The Stone of Secrets

by K. L. Nelson

  “People said a lot of really nice things about you today, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “You deserved it. You are an amazing person. Skye, you know you’re not like other kids. You have a special gift.”

  “I know Daddy.”

  Brian put his hands on the child’s shoulders and looked into her little face. “God gave you that gift for a reason,” he counseled. “He wants you to find out what that reason is. Unless you can be there for the ones who need you most, God might as well have given your gift to someone else. It is fun to get praise, but someday none of that will matter if you’re not making a difference for the people who need you.”

  Skye stared into her father’s eyes. His words sunk deep into her soul. Somehow he was always able to cut through the hype and get to the truth. She knew she would never forget this moment.

  “Daddy,” she said, “I hope I can make a difference for others the way you make a difference for me.”

  Sometimes a heart fills up with so much love it comes out the eyes. That happened for Brian at that moment. As a tear ran down his face, he took the little girl into his arms and held her tight.

  “You will be Skye,” he replied. “You will be.”

  Chapter Two

  It was like one of those funerals from the movies, thought 33-year-old Skye McAlister through her tears. Rain fell softly as the darkly clad company huddled under black umbrellas to watch them lower her grandmother into the earth. Nearby, a bagpiper in full regalia wailed a slow rendition of Amazing Grace to send off the old woman. Skye thought the piper was fitting, more so than perhaps anything else that could have adorned the service. It was more fitting than the tributes offered by her many friends; more fitting even than Father MacGregor’s words of comfort to the family. Somehow that piper knew how to sink a melody into the soul. It wasn’t the song itself, but how he played it. As shovels of dirt dropped on the casket, Skye lifted her gaze to the soloist.

  She knew that the Great Highland Bagpipe was not an easy instrument to master. In order to make music instead of noise, the piper must be conscious of many factors. If any one of those factors goes sour, a painfully discordant noise penetrates the air that music once graced. The stiff reeds operate at considerable pressure. The piper must maintain this pressure as he continually transfers the push back and forth from his diaphragm to his left arm. It requires not only immense strength, but supreme control. Doing it well, and on top of that being able to infuse the song with feeling, requires the touch of a master.

  This piper must be one of the best, thought Skye. But it wasn’t just his playing. He did not seem conscious that Skye was watching him. His gaze was intent and seemed fixed on a scene well beyond the group, indeed well beyond this world. He breathed his ballad slowly but forcefully through the headstones that lined the turf. But his face was not strained in the least. Skye saw serenity in him that made him seem more like a classical guitarist than a bagpiper, while his posture could have been that of a great general on the eve of victory. She wondered how anyone could seem so confident and yet so humble at the same time. ‘Regal’ was the word Skye thought best described this picture of a man. Yes, this part was more fitting than anything else about the day. Gran would have liked it.

  Skye McAlister was a thoughtful person; her rare smile covered her whole face and made her eyes almost disappear behind high cheek bones. People noticed her hair first. It was such a deep shade of red that everyone erroneously thought she colored it. But it was her intense green eyes that struck them the hardest. She was oblivious to it, but Skye often disarmed people with her eyes. She didn’t think herself particularly beautiful, but everyone else did.

  Skye wanted to think that her grandmother was listening nearby. No, somehow she knew Gran was there. The feeling overtook her so suddenly she caught herself scanning the trees behind her, fully expecting to see the spirit of the woman.

  Instead of a ghost, she saw a man. He was just standing there watching her. Immediately she felt the sinking, horrid feeling that had been building inside her for years. She felt it every time she saw a mysterious man watching her from a distance. And it seemed to happen all the time. When she was young, she thought mysterious watchers happened to everyone. But when it continued as she matured Skye began to wonder what these strange, elusive men were looking at. Why was there always a man watching her?

  Grandmother’s will was read that afternoon, before the members of the family had to leave the sleepy Australian town and return to their lives. No one expected much drama; Faye was known for her stubborn devotion to heritage, not her money. “She loved watching you grow,” Skye’s mother Judith whispered in her ear as they gathered inside the modest house. “She always wanted to know what you were up to. Your work at the university made her proud.”

  “Really?” Skye replied. “Because to me she was always so terrified I was going to end up haughty.”

  “Well did you?” her father asked, holding her at the shoulders to examine her for signs of haughtiness.

  “Of course,” Skye replied. The three laughed. Judith and Brian were also proud of their daughter’s accomplishments. At a young age, Skye had achieved acclaim in the discipline of archaeology. Her scholarly papers had earned her the respect of the best and brightest, and she’d even had some significant finds out in the field.

  It is rare for an archaeologist to unearth anything of real significance. It is a work of patience and futility - and luck. Great mounds of dirt must be removed, sometimes not with shovels but with tiny brushes. It may take many years to complete a dig. But then, how does one determine if an archaeological project is ‘complete?’ Many remarkable discoveries have been made at sites that had been abandoned years earlier. If the dig is prolific, the archaeologist can expect to find only a few sherds of pottery or perhaps a bone every now and then. A tool is a particularly valuable find. The scientist then studies these little treasures in minute detail to glean any possible insight into what may have happened at the place centuries or even millennia before. As with any science, the best archaeologists develop hypotheses from their findings that their colleagues then bear out through additional study and hypothesis. Scientists are always trying to prove their colleagues wrong, or at least demonstrate they missed something. It’s not so much a competition as an eternal quest for the evolution of understanding. It’s what drives them.

  So, when Skye published her remarkable findings at the Maya ruins of Cheoptiquezal in Central America, her colleagues descended on the paper like buzzards to a carcass. They only had one problem: Her discoveries were so singular and her logic so solid, anyone who attempted to critique her work thoroughly failed. The woman seemed to be on a completely different intellectual plane than even the most seasoned of professors. It wasn’t long before the old guard realized they had a prodigy on their hands, and they welcomed her into their exclusive guild. Faye, Judith, and Brian McAlister almost burst with pride the day their Skye was awarded a fellowship at Steinbridge University in America.

  “Ok, everyone gather around,” the estate executor called to the group. “Let’s get started.” The will wasn’t lengthy. The house was to be sold at auction and the money divided equally between her children. There were some accounts at the bank, some small debts to be paid. The contents of the main floor of the house could be sold or kept as decided by a committee consisting of the heirs, etc. etc.

  The contents of the main floor, it said. Many in the group didn’t even know there was a lower floor in the old house. The last clause of the document directed the entire company to walk down the back stairs to the fruit cellar. There they would find the rest of the instructions that comprised her will. “Faye McAlister you sneaky beggar,” someone muttered as the procession made its way in a single file down the narrow stairs and into the cramped cellar. Some, Skye included, had to crane their heads in from outside the door to remain part of the event. In the center of the floor under a dusty Persian rug was a removable panel. When lifted up
, it revealed a compartment just big enough to hold the antique wooden chest that lay inside.

  No one said a word.

  The executor knelt down, unlatched the lid, and lifted it over its hinges to reveal that the chest was full to the top with neatly stacked 10 oz. silver bars. The group stood there agape for what seemed like forever. Then, out of the silence, a burly old man with a handlebar mustache said, “Guess I didn’t know Aunt Faye near as good as I reckoned.” The others in the room lifted their gaze to stare at the old cowboy. He’d always had a penchant for understatement, and he’d just given them one of his finest works.

  Someone did a quick calculation and found the treasure to be worth more than ten times the value of the house. All this time Grandma could have been living on a grand scale. But they all knew it wasn’t her style. Evidently she’d taken a percentage of her late husband’s pension each month for decades and bought a little silver to tuck away. If one can secure it well enough, the value of precious metal is something that a turbulent world can never take away. Faye had secured it well enough, for not a single person besides her had known a thing about it for fifty years.

  But the real intrigue wasn’t what was in the bottom of the chest, but what was in the top of it. Taped to the underside of the lid was a manila envelope which contained Faye’s instructions concerning the treasure, to be carried out upon her death. The executor removed the document and read it aloud to the heirs.

  The whole content of the chest was to become the legal property of Skye McAlister. When that was read, silence was a thing of the past. Shouts of anger and disappointment gave way to a dozen individual intense discussions in the tiny space of the cellar. This continued for some time before someone yelled, “Everyone wait! Where is the child anyway?” One by one heads turned until everyone was looking at the young woman standing apart from them in the hallway, not saying a word. It was one of those moments where she wasn’t sure if she should run the other way. Her mind quickly thought of a word to say, but as she drew a breath the executor spoke instead.

  “There’s more…” The man continued reading the document. It provided that the treasure was to be put into a safety deposit box at the bank until the conditions of the will were satisfied. It turned out that though the silver was to go to Skye, it wasn’t legally hers until she satisfied the terms of the will. At this point the crowd became unruly and all thoughts of continuing the reading in an orderly manner were abandoned. A guard was appointed to keep watch over the cellar, and another to keep watch over the guard. A third was called to make sure the first two didn’t conspire. It was like putting three cats in charge of the milk, but then how could several hundred pounds of silver go anywhere without being noticed? The rest of the company assembled upstairs to engage in their conversations out of a human need to make sense of what just happened. It was common in the McAlister clan. No one ever killed anyone, but there sure were some lively discussions. Of necessity they included as many hand gestures as words.

  The executor and Skye found a place where they could continue reading the will away from the cacophony. The terms made Skye smile. It was just the sort of thing she expected from Gran. All she had to do was put flowers on Gran’s mother’s grave.

  Of all the tragedies that could befall her family, to Faye McAlister the most intolerable would have been the forgetting of roots. Faye had left Scotland as a very young girl with her father Ian. They came to Australia in search of a new start following the untimely death of her mother. “Greener pastures” was what he told everyone, but those who knew him best did not believe it. In actuality, Ian McAlister left his homeland because of a broken heart. Something inside him said if he stayed among the memories of his beloved Anna long enough, he would end up in the ground next to her far too soon. His mourning was intense, and when it didn’t let up after several months he knew it was time to go. McAlisters have a hard time letting go, but they have an even harder time giving up. In such was the condition Gran had come to Australia.

  Faye and her father found everything they were looking for; the new start, the greener pastures. And they found the amnesia. Or at least her father seemed to. Though the young girl’s heart ached to speak of her mother, Ian would not have it. Those were memories Faye would have to treasure in secret. And she treasured them for fifty years. They lived inside her like a fire.

  So to satisfy the conditions of the will and secure ownership of the silver Skye simply had to put flowers on the grave of her grandmother’s mother, Anna McAlister. She smiled as she thought about Gran writing the will, coming up with just the right thing for Skye. Gran knew she had always wanted to visit Scotland, but life has a way of taking over our best desires. The trip would be a wonderful opportunity for her, but she also knew her Gran well enough to realize it would not be that simple. Gran always had a plan, and often it was not apparent to others until after the plan was in motion. Even in death, Gran was finding a way to make things interesting.

  Skye addressed the group of heirs with authority, as if she were beginning a lecture. She was more a thoughtful person than a loud one, but when it was time to speak she was not afraid to get down to it. “I have no intention of keeping all that silver,” she began loudly. It had the desired effect; everyone turned to listen. “I do not know what I will do with it at the moment, but I trust it will become clear in time. The main thing is, Grandma Faye entrusted it to me for some reason and I intend to fully comprehend what she had in mind before I make my decision. The silver will stay in safe deposit at the bank until then.” The finality of her words gave little satisfaction to anyone, but there was nothing they could do. The company of heirs disbanded that afternoon, but their communications did not. They were McAlisters, after all.

  Judith and Brian gave their daughter one last hug before parting. Skye told them she had thought of getting yard work done during the semester break, but it looked like Gran had other ideas. She told them about the conditions of the will, how she had to go to Scotland. All smiles, Brian lifted Skye and gave her a twirl just like he did when she was eight. Skye giggled just like that eight year old too, somewhat against her will. “Well Missy,” her father said, “it looks like you’re going on a trip!”

  ***

  The plane descended below the clouds on final approach and gave Skye her first look at her ancestral home. Scotland is so…green, she thought. Green fields gave way to green moss-covered stone buildings as she drove her rental car into the City of Edinburgh to find her hotel. She would stay the night here and recover from the long flight before traveling north the following day. As scenes of Scotland went by, she lost any sense of urgency about the silver and instead thought of her grandmother. Skye could see why Gran would have missed such an enchanting place.

  Though exhausted from the flight, Skye felt a sense of happiness as she drove. Something about this land felt familiar to her. It was almost like coming home. At that, she pulled onto Princes Street and immediately heard a bagpiper wailing his tune on the street corner. She laughed out loud and almost ran straight into the front of a huge red double-decker bus. “On the left, Skye. The left!” she scolded herself as the bus driver blew his horn. The near miss only dampened her spirits for a moment before she caught a glimpse of Edinburgh Castle.

  Skye glanced up at the castle as she drove. Being an archaeologist, she’d read of the dig in the 1990s at Castle Rock. The archaeologists found evidence of human occupation as early as the Iron Age. She thought of the seventh century King Mynyddog Mwynfawr of the Gododdin, who with his warriors feasted a full year at the castle before going to battle. They fought the Angles in the south against impossible odds; they were all killed.

  Skye had seen pictures of the castle, but seeing it in person was quite different. She wished she had more time to stay in this city. But she had to find her hotel. She followed her navigation app to the hotel and checked in for the night.

  But to her body and mind, it was day. This quandary of travelers kept sleep from Skye for hours befor
e she gave up and went for a walk. She wasn’t sure what she would find in a strange city in the middle of the night. The attendant at the hotel’s front desk gave her directions to some nearby shops that might be open through the night. “American?” he asked.

  “Australian,” Skye replied.

  “Mind yourself lass,” the young man said as Skye went for the door. “In this town ya might find what yar lookin’ far!”

  Skye lifted her collar around her neck and set off into the chilly wet night. She walked down the street a few blocks, but what she really wanted to see was the Old Town. She got in a cab. “Can’t sleep,” she told the driver. “Where are we going?”

  In just about any city in the world, you can strike up an interesting conversation with a cabby if you speak the same language. As the hackney lumbered up and down the streets of Edinburgh, Skye traded stories with the old man. Julian had been a cab driver his whole life in this place. Skye was glad she’d chosen his cab, for the man knew everything about Edinburgh. Skye leaned forward and listened through the screen separating them as the cabby spun his yarn. To him, there were two kinds of customers: Those who wanted to go from A to B, and those who cared more about the part in between. He always took care of both, but he much preferred the latter.

  Skye wanted to keep her mind clear, so a pub wasn’t what she wanted. Julian stopped at some monuments that he thought might interest the woman. They were nice, but Skye wasn’t really interested in what every other tourist would see.

  “An archaeologist!” Julian bellowed when Skye told him her line of work. “Well now, we have some of that here too lass!”

  After a five minute drive into the old quarter, Julian pulled into the narrow street next to South Bridge, called a ‘close’ in local parlance, and parked. Skye wondered if she should have brought pepper spray as she looked up and down the dimly lit street. Julian set the brake, turned in his seat and spoke to his passenger. “I think this is what yer lookin’ far,” he began. “Right along this street is what’s called the Edinburgh Vaults…”