wales Echo concerning a stage fire during a local middle school performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Gareth Clough had attended the school at the time, and the article stated that several students had suffered localized burns when a paper forest caught fire.
Could Nyles and Gareth be the same person? If so, why had the sign on the hill not borne his real name? Was it because Gareth Clough had wanted to conceal his identity during the final deception—or because Nyles Kempthorne was who he had become?
It didn’t matter. It was finished. I somehow knew that if I tried to track down Nyles Kempthorne or anyone else involved with our experiences, I would find either nothing at all or further ambiguities.
When I asked Lou if he had been presented with a similar choice on the hill, he said he had, and that he had laughed and walked through the regular doorway. He seemed pleased to have a rational explanation to sink his teeth into. His worldview had been unaltered, and he was better off for the adventure: it had given him new confidence, as well as validation to spend untold hours on his couch and at Maison, reliving the journey. No, Lou had not changed ver
y much, as far as I could tell.
Except for the newly framed photograph of Kika hanging on his bedroom wall.
Asha had sat lost in thought during the return journey, contemplating the ring adorning her finger. She said she had decided to become more spiritual and seemed excited about life again. She even talked about her brother, remembering things they had done, laughter they had shared. I was happy that his memory no longer seemed the terrible burden it once had been.
I had not seen or spoken to Asha since we left the New Orleans airport. I hugged her as she stepped into a taxi. She said to call when I was ready.
Nor had I heard a word from Jake after he left for Zagreb. On the return journey from Siauliai, he refused to talk about the events at the Hill of Crosses. When I pressed him about the phrase I heard him utter right before Mr. Chenisdeaux disappeared, he fingered the emerald pendant, grinned, and winked at me.
Maison came back into focus. I pulled my gaze away from Lou’s empty chair, regarded my reflection in the window, and remembered some more.
I remembered standing before the two doorways, my spirit crushed almost beyond repair from the terrors of the Hill of Crosses and the visions in the mirror. Stripped of hope, I was left spiritually naked, crumpled at the feet of the old man.
Just as I was about to choose the opaque doorway, he showed me a final image that shook me to my core. It was nothing spectacular, no revelation of unknown answers. Just a simple image.
The face of the mirror had been divided into three parts. I saw Asha, Lou, and Jake in the different sections, each of them standing before two doorways identical to my own, unaware I could see them. I could somehow peer directly into their faces, and that glimpse provided the catalyst for my choice.
For in that moment, gleaned from their agonized expressions, I saw their despair, their questioning, their empathy, their pain, their humanity. I realized how much I loved them for it, and knew what I had to do.
I had been focused the entire journey—my entire life—on what I didn’t have and was trying to obtain, when purpose and meaning had been in front of me all along, in the lives that had intersected with mine. I realized that stepping through the black doorway and leaving this world behind, even symbolically, would have meant sacrificing everything I held dear.
But I had another realization on the Hill of Crosses. There is a huge and implausible leap between mere being and questioning the why of that being. The fact that I had been willing to risk my life to find God—indeed, from the very need to search—told me that something greater than ourselves must exist. I hadn’t a clue as to what that something might be, but I did know that faith was not something to be found through a doorway, or at the end of a map, or in a secret room inside some veiled sanctum sanctorum.
It didn’t matter if that old man was God, or the head of a corporation, or just a paid liar, because the first true act of faith in my life had been not stepping through that doorway.
The real quest, I knew, had just begun.
The sound of a once-familiar voice calling my name broke my reverie. I turned and saw Asha crossing the street.
She stood before me in a white winter coat, a scarf tucked snugly around her neck. “I’m leaving to see my dad in the morning and wanted to say Merry Christmas. I was on my way to surprise you and saw you standing here.”
I hugged her. “Merry Christmas.”
She gave me a shy smile and adjusted her scarf. “I resigned from the shop. My last day was yesterday.”
“Good call,” I said. Judging by the shadows behind her gaze, I knew that she knew.
“Mr. Sofistere told me everything, but that’s not why I left. He’s a good man, Aidan, regardless of his past. I left because I’m going back to design school, and his encouragement was a large part of my decision.”
“Congratulations,” I said, sincerely. “I think that’s a great idea.”
She hesitated. “I also wanted you to know that I’m sorry. For the way things ended. For a lot of things.”
“Don’t be. It all happened for a reason, whether that reason was good or bad, right or wrong. We both felt the way we did and acted accordingly.”
“It’s not that simple. I—”
“Asha,” I interrupted gently. “We’ve all had choices to make over the last few months. We’ve all had paths to follow. I don’t accept your apology because none is needed. I could’ve walked away at any time.”
She took a step forward. “It’s more than that. I know I told you to call when you’re ready, but I wanted you to know that after what happened on the hill . . . I’ve realized my emotions, my ability to love, were tied to the pain of my brother’s memory. And now—”
This time I put a finger to her lips. “I’m going to Lou’s place tonight,” I said. “Why don’t you come with me?”
She pressed her lips together and looked to the side.
“I want you to come,” I said.
She looked back. “You do? I was afraid—”
“I do.”
I watched her for a moment and couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but that was okay. She had her thoughts and I had mine.
“Walk to the streetcar?” I said.
“Sure.”
As she took my hand, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror of her eyes, and was pleased by who I saw. I was beginning afresh the game of life, ready to go forth and sample its offerings, wonder at its mystery, tremble at its sadness and beauty, once more. Onward I went, as do we all.
Yes, I smiled, recognizing myself at last.
Yes.
Author Note
The Hill of Crosses is an actual place. Whenever I use existing locations in my novels, I try to depict them as accurately as possible. However, I would like to note that with the Hill of Crosses, while it is a remote site and the origin of the crosses remains shrouded in mystery, I took a few liberties with the positioning of the hill within the surrounding forest. In reality, it’s much closer to the road and not buried within the trees.
Yet perhaps those same liberties were taken by M.A. Chenisdeaux during that fateful night on the hill, either for Spirit Tours, Inc. or for another purpose, minor but necessary adjustments to the events of the evening . . . .
Acknowledgments
This is a tough one. This novel has taken so long to come to fruition—almost decades in the plural—that when I sat down to make a list of who I wanted to thank, I became paralyzed both by the length of the list, and the thought that I might leave someone out. So let me first acknowledge a few people in the trade: my amazing editors, Richard Marek and Rusty Dalferes and Mabs Morris and Jen Blood, all of whom helped bring this novel to life. I also want to say a special thanks to Jan and Nena and Marty, of Dupree Miller & Associates, for boosting a young writer’s confidence and seeing the potential in this story so very long ago. To everyone else, all those incredibly gracious family members and friends and even strangers who have given their time and selfless support over the years, I can only say, with as much sincerity as words allow, thank you.
About the Author
LAYTON GREEN is a mystery/suspense/thriller writer and the author of the bestselling Dominic Grey series, as well as other works of fiction. His novels have been nominated for multiple awards (including a finalist for a prestigious International Thriller Writers award), optioned for film, and have reached #1 on numerous genre lists in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany. His previous novel, The Shadow Cartel, was a #2 bestseller on Amazon UK.
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/> Finally, if you are new to the world of Layton Green and would like to read more, below is a description of The Summoner, the first novel in the Dominic Grey series.
THE SUMMONER
A United States diplomat disappears in front of hundreds of onlookers while attending a religious ceremony in the bushveld of Zimbabwe.
Dominic Grey, Diplomatic Security special agent, product of a violent childhood and a worn passport, is assigned to investigate. Aiding the investigation is Professor of Religious Phenomenology Viktor Radek, as well as Nya Mashumba, the local government liaison.
What Grey uncovers is a terrifying cult older than Western civilization, the harsh underbelly of a country in despair, a priest seemingly able to perform impossibilities, and the identity of the newest target.
Himself . . .
Praise for the Dominic Grey Series
“Relentless.” —Publishers Weekly
“One of the top ten books of the year.” —BloodWrites Mystery Blog, on The Summoner
“Layton Green is a master of intellectual suspense.” —JT Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of Edge of Black
“The Summoner is one of those books that make you want to turn on all the lights in your house and lock the doors . . . [t]he settings are authentic and you can feel and smell the countryside . . . [t]his is a wonderful read for those who enjoy both suspense and action stories.” —Seattle Post-Intelligencer
On The Egyptian: “Stirring and imaginative . . . both the characters in the story and the reader are in for a wild ride.” —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling writer of The King’s Deception
“I do believe Layton Green has moved into my top 5 author category—not an easy feat to attain!” —A Novel Source