by John Everson
You know, you could breathe this every day, a voice in the back of his head whispered, and for a second he nodded…and then laughed to himself.
Yeah. And live in Room 23 of the inn for the rest of his life?
He walked around the inn and headed towards the thick tree cover to the east. He thought that was where Jerry had said the main trailhead was. As he crossed the thick lawn, he saw the dark orange of a rutted path ahead and knew he was right. He wasn’t going to go far, but it might be nice to walk in the woods for a few minutes. He couldn’t think of the last time he had. There were plenty of forest preserves where he lived, but all he ever did was drive past them in his car on the way to work. He never actually got out and walked through them.
Almost as soon as he set foot on the trail it branched. A wider section ran straight ahead, into the depths of the forest. A narrower trail hung to the right. It probably circled the property of the inn, since he knew if he walked just a few yards into the brush, he’d end up back on the lawn. He decided to walk that trail for a few minutes. He knew he wouldn’t get too far away from the inn, and maybe he’d just end up coming out on the opposite side of the inn from where he began, and wouldn’t need to double back.
There was already a low hum in the air—the sounds of crickets and locusts and god knew what else as the forest was waking up. He had only walked for a couple minutes when the path was stopped by a large fallen log.
Large being a bit of an understatement. This thing was huge. It reminded him of the tree trunks in the Redwood forest north of San Francisco. It looked as if it had been there a while; its bark was decaying and moss was eagerly moving the process along. Grass sprouted from the point where the wood touched the soil. Scott wondered if the trail continued beyond it. He threw a leg up and straddled the log, easing himself over to the other side.
There was still a faint dirt path there, but it looked disused.
He’d come this far though, so he decided to keep walking.
File this under “the road less travelled”, he thought to himself.
The path was narrower, and more overgrown, but it was clearly a path. He followed it, stepping around jogs and curves. Sometimes he was unsure if he was still on the actual trail, or just walking through an area of low growth. The dampness of the air made him shiver—the tree cover allowed only speckles of sunlight to filter through enough to reach the ground. He walked through a maze of green shadows and yellow light. The brush deeper in the forest grew dark as he looked to the left…and right.
There were faint rustles in the distance; wind or animal, he couldn’t be sure. Scott walked on, but began thinking of turning around. The trail was almost nonexistent now, and he was deep in the woods. If he got lost, he could easily walk in the wrong direction and end up angling off into the trees until he fell into a hole or stepped into a bear trap or…whatever happened to people when they got lost in the woods. He was about to turn around, when he saw it.
Something blue, just ahead in a small clearing that held a heavy scattering of browned leaves.
He walked faster, toward the obviously unnatural color. Once he reached it, he bent down and brushed away the leaves to reveal whatever was hidden here.
He uncovered the leg of a pair of faded blue jeans. They lay there damp and dirty, but not buried in the earth. So they hadn’t been here too long. As Scott brushed the leaves away, he saw that there was a shirt caked in dirt next to it.
He stood up, and kicked away the leaves around the shirt, but that only unveiled the brown cotton of a half-buried T-shirt. He realized that there were other bits of color peeking through the leaves and grass in the clearing. Scott walked around, kicking at the dead brush and leaves and uncovering various articles of discarded clothing with almost every scuff of his feet. Bras, shorts, socks, men’s boxer shorts, women’s panties… Once he moved the cover of browned leaves from last fall away, the clearing was like a clothes store that had been washed over by a mudslide.
“Haven’t these people ever heard of Goodwill?” Scott murmured to himself.
He decided to walk beyond the clearing, and when the path left the clothes behind and opened into another section of open land, Scott stopped.
And whistled.
He’d stepped into another oddly populated clearing amid the heavy trees. Only this one wasn’t full of clothes.
It was full of cars.
And trucks.
And a lot of rust.
Scott was no auto buff, but there were vehicles here that must have been slowly dissolving into the soil for a lot longer than fifty years. There were some heavily rusted cars here that were old. Like…old school Ford Model T kind of old.
He walked up and touched the hood of what he thought was a 1960s Buick Skylark. His dad had driven one when he was a kid, and this looked a lot like that car—lots of chrome up front, and a baby-blue hood amid the long circles of rust. The glass was mostly missing from the front window, and the springs of the once white leather seats were more apparent than any covering.
Scott walked between the cars, nodding at a 1980s Ford Reliant sitting next to a Dodge Omni and a not-so-old Hyundai hatchback. There was a sports car from the ’70s and a couple of tanks from the ’40s and ’50s, all parked in neat rows, right next to each other. There were a few that were old enough that he couldn’t even hazard a guess as to their make or model. They were all covered in leaves and rust but…why were they here?
He touched the taillight of the Skylark and turned around.
A chill crept down his neck. There was something oddly creepy about stumbling into a graveyard for old cars in the middle of a forest.
And something equally disturbing about a graveyard for old clothes. It made sense if you thought about it—there were no garbage trucks out here running the trails to cart away stuff, so people in the backcountry probably had to create their own disposal places. But still…
He didn’t want to know about what the next clearing might hold. What did they do out here about cemeteries?
Scott turned back towards the hotel, and walked, just perhaps, a bit brisker than usual until the trail collided with the old tree trunk.
He hopped it and moved quickly back into the realm of the more used portion of the trail. He didn’t want to see or think about what was beyond the old tree trunk barrier again. Though he knew he would.
Scott walked as fast as he could down the path the way he’d come, suddenly anxious to just be back at the inn.
Chapter Five
When he walked in, Ellen was standing behind the front desk. She almost looked as if she was waiting there, just for him.
“I’m so sorry I missed ya at breakfast,” she said. “Did you have a nice walk then, Mr. Belvedere?”
He nodded.
“Where did you go? I told my Caroline that she was ta show you around. Don’t want you gettin’ lost around here by yourself.”
Scott shook his head. “No, she’s been very helpful. I just thought I’d take a stroll on my own.”
She tried to hide a frown. “I’d like it if you’d take Caroline or someone with you, if ya decide to go that way again,” she said. “People get lost out there on the trails, and you don’t know nothing about the area. Until ya do…”
“I appreciate the concern,” he said. “I’ll try not to wander into the forest without a guide next time.”
Ellen nodded. Then she grinned. “Young Mister Belvedere, I think I’ve got somethin’ to show ya.”
“Oh?”
“Some ’in’ that belonged to your great-grandfather. It’s yers now one way or the other, but I’d like to be the one to give it to ya.”
She motioned for him to come around to the back of the check-in desk, and when he did, she turned and opened a small door in the wall near the mail cubbies and a myriad of key rings. It wasn’t a standard-sized door, and though he wasn’t ta
ll, Scott had to duck his head to follow her inside.
He walked down four steps and through a narrow wood-paneled hall. Ellen disappeared through an oval frame around the hall, and Scott ducked his head to follow her inside. When she stopped, he almost ran right into her. But after he recovered his balance, he began to look around, and as he did, he whistled.
The room was like a storage closet…for history. There were pictures hung on all the walls—dozens of them, all framed—a mix of color and black-and-white art. Frames were also stacked in piles against the walls, in between an array of bureaus and cabinets and small tables, all stacked with bric-a-brac. Candleholders, jewelry, silver statuettes of animals and carved wood sculptures of trees and wolves. Pottery vases and knapsacks, leather books and mugs with logos and photos on them. A blue trunk covered in brass fittings that might have come across from Europe on a steamer. An antique old radio with a cat’s eye tuning light and wooden knobs that clearly hailed from the first half of the 1900s. A tall nymph statue that should have been anchoring a yard garden stood next to a desk lamp covered in a stained glass shell. Nothing was in order, and on the flat surfaces, books leaned on piles of papers and dishes, willy-nilly.
“Is this ‘The Place Where All Lost Things Are Found’?” he asked.
Ellen smiled. “In a way.” She pointed around the room. “These are the personal effects of your ancestors, the men who ran The Family Tree Inn. Each of the items here had meaning to them. And so each of them has been set aside here, so that it would not be lost. So that it would be available in the future to other members of the family.”
“So it’s like the library of my ancestors,” Scott said. “A museum of their personal effects.”
Ellen nodded. “The Belvederes have always taken great pride in their lineage. This place is both a refuge and a shrine. Your grandfather used to spend many hours here, reading old journals and remembering those who had gone before. Each of the things in this room have a story. It’s your privilege to learn those stories, or not, as you see fit.”
“And how am I to do that?” Scott asked, waving a hand around. “There is a ton of stuff here, but I don’t know anything about who it belonged to, or why it is here.”
Ellen smiled. “Your grandfather will help you.”
Scott raised an eyebrow, and the old woman couldn’t contain a smile.
“I said that he used to spend a lot of time in here, and part of what he did was to chronicle the stories behind many of the pieces stored in the room. You can find his pages of description taped to the back of the larger works, and the rest remain in a book on the desk over there.”
She pointed at a rich mahogany dresser that held a stack of red-and-black bound tomes. “If you’d like, you can read about some of the items here yourself, or I can give you the guided tour.”
“I don’t want to waste your time,” Scott began. She cut him off.
“Waste? I’m the caretaker of this inn, and by extension, of your family. I’d like you to appreciate your history.”
“Is there anything here that you think I should definitely not miss?” Scott said. He didn’t know what to ask, really.
She though a moment, and then nodded. “There is one thing. You’ll read about it yourself, if you go through the journals in this room, but you should not miss it if you don’t.”
She walked over to a bureau, and reached up to lift a twisted wooden design off the wall. “This was carved by your great-great-grandfather from a branch of the tree.”
She handed it to Scott. It was heavy—nearly three feet tall and half as wide. The base was wide but then grew narrow for a bit until it widened again into eight branches. It was a simple carving of a tree…but as Scott looked closer, he saw it was more than that. The branches all separated at their ends into two thinner, long branches with one stub left in the middle. He moved it closer to his face, when he saw that there were fine lines carved in the wood.
Ellen nodded. “They’re faces. The faces of William Melton Belvedere and his family. If you look close, you’ll see a figure carved into the trunk. That’s William…and extending from him—into the head of the tree—you’ll see eight children. You’re descended from Evan, the one just left of the center. He carved this. After William finally passed on, Evan ran this inn for more than fifty years, before passing it on to his son, Andrew.”
“My grandfather,” Scott guessed.
“Just so.”
Scott stared at the thinly etched figures that made up the tree. While faint, and not terribly intricate, if you looked closely, there was enough detail to them that you could tell that they were nude, and that there were three women reaching for the sky, amid the men.
“With all of these children, there must be other Belvederes somewhere?” Scott asked.
Ellen shook her head. “Sadly, that is not the case. Evan’s family was the only one to survive out of all William’s offspring. And his children also met with several unhappy ends. There are many who have some of the blood, but you’re the only direct male descendant.”
“Apparently the Family Tree isn’t the Fountain of Youth it’s cracked up to be,” Scott said.
Ellen took him by the shoulders. Her old eyes were suddenly full of fire. “Don’t say such a thing! Times then were violent. And there was a lot of jealousy about the Tree.”
“So you’re saying William’s family didn’t die of natural causes,” Scott said.
Ellen shook her head. “Not a one.”
He handed the tree back to her. “Not much of a good luck charm, is it?”
“Every family has its dark times,” she said, positioning the tree back in its place on the wall. “But there have been many wonderful times in this inn as well.”
The jingle of a bell rang from the other room. “Please excuse me, Mr. Belvedere. Feel free to stay here and look around.”
With that, she disappeared back down the short hallway, and Scott was alone with detritus of a century of Belvederes. He walked over to a bureau and picked up a tarnished silver hairbrush, set on a mirror. Then he fingered a heavy man’s ring next to it. The band was silver but inset with a jewel of dark ruby. He wasn’t really sure what to look at first. None of it meant anything to him. There was no context.
He stepped to a small desk and picked up a leather-bound book. It looked like an old shop ledger, but inside, he saw that it was filled with the thin, long loops of handwriting.
March 23, 1843
My name is Margaret Belvedere. I am 17 years old this past January and I’ve decided to keep this journal to remind myself of the amazing things that I have and will see in my life. As well as the bad. It’s only the darkness that shows us the power of light. So I will tell of these things that I see and feel. Perhaps someday somebody will read this, and know the secrets of my heart. And perhaps my eyes will be the only ones to ever see these words, and my secrets will die with me.
Scott leafed ahead a few pages.
April 2, 1843
The Indians came again today. I don’t know what they said but I heard father yelling louder than I’ve ever heard him yell. And then there were gunshots. Father looked funny when he came in, but he wouldn’t talk about what happened. He just called them superstitious. But after dinner, I heard him talking to Mama in whispers. When they were done, Mama went to the kitchen and put some garlic on a string and hung it up by the front door. I thought that looked kind of superstitious but I didn’t say nothing.
April 7, 1843
The Indians are dead. Father took us to the tree today, and there were wigwams nearby, but they were all empty. Father told us not to look inside. I saw some things that I don’t want to remember. Not even to record in this journal. I tried not to look inside any of the wigwams after that. Especially Little Willow’s. She was always so nice to us, I don’t want to think about…
Father took out his tin cup and held it up
to a tap around the back of the tree and let loose some thin sap. It was the color of maple syrup, but it didn’t taste like that at all. He told each of us to drink it, that it would make us strong.
I don’t know about strong, but tonight my stomach feels funny.
“Ah, so you’ve found Margaret’s journal,” a voice said behind him. Scott jumped. He hadn’t heard Ellen walk back in.
“Yes,” he said. “It feels a little weird to be reading someone else’s journal.”
“I don’t think she would mind,” Ellen said. “I think she wanted people to read it, eventually.”
“So how did William wipe out the Indians?” he asked. “I assume it was him?”
“Guns versus arrows?” Ellen said. “I don’t think they probably knew what hit them. And from what I understand, they were living here illegally anyways… all the Indians at that point should have been on reservations. Lord knows how they’d stayed hidden so long, but then again, ya never know what yer gonna stumble across up here in these hills.”
“I can’t say I feel real good about being related to someone who would do that,” Scott said.
Ellen nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about why we’re living where we are many a dark night, and it never feels good to stew on it. But there’s nothing we can do to change the past. We just gotta make up a better future, you know?”
“Sounds like a Hallmark card,” he said.
“I mighta picked it up in a greeting card, come to think of it…” she said, with a faint grin.
Scott laughed. “I won’t tell.”
Ellen nodded. “You goin’ to stay here in this room for a bit, or…”