Finding Yourself

by ScarletRibbon

2 - Letters to Mother

*B-R-R-R-R-RING*

The sound of the telephone ringing woke me from my blissful slumber, and like any other interruption to my precious sleep, I was confident I wasn't going to like whatever it was. Phone calls were particularly egregious offenders. If it was an emergency, I probably wouldn't get back to bed. If it wasn't, then I was woken up for no reason. No, nobody ever likes a phone call at... whatever time it was in the morning.

*B-R-R-R-R-RING*

I forced myself to roll over, sparing a moment to glare contemptuously at the red numbers of my alarm clock. It sat there in silence, dutifully informing me that it was 4:38 in the morning on a Sunday. With a sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, where my slippers faithfully waited each night for my feet to stuff them in the morning. I kicked at them in a practiced fashion, slipping them on as naturally as if they were an extension of my body, and shuffled across the carpet like a zombie.

*B-R-R-R-R-RING*

The squeal of hinges resounded through the house as the door to my bedroom opened and I stepped out into the chilly hallway, fumbling blindly to click on the hall light. White walls flooded my vision as my hand found the switch, stinging my retinas. I staggered toward the kitchen, fighting the urge to ignore the phone entirely and return to my peaceful slumber. As I reached the offending device, I silently hoped it wasn't an emergency. At least that way, I could get some catharsis out of yelling at someone for calling the wrong number in the middle of the night.

*B-R-R-R-R-RING*

The phone noisily announced itself again as I reached for it - an old rotary phone that was a relic of my mother's past. Despite everyone in the household having a personal cell phone, we stayed with this ancient device, and I hated it. Mother was so insistent on keeping it, however, that it wasn’t worth the time disputing it with her. I lifted the receiver to my ear, cutting it off before it had a chance to ring again and hopefully preventing anyone else from waking up.

"Hello?" I spoke into the phone groggily.

"Jillian?" a deep, familiar baritone voice asked, breaking slightly.

Lance Wescott was an old family friend who worked on my grandparents’ farm back east. It would be properly morning there, and if he hadn't sounded distressed I might have yelled at him for not respecting time zone differences. As for Jillian, she's my mother. Everyone always thinks I sound like my mother. And like anyone else who has that experience, I loathed the reminder.

"No, this is Rebecca," I replied. I heard him breathing heavily into the phone for a moment, choking back a sob. "Are you okay?" I added, giving him some time to recollect himself.

As he tried to continue, a hand rested on my shoulder. Behind me, my four-minutes-younger identical twin, Sarah, was looking at me questioningly. It was obvious she wanted to ask who was calling. I didn't want Lance to think I wasn't paying attention while he was clearly distressed, so I forced a smile and raised a hand to stall her.

Sarah balanced on the balls of her feet and rocked back and forth impatiently as I waited for Lance to speak. Her nightgown, a thin, sky blue piece, made her look slightly ghostly as it swayed against the silhouette of the hall light behind her. To be honest, even though we were identical twins, I was jealous of her looks. There was a natural beauty to her, even without any makeup and her hair completely mussed, that I never felt I could match.

After a few false starts, Lance finally managed to speak something intelligible. "Rebecca, I need you to get your dad, please." I mouthed the instruction to my sister, who nodded. As Sarah walked away, a thousand possibilities started storming through my head, but the one that wouldn't go away was the thought that one of my grandparents had died.

"Okay. Sarah is going to get mom and dad,” I replied, “Lance, what's wrong? What happened?" I was hoping against hope that my fears wouldn't be confirmed, but Lance was having a hard time speaking. For a few moments, only silence passed between us, interrupted occasionally by his choked sobbing. Each time he cried out, my anxiety grew.

"The farmhouse,” he finally managed to say. “I woke up early this morning, and it was on fire."

"What do you mean, ‘on fire’?"

I felt like an idiot the moment the words left my lips. My thoughts were racing; I didn't know how to respond, but that momentous display of intelligence was all I had mustered. Fire burns things, Rebecca, I chastised myself. Something that is on fire is typically burning, and burning buildings are bad. Burning homes, doubly so. Especially burning homes that belonged to family.

"...Please, just give the phone to your dad." I glanced toward my parents' room and saw my father rolling toward me in his wheelchair, with Sarah following patiently behind him. My mother followed a few steps behind Sarah, fussing with her own cell phone. Father rolled up and stopped next to me, putting his hand out.

"Okay, here's dad," I mumbled into the receiver.

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I could have slept, and under normal circumstances, running on no sleep could have led to a wonderfully peaceful time sleeping. Unfortunately, my mortal fear of flying wasn't helping; I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to.

In my efforts to not completely panic, I distracted myself by trying to read a book. It was a fantasy novel about a land where everyone had a magical talent, and a main character who didn't know what his talent was. A friend had recommended it to me, and while I wasn't normally one to read, the book had proven interesting enough. Unfortunately, while it was great for occupying my breaks at work, it wasn't sufficient to distract me from the reason I was on the plane in the first place.

As my father had relayed to us, my grandparents were in critical condition in the hospital, and the outlook wasn't good. They weren’t likely to survive, and we had immediately boarded the next available flight in hopes that we would arrive before their passing. Sitting on the plane, I realized I hadn't seen my grandparents in six years. Memories came flooding back to me, and before I knew it, my vision had clouded and the pages of my book were just a blur of black streaks on paper. Then, tears began to fall.

...Do you want to hear a story, Becca?

You sometimes hear people talk about their loved ones that had passed, and how they have forgotten what a loved one's voice sounds like after they have been gone for a while. Even though we hadn’t spoken in six years, that certainly wasn't the case for me; it sometimes seemed like all I could remember about grandfather was his voice... and now I was afraid I wouldn't hear it again.

Before settling down with my grandmother to run the family farm she inherited, my grandfather had had a sense of wanderlust. He had travelled the world, and loved telling stories about his experiences. Many of my memories of him were of sitting around the living room - my sister and I - enraptured as he was regaling us with tales of his travels.

An older me could recognize that many of the stories were embellished, but they were just plausible enough that most of them were probably rooted in truth. His stories didn’t just brighten my day; they also made my grandfather shine with excitement. I remembered his smile, crooked teeth and all, whenever Sarah or I agreed to listen to one of his tales. As he told them, his eyes, blue as the sky, lit up with energy that far exceeded his years. It seemed like he would relive each memory as he told it, time and time again; story after story about India, Saudi Arabia, Australia, Japan, South Africa, Germany. Sometimes it seemed like there weren't any countries he hadn't been to. And his hands, wrinkled like raisins, pantomimed animatedly as he spoke of these adventures...

... I also remember those hands writing letters. Every Sunday after supper, he would excuse himself and go out to a small shed in the backyard, where he would cloister himself for an hour. Inside the shed was a desk, where he would sit and write a letter to his deceased mother. When the letter was done, he would put it into a large safe, and then quietly return to the house. It was his personal alone time, and we weren't supposed to disrupt it.

When I was around ten years old, I went out to the shed. I don't recall if I was being a bratty kid, or if I had a legitimate reason to bother him, but as I opened the door to the shed I saw him putting a letter away. I do recall that the combination lock on the safe was fascinating to me, because I'd never seen a combination lock in real life before. The only locks I was familiar with were every-day locks: typical locks you would see on the front door of your home, or whatever cars did when you locked them. I thought it was neat to finally see something I had only seen on film and in cartoons.

Grandfather wasn't bothered by my interruption, welcoming me with open arms. At my interrogation, he explained how the lock worked, and showed me how to open the safe. After I had opened and closed it several times in wonderment, I asked him why he put his letters to his mother in there.

I never had a chance to say goodbye to my mother. Even though I loved her so much, the last time I ever saw her we got into a fight. I said some cruel, hurtful things to her. Things no one should ever say to their mother. Things that I can never take back anymore. I lock my letters to my mother away with her ashes, to remind myself that, sometimes, the things we say cannot be taken back. Now that I have been doing this for so many years, I’ve also realized something else. The amount of time we have to say things to others is limited. I now know just how much I wanted to say to her that never had a chance to be said. So, now, I write it for her. And, somewhere up in heaven, I know she can read it.

Those words stuck with me. Now, I wasn’t a religious person, and I didn’t believe his mother would be somewhere up in the sky, reading his last memoirs, but I did understand what grandfather meant. And from that day, I'd sworn to never say hurtful things to anyone I loved.

My grandfather had inspired me to be a better person. Of course, I wasn't perfect. Twins are just expected to get along, but we really didn't. In fact, I said spiteful things to my sister all the time. In recent years, it had only gotten worse. It’s not that I hated her… but just thinking about it made me feel guilty all over again. He certainly wouldn't approve of the way we’d been treating each other recently.

Just last week, she brought me a dress to try on to see if it would look good on her. Being identical twins, it was something we had routinely done over the years. Only this time, she had made a point of poking my belly. My cheeks burned with anger as I recalled what she said.

“Nope, it makes me look fat. I should return it.”

I wasn’t particularly sensitive about my weight, but I was heavier than her, if only slightly. I got mad and tore the dress off - literally - screaming back at her about how it only made her look fat because she was. Then she made a big deal about how she wasn’t fat, and how much she’d paid for the dress I had just ruined. I wouldn’t have any of it because I felt she was being a jerk... and then mom got involved, and I had to pay her back, and… What if that had been one of our last interactions? I would feel terrible. And just like grandfather, I wouldn’t be able to take it back.

And now what was the last thing I had said to my grandparents? Now that I was thinking about it, I couldn't even recall. Everything from years ago was such a blur. Tears came pouring down again as the realization struck home: I probably would not be able to say goodbye to them.

Pulling my knees tightly to my chest, I quietly cried for the rest of the flight, not really caring if I was disturbing other passengers.

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Zecora stood outside her hut, looking up to the dark clouds with a grim expression. A strange silence had settled upon the normally feral creatures of the forest. The storm brewing above was extraordinary, and the increasing winds carried whispers of ill omens that nearly every creature could feel. The zebra shaman sniffed the damp air, listening intently for any foreign sounds.

A foul smell betrayed the presence of timberwolves on the prowl somewhere upwind, toward Ponyville. Timberwolf hunts were unpleasantly common in the Everfree Forest, and the creatures were ignorant of the collateral damage they often caused in their wake. Their rampages often destroyed her cultivars, though fortunately they respected the Blade Ferns and Rotcaps that surrounded her hut, and the beasts kept their distance.

With a concerned ear kept to the forest, Zecora trotted softly over to a cultivated patch of herbs, plucked one with her teeth, and retreated quickly into her hut. Her cauldron bubbled softly as her soft hoofsteps clicked on the wooden floor. Dropping the newly plucked herb into the blend, Zecora stirred vigorously with a wooden ladle as rain started drumming against the roof of her hut. After a short time, the bubbling of the brew stilled and the surface glowed with a soft green hue.

Humming a tune, Zecora removed the ladle, spooning some of the new compound into a nearby wooden bowl. After poring over her myriad collection of natural ingredients, bottled alchemical concoctions, and other assorted jars of substances best left alone, she pulled down a large jar filled with firegrass, an orange moss that warmed slightly when wet and made an excellent base for medical poultices. She gently shook some out into the bowl and absent-mindedly mashed all of the contents with her hoof, grinding the moss and mixture together into a thick, gooey substance.

A distant howling from outside shook Zecora's attention away from her alchemy. The timberwolves were chasing something. And whatever it was, it was approaching rapidly. Curious, Zecora stepped outside her hut again to listen. As the commotion neared, something else could be heard amongst the sharp howls: A voice. At least one; it was hard to tell amongst the timberwolves’ cry.

Zecora perked her ears, trying to identify the creature. Few denizens of the Forest were capable of speech, and not all were friendly. After a few moments, an obscenity shouted in a familiar drawl cut through the air.

Oh no, no, no, Zecora thought to herself. She knew that voice: the eternally curious Apple filly.

Why must that foolish child be here now?

No time could be spared if an entire pack of timberwolves were hunting a single filly, but fighting off timberwolves required preparation. Darting inside, Zecora grabbed a firebrand ointment and quickly doused herself in it, grabbing a second bottle for a possible emergency. Other bottles flew from shelves into Zecora's saddlebags as she hastily grabbed everything she might possibly need. She quickly scraped her new creation into an empty vessel and threw it into her bag as well, and then bolted out the door at a full gallop.

The rain was already starting to soften the earth beneath her hooves, but her sturdy horseshoes - given to her as a gift from Applejack - gave extra purchase upon the firmer earth below the muck, propelling her as fast as she could go. She only hoped it would be fast enough.

The shrieking and howling shifted, heading deeper into the forest as Zecora galloped through concealed pathways that few knew about. Time was of the essence. Gnarled trees whipped past her on all sides, and she pressed on, leaping over patches of poison joke, dodging blade ferns, and evading other dangerous terrain skillfully. Her speed, mobility, and superior knowledge of the land allowed her to close the distance between herself and the wolves, but she was fighting against a late start, and that was going to be difficult to compensate for.

A few minutes later, a shrill howl pierced the air, an utterance timberwolves used to signal others to their location … and usually meant that prey had been cornered. Zecora felt her skin crawl as she realized what lay in that direction: Gwydion’s End.

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When the plane touched down it felt like 8 PM, which was probably fitting since I didn't usually wake up until 8 AM and I'd been up for twelve hours already. Life has a strange sense of humor, sometimes; due to the magic of time zones, it actually was 8 PM anyway. But while I may have dodged a bullet with jet lag, I was completely exhausted from lack of sleep and stress, and I was ready to crash.

As it turns out, 'sleep deprived' is not the best condition to be flying in a plane, and ruminating on the information that my grandparents were both in critical condition at the hospital the whole way meant I hit the ground not just tired, but in a somber, foul mood. There are only so many variations on the question of human mortality one can ponder before spiraling into despair, and as the plane pulled into the terminal I was ready to lash out at almost anyone.

Lance met us at the baggage claim, a grim look on his tear-streaked face. His cropped brown hair was unkempt and he looked even more tired than I felt. Immediately upon seeing us, he sat down in the nearest chair and beckoned father over. Not a word was said between them; Lance's eyes told us everything. My grandparents were gone. The two shared a comforting embrace, each silently grieving over the loss.

Mom softly rubbed dad's shoulders and an awkward silence descended as my father’s sobs caused the usual airport commotion to disperse quickly. Then, as the reality of the situation dawned on Sarah, she started bawling, too. I’d already vented all the tears I could before we landed, so I just stood there, an empty feeling welling up inside of me.

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I gasped as the corner of my grandparents' property came into view. The smell of fire permeated the air, and a massive, blackened wooden frame, barely standing above the fields of corn, marked my grandparent's former home; a testament to the blazing inferno that had consumed everything.

Lance had dropped mom and dad off to see my grandparents at the morgue. I didn't want to tarnish my memories by seeing their burnt bodies, and Sarah had begged Lance to take her to the farm instead. Mom and dad had agreed, so arrangements were made to meet at a local hotel later in the night. With limited options, I went ahead and joined Sarah.

As Lance's car rumbled over the gravel road, I could see that the center portion of the house had collapsed, though some of the interior walls were still partially standing.

"Oh my god..." Sarah whispered beside me.

In a rare moment of agreement between us sisters, I simply nodded silently. The charred remains of our childhood stood silently among the grass - grass that had once been a yard we played in. Lance steered the car slowly down the dirt driveway and stopped next to what had once been the front door.

A cool, evening air greeted me as I stepped out of the car. Before me was a lifeless skeleton of wood and metal, twisted and broken. All I could do was stare in awe of the destructive power of flame; the majesty of a three-story house reduced to nothing more than a shell of its former glory. Sarah started crying again as we stood there. Lance embraced her, offering his shoulder, and the two walked away slowly.

Excusing myself, I wandered away in a stunned silence, leaving the two behind. I slowly walked around the house, peering between broken walls, looking for anything I knew. I shook my head in disbelief; no matter where I looked, I couldn't find any recognizable signs from my youth in the burnt out husk of the house.

When I came around behind the house, I saw the shed. The wind must have been blowing away from it during the fire, because it didn't appear to have been affected by the blaze at all. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, it looked every bit like some sort of lonely shack on a prairie. It was somber, yet beautiful in its own fashion. I couldn't say I was feeling happy to see it, but that vision set off something in me; I felt a sense of purpose, something I needed to do.

The door to the shed was flimsier than I remembered as I opened it and stepped inside. Stumbling around blindly, it took me several seconds before I finally found the overhead chain and clicked on the light. There, along the right wall, was grandfather's writing desk, a stained mahogany piece that was showing its age. The stain was worn and faded, especially on the surface where my grandfather had often written, and scars and scuffs from general use marred the otherwise stellar craftsmanship. I pulled out the chair and sat down, grabbing paper and pen from the drawer my grandfather had always kept it in. And I began writing.

To Great Grandmother Williams,

Hello. This is your great granddaughter, Rebecca. I know you don’t really know me, but I’m pretty sure grandfather must have mentioned me to you at least a few times. I know I never got a chance to meet you, but I wish I had. Grandfather spoke of you fondly, and you sound like you were an amazing woman.

It's Sunday today, and because it’s Sunday, I know you're probably expecting a letter from grandfather.

But you won’t get one this week. Tonight, I'm writing in his place. I don't know what things are like for you in the great hereafter, or how all that stuff works. Maybe you already know? But just in case you don't, I feel like I should tell you. Grandfather has gone to join you on the other side. And I know he loved you a lot. So, I hope that whatever happens when we pass on, you two are seeing each other again now.

I stopped to wipe tears from my eyes, my grandparents passing feeling more and more real with each word I wrote.

We all really miss grandfather, in the same way that I'm sure he missed you. He was well-loved, and I'm grateful that you brought him into this world so that I could meet him. I guess I wouldn't be around if it weren't for you, too. So, thank you for that!

Anyway, I don't really know what else to write. I just knew I couldn't leave you hanging, waiting for a letter that would never come. I wish I could have talked to you, even just once.

With all my heart,

Your Great Granddaughter,

Rebecca Williams

As the pen dropped, I was feeling a strangely bittersweet happiness. I didn’t believe in an afterlife, but just writing those words down had given me a sense of completeness. It wasn't quite closure, but somehow it felt right. More right than anything else that had happened to me in a long time.

I walked over to the safe. It was a large, dark grey safe, laden with a large plate that had Dedicated To the Memory of Bernice Williams engraved upon it. A smaller plate beneath, reading 3/16/1906-1/12/1973, sat just above the combination lock. Unless grandfather had moved the jar, some of her ashes should be inside. In more than one way, my great grandmother was laid to rest here. As that fact settled over me, I felt very self-conscious of both what I had just done and what I was about to do.

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The cave, known to its guardians only as Gwydion’s End, was held as a sacred ground, one that Zecora’s tribe had been tasked to watch over for over a thousand years. Generations later, even her tribal elders were not certain exactly what the cave contained, or even if their ancestors ever knew. Some said it contained a relic of Nightmare Moon’s rebellion, one that should never be disturbed. Others believed it was a portal to Tartarus. Still others claimed it was the tomb of Celestia and Luna’s parents, a ground so sacred only the Sisters themselves dared to tread upon it.

All Zecora knew for sure was that whatever was inside contained a power so incredible that even the alien magic of the Everfree grew still around it. And, absent the forest’s magic, even the fearsome creatures of the Everfree kept their distance.

Zecora skidded to a halt as the ledge over Gwydion’s End raced up to meet her. The downpour of rain had rendered the entire area slick with mud. As she had feared, an entire pack of timberwolves were pacing around the edge, howling and whining to one another as Zecora arrived. Their prey must have fallen in.

Before she had a chance to approach any further, one of the timberwolves turned to her and growled, drawing the attention of the rest of the pack. Four of the roughly dozen timberwolves turned away from the flooded depression and circled around Zecora instead, sizing up their new prey. Zecora's eyes narrowed and she dug her hooves into the mud, preparing to fight off the beasts.

"I am protected by the seeds of flame,” she uttered menacingly to the wolves that were now pacing around her in a circle. “You would be wise to heed my claim.”

As she expected, the timberwolves were undeterred. One lunged at her from the rear, only to be met with a zebra’s hind hoof crashing into its face, shattering the beast on contact. The pieces of the timberwolf scattered about on the ground, burying themselves into the mud as Zecora firmed up her footing again. Acknowledging a new threat, three more split away from the pack to focus on their new prey.

Two more of the timberwolves tried their luck, attacking from both sides simultaneously. Zecora whipped to the side as she reared up, boxing the wolf on her left with a front hoof, deflecting its attack. The other sank a fang into her flank, forcing her to a cry out in pain. A brilliant blue flame erupted from the wound, immolating the timberwolf as the firebrand ointment ignited. The timberwolf she’d knocked away scrambled to retreat as the flames engulfing its companion licked at its face.

In mere moments, blazing husks of wood collapsed into the mud with a hiss, the spirit of the timberwolf already snuffed out. Steam billowed out violently from the burning corpse on impact, and continued to hiss angrily as each raindrop struck home. At the sight of magical fire, the entire timberwolf pack scattered, barking and whining to each other as they fled.

Zecora's flank was in agonizing pain as she craned her neck around to examine her wound. The fangs of the creature had punctured deep in the middle of the spiraling pattern of her Sigil. Though the flame had already cauterized the flesh, the burning did nothing to help the pain. Digging through her satchel, she pulled out the vial containing her newest mixture and applied some to the injury. Dampened by the rain, the water in her fur activated the firegrass immediately, providing a soothing warmth that numbed the pain. Unfortunately, the cauterized flesh would prevent the healing herbs of the poultice from helping, so it could only serve as a numbing agent for now.

Satisfied that the timberwolves were gone, Zecora approached the flooded basin with trepidation. Peering over the ledge, Zecora's eyes went wide in fear. There was no sign of anypony in the water; had Apple Bloom fallen in? Zecora wasn't sure if the filly could swim, but even if she had drowned in the rising waters, her lifeless body should still float. Yet the pit was lifeless, and always was, so there shouldn't have been any branches for a body to snag on below the water, either.

Had the foalish child gone into Gwydion’s End to avoid the wolves? It was the only answer Zecora could fathom.

Zebras, like ponies, were not the greatest underwater swimmers. There wasn't any way she could possibly swim to the entrance without drowning; the water would have to be removed somehow. She rummaged through her pack again, pulling out a large vial of black oil with a heavy cork. Walking over to the burning timberwolf corpse, she set the cork ablaze with the firebrand’s magical blue flames.

The cork hissed and spat with energies of its own as it ignited violently. Satisfied that it was properly lit, Zecora heaved the bottle as far as she could into the water. The magical flame of the firebrand mixing with the alchemical properties of the enchanted cork caused the water to bubble violently as it sank deeper and deeper into the flooded pit. As each bubble popped on the surface, multi-colored flames belched into the air, providing an eye-pleasing pyrotechnic display to any onlookers.

This wasn’t a firework show, however, and Zecora wasn't watching for entertainment. She took shelter behind a nearby tree and covered her ears. Blasting oil was exceedingly dangerous and normally reserved for industrial excavation, but it had alchemical uses as well.

Half a minute after the ignition of the cork, a massive explosion erupted from the pit. Water blasted into the sky in every direction, ablaze with both magical and alchemical residues. Most of the fluid burned into vapor rapidly, but some of it splashed against nearby trees, setting the surrounding forest aflame. Zecora shook her head, hoping the heavy rain would keep the fires to a minimum, but she didn't have time to worry about the consequences of that right now. The consequences from a reckless filly in Gwydion’s End could be far worse.

She trotted over to the pit, where the lingering heat from the explosion was intense. She was sure it was only made bearable by the firebrand ointment. What water remained in the pit was rapidly boiling away, and the cave entrance was easily visible now. Still, burning flames covered the entire surface of the remaining water, and the dangerous drop wasn't terribly inviting. The firebrand could protect her from the flames, but the fall would be another issue entirely. Nothing in her pack would be helpful here; in her haste to leave quickly, she had not managed to grab any cloudfall tinctures.

Carefully lowering herself down over the ledge, Zecora dropped to the ground below, rolling in the muddy water. The landing was rough and sent a shock through her rear hooves that might have hurt immensely if the local numbing sensation from her flank’s firegrass salve hadn't dulled her senses. Sinking to her knees, she steeled her resolve and started her slog toward the cave entrance.

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I knelt down and turned the knob around a few times. The numbers flew around the dial as I quivered nervously. Finally, carefully, I stopped it on the position that read '1'. I turned the dial around the other way, making sure to do a full rotation, stopping at '12'.

Right 1, Left 12, Right 73. The memory from my childhood was so vivid that I could remember the combination clearly. I looked again at the engraved plating. January 12, 1973. I smiled as I put the two together, something that had completely eluded me as a child. My grandfather's intimate thoughts, the thousands of letters to his mother he had written were kept within, sealed with the day she had died. And now I was going to 'send' my own letter.

Why was I doing this?

A chill ran down my spine as I completed the final rotation to '73'. This was the moment of truth. This was the moment where my grandfather’s memoirs would be laid bare. I reached for the handle and pulled gently down on it. With a soft click, the heavy door swung open. I let go of a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

The safe contained a single shelf, bisecting the interior into two equal halves. The bottom of the safe contained a mess of what appeared to be legal documents, a significant amount cash, and jewelry - things you would expect to find in a safe.

But on the shelf, in the back right corner, was a small urn; undoubtedly my grandmother’s ashes. Surrounding that urn were countless letters, rubber-banded together in groups. Another stack of loose letters sat against the rubber-banded collections, looking decidedly less aged. The remainder of the shelf was covered with about two dozen letters letters laid flat, with various coins and tchotchkes sitting on them like paperweights.

I swallowed hard as I carefully set the letter I had written alongside the newer-looking unbound letters. It felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders as the paper left my fingers, but now a terrible curiosity was rearing its ugly head.

What were these letters with things apparently attached? I picked up one of the letters, one with a small coin on it. Grabbing the coin, I brought it to my face and examined it closely. I didn’t recognize it and couldn’t even identify the language of its country of origin, but the coin had seen better days. Like my grandfather, it was well-travelled. I picked up the letter it had been sitting on.

Dearest Mother,

I found myself hearing my grandfather's voice again as I read his writing.

I Pray every day that the life beyond our Mortal Coil is treating you well. I found a coin this week when I was cleaning the attic. Do you remember when I went to Rhodesia? Apparently, this Six pence Coin came home with me. I still remember the day I came back to America and You came to pick me up when I got off the Boat. I was so excited to be Home. Do You remember that too?

Waiting for the Day I see you again,

with Love,

Charles Williams

The letter was strangely subdued. It lacked the energy and long-windedness my grandfather was known for when he told his stories. A sudden sense of guilt washed over me; this wasn't a part of my grandfather's life I should be privy to. As I wiped away tears in my eyes, I set the letter back where it was, and carefully placed the coin back on top of it.

I was about to close the safe when a soft glow caught my eye. It was a small orb in the back corner, about the size of a tennis ball, sitting atop another letter. A glowing sphere, swirling with all the colors of the rainbow, tantalizing my eyes. The whirlpool of colors held my attention for quite a while, and the longer I gazed upon it, the more I was struck with desire. I’m not sure how long I stared, but eventually, I knew: I had to touch it.

Carefully, I reached in and pressed my hand to it. It was cool to the touch, with a glassy smooth texture. I rubbed slowly across the surface with my palm, wondering what on Earth this strange, mysterious artifact might be. Was it some vessel for a long dormant spirit? I entertained the thought briefly.

”WHO SUMMONS ME?” a Djinni would thunder.

“It was me, Rebecca!” I would exclaim.

“I AM GRATEFUL, CHILD REBECCA, THAT YOU HAVE RELEASED ME FROM MY PRISON. FOR THIS FAVOR YOU HAVE BESTOWED UPON ME, I SHALL GRANT YOU THREE WISHES.”

Okay, so I didn’t really believe in magical lamps and wish-granting cosmic beings. By the time you hit the age of nineteen, you usually don’t believe in magic anymore… but a bit of a fantasy here and there never hurt anyone.

Picking the orb up gently, I peered into it. A colorful ribbon of light danced around slowly inside of it, refracting off the glass surface and casting scattered swirls of color across the walls of the shed. I paused, rapt with awe. It certainly hadn’t been doing that when I first opened the safe. A sense of peace and serenity washed over me.

Prior to that moment I hadn't realized just how tense I was. As I gazed upon the colorful maelstrom, my stress just melted away. I don’t know how long I was entranced by it, but with a deep sigh, I decided I needed to put it away. Not in the safe. No, it couldn’t stay here.

Searching around in the shed, it didn't take long to find a small metal toolbox just large enough for it to fit. I dumped the contents of the toolbox on the desk and put the strange orb inside. Then, to prevent it from rattling around or getting damaged, I wadded up some of the paper from the desk drawer and jammed as much of it into the toolbox as I could.

That should do.

Sarah and Lance were nowhere in sight as I stepped out of the shed. I walked around to the front of the house, where I found the car still sitting unattended. They had probably taken a walk in the fields to clear their heads. Sarah had always loved to do that, and Lance may have gone with her.

My duffel bag, full of all the clothes I had packed, was sitting in the back seat of the car, undisturbed. With both of them gone, this was my chance. I grabbed the bag and started to run back toward the shed, tearing around the side of the house and aiming straight for the shed.

"What’s up, Beck? Why the rush?"

... And there it is. I hated that nickname, and Sarah knew it. I stopped mid-stride and turned to see Lance and Sarah sitting on an overturned wooden bin nearby. They had probably been watching me ever since I left the shed, and I’d somehow missed them. Now I needed an excuse, and quick!

"... Uh..."

Great job, I thought to myself, I'm sure they're completely convinced. I glanced down at the duffel bag, where a pair of blue jeans was visible through a small tear in the side. "There's an old sewing kit in the shed," I lied. "I'm gonna stitch up the tear in my duffel bag." If I'd sounded as fake as I felt right then, my lie wasn't going to go very far.

"Whatever," Sarah replied dismissively, turning back to a small sketchbook in her hands, her pen dancing away. A moment of realization struck me. Even though I was trying to be sneaky, they had no reason to think I was being sneaky, so I didn't need to actually be sneaky!

… Why was I being sneaky about this in the first place? Was it because I was stealing? The thought nagged at my consciousness as I strode into the shed once more and set about tucking the toolbox carefully amongst my clothes.

When I was done, I closed up the safe and spun the dial one last time. A heavy sigh escaped from my lips. What was I doing? Stealing not just from my dead grandfather, but also his dead mother? My great-grandmother? It knew it was wrong; I did. But somehow I felt that I was supposed to have it. That I had to have it. And I couldn’t fight that.

… I just didn’t know why.

Author's Note:

Edited 10/23 for minor formatting.

Edited 1/31/2017 for minor grammatical issues.

Comments

[Hakiro Mazuto]

It was a fantasy novel about a land where everyone had a magical talent, and a main character who didn't know what his talent was

I see what you did there