It makes no sense. What’s a goat in this context? Are there goats roaming through the woods around these parts? What does it mean by “a child’s name”? “Let your memory leap” is the most jarring since it is a directive towards the reader. Towards me.

  Luke is confident that the first two lines describe a tree, and I have no reason to argue. So the question is: what tree? Where is it? The last two lines must give a hint of where.

  I stare at the photo I took of the mallet, which is still at Luke’s. For the first time, I pay attention to the single quotes around ‘goat,’ as if it’s a label or a name or a nickname . . . I bolt from my pillow where I now lay.

  “It’s the name of the tree!” I yell out loud to the empty room. “A child’s name . . . a name a child gave it. Me.” I jog my memory, as the riddle said to, for all the names I had given the trees of the Woodland when I was kid, names that I shared with my grandma. Tom, Billy, Rosie . . . “Billy! Billy goat!”

  I jump out of my bed in excitement, laughing. She actually remembered these old names and made them a part of her treasure hunt!

  Without thinking twice, I run out of my room, out of the cabin, and into the night.

  The sky is a deep, dark blue as the sky is lit only by the moon. I enter the Woodland with only the flashlight on my phone, and I immediately regret it. I go back inside the cabin, grab a better flashlight, plus a scarf that belonged to my grandmother.

  Once I'm amid the patch of trees between my cabin and the Gabelmans', I try to remember which tree I named Billy. The tree was part of a sequence of names, starting with Tom, which I labeled to trees with peculiar branches or trunks, or other characteristics I had taken a liking to. As I flood the light on these massive giants, I suddenly hear a branch breaking several feet away from me.

  My heart pounds. What was I thinking, being here all alone at night?

  I shine the flashlight frantically all around me. When I see nothing, my pulse slows, and my rational mind takes over. Siskinoa is super safe, and these forests are privately owned for miles around the cabin. The ten acres that Grandma owned encompass mostly the trees beside and behind the cabin. From there, it’s Gableman property, and they must own a hundred acres, including the forest surrounding the lake.

  Confident that the sound must’ve come from a small animal or something, I decide to head back, but then—

  A sudden movement behind a tree five yards from me.

  It disappears, but I’m now frozen. My panting grows loud, and I try to turn but my body is still. Then—

  A person emerges from the darkness.

  It’s Luke. His tall figure slowly comes into view.

  “What are you doing out here?” I yell accusingly, my heart slowing down in relief.

  Luke looks taken aback, but he also wears a strange expression as if he were lost in thought, and I’ve interrupted it.

  “Uh, I was just taking a walk,” he says, taking his time to answer, his voice quiet.

  “At night? In the woods? That’s a strange thing to do.” The lake shore is a much better option.

  A smirk creeps up on his lips, a familiar Luke expression. “And what is it that you’re doing, Wilkerson?”

  “Oh, um, walking,” I say, the shock leaving my body. “Actually, I solved the riddle.”

  “Really?” Luke now looks interested. “What does it mean?”

  I explain the answer, along with my childhood penchant for naming trees. He doesn’t laugh mockingly or smirk at this. He remains as serious as when he first emerged from the darkness, which makes me wonder what else is on his mind.

  “Let’s look for it tomorrow when we don’t need a flashlight,” he says.

  We decide to return at daylight, when the Woodland can jog my memory much faster. We depart, and as we do, I take one last look at Luke before his figure disappears again.

  Chapter 17

  Our plan is a good one. In the morning light, without fear of encountering a wild animal or a serial killer, I’m able to recount what trees I named by retracing my steps from long ago. Billy turns out to be a pine with a strange bark pattern that resembles the letter “B” over and over.

  Luke meets me here with a shovel, and we dig into a patch of grass that isn’t covered in fungi.

  Soon, the shovel hits the lid of a metal tin. The only thing inside is the next clue:

  “Amidst flowers, trees, and mossy dell,

  A hidden spring and a fairy shell.

  Keep quiet where sprites may roam

  As the forest veils this ancient dome.”

  “Any idea what this is referring to?” I ask after reading.

  Luke looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, I’ve got some ideas.”

  I wait for an answer, but he seems reluctant, staring down at his shoes. I expected to see Luke in a sarcastic or indifferent mood this morning, which I assume is his usual form, not the pensive Luke from last night or when we were in the shed. And although he poked fun at my childhood penchant for naming trees with a joke minutes ago, the riddle seems to have darkened his mood again.

  “It might be the well,” he finally answers.

  “The well? There’s a well around here?”

  Luke looks up at the tree branches around us and sighs, almost annoyed. “Yeah. A holy well.”

  “Come again.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “A holy well. It’s like an early Christian thing. A place where people honored saints. They don’t build them anymore. There’s one over that ridge.” He points well beyond a neighboring hill.

  “Oh. Is it—”

  “We should call it a day,” he says, hulling the shovel over his shoulder, his eyes already set in the direction of his home.

  I laugh. “Call it a day? We’ve only been out here for ten minutes.”

  Luke winks at me. “It’s a hike to get over there, Wilkerson. And you’re going to need better shoes.”

  I look down at my tattered Chuck Taylors and analyze some of the glue coming undone. “They’re not that bad.”

  But when I look back up, Luke is already gone.

  October 20, 1951

  I couldn’t have imagined a better way to spend a Saturday than the one we just spent with Donna. She came just after breakfast and didn’t leave until after dinner. We gabbed so much! She also brought in all her nail polish and makeup, and she must’ve given me ten different looks. Mama was surprisingly cool about it, and I still have the polish on.

  However, I wonder about Donna. Sometime before dinner, she and mama got into their own private conversation, but I was able to eavesdrop. I know that Donna has been feeling down in the dumps for some time, especially since she really wants to get married but hasn’t found anyone in Siskinoa. Mama gave her the usual advice about going to church in Cedar Valley or Clearwater to expand her social circle, and Donna said she would. Yet, she said she has other problems. She hasn’t been eating well, or sleeping much, and when she’s not working at the library, she sometimes spends all day in bed. Her own mother has gotten angry about it. After she left, mama said that Donna has a “nervous condition” and should see a head doctor in Seattle about it. Daddy said she’ll pull herself together soon enough.

  I hope Donna can feel better and shake off the blues somehow. She did say after spending time with Tim and his prayer club, she would sometimes feel better. That’s when Dad started asking her questions about what kind of prayers they would do. He didn’t like the sound of it, judging from the look on his face.

  I, for one, think it’s fine. If sitting alone in the middle of the woods and thinking about nothing makes you happy, so be it. I can’t say it would work for me, though. There are too many bobcats.

  Ginny Hunt

  Chapter 18

  A day goes by, and I don’t hear back from Luke. He’s probably too busy for a hike, so I decide to reach out to him in two days. Meanwhile, as the weekend arrives, I have something else to look forward to: my brunch with James.

  The diner we meet at is called Train Stop Café, and it has that retro mid-century look about it. It claims to have been founded in the 1950s, yet another thing inevitably connected to my grandmother. I remind myself to finish her diary as I swing open the heavy door to the restaurant and immediately spot James at a small booth.

  I copy his order—French toast and the allegedly famous orange juice—since he’s a regular and would know the best items on the menu. Then, we slip naturally into conversation, mostly sharing how our week has gone. As I listen to James talk about Canfield Lumber, I can’t help but think of Luke, and I wonder if I should bring up “the firing.”

  Luckily for me, the topic soon introduces itself. Just as James and I are halfway through breakfast, Luke himself enters the diner.

  He heads straight for the counter and says something to the waitress, who then returns into the kitchen. With nothing else to do, Luke peeks around at the other diners, who, curiously, had suddenly hushed at his entrance and are now stealing glances at him.

  He spots me, and at the sight of James opposite me, does a double glance. Luke then gives me a knowing look and departs as soon as his takeout is ready.

  James only notices Luke once he is back in the parking lot and reacts with a faint roll of his eyes.

  “Luke told me about his employment at Canfield Lumber that was cut short,” I say with a nod at the truck that is now backing out of the lot. I add a coy smile, hoping that James will open up.

  “Yeah, and I’m sure he blames me for it.”

  “He says you refused to give him a raise.” I like James enough that I hope he refutes it.

  James drops his fork on his plate and leans back with an exasperated sigh. “We offered him a position as lead woodworker, which makes the same salary as his old position. We didn’t offer anything less than what is industry standard.”

  I throw him a look while cutting through my French toast, and he sighs again. “I know, I sound like an old suit, but we weren’t trying to low-ball him. I swear.”

  I nod and decide it's best to change the subject. “He and I are going on a hike to find a holy well. Something my grandma wanted me to see. It’s a few miles from my place, apparently,” I say without going into more accurate detail.

  James nods with a faint scowl. “Interesting. Be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  James shrugs. “Yeah, it’s the forest.”

  I lower my voice. “James, when Luke came in here a moment ago, I noticed that people were staring at him. Am I missing something?”

  James smiles. “We talked about this, remember? What Tim Gabelman did—or did not do—still haunts this town.”

  It’s my turn to drop the utensils. “But that was Tim. What does that have to do with Luke?”

  James drinks from his glass and hovers it in front of his mouth, like a shield. “They’re part of the same family.”

  I lean back, shocked. “Are you telling me they’ve been ostracized?”

  James lowers his voice. “If his family had reacted differently, I doubt things would be the way they are now. Not only did they defend Tim after Donna died, but they basically held a grudge against everyone in Siskinoa for shutting him out, your grandma being a huge exception. Anyway, they . . . separated themselves from everyone else, so to speak. The Gabelmans never went to any town functions. They sent their kids to schools in Clearwater, instead of here, including Luke. They only stayed because they refused to sell their property, which, you know,” James says, waving his fork as he returns to his french toast, “reinforced the rumors.”

  “Rumors? The ones about Tim, you mean?”

  James smiles at me. “I keep forgetting how little you know. No, Sydney, the rumors about the Gabelmans.” He continues, my look of shock and confusion urging him on. “They never tried to deny that Tim was into the occult, and so people began to believe that the whole family was in on it. Even generations later. The branding sort of stuck to them, especially since no one in their family ever tried to clear things up. Look, I’m not saying how the town has treated them is fair—”

  “It’s not!”

  “—but, you know . . .”

  I glare at James. “What?”

  He swallows his food. “You know what a holy well is, right?”

  “Not really. It’s an early Christian thing or something. That's what Luke says.”

  James rolls his eyes. “No, it’s a pagan thing. Maybe it was later associated with Christianity, but Tim definitely wasn’t building it for that. And I’m sure he was the one who built the holy well you’re going to go see. This trip was Luke’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  I suddenly feel very annoyed at James, who looks at me with unearned certainty. “No, it was my grandmother’s idea. And why does it matter?”

  “Look, my grandfather, Gene Canfield, worked at Tim’s old camp till the end, and he had all sorts of strange things to say about the man, and they weren’t all very pretty. He and the other counselors would hike around the hills and whenever they passed the holy well,” James lowers his voice and looks around before continuing, “there were always animal bones gathered around it.”

  I scoff. “Come on.”

  “He wasn’t the only counselor who saw it.”

  I don’t know what to think. I shake my head, trying to gather my thoughts, as there are too many accusations being made. “James, please. The Tim Gabelman slander was rooted in this 1950s traditionalism where people were suspicious when someone no longer showed up at church. These days, everyone and their mother does yoga. I don’t understand why people still think ill of that family. Who cares if he was this quirky dude into paganistic spirituality?”

  “Because not everyone and their mother made animal sacrifices.”

  “That just sounds like a slanderous rumor.”

  “Sydney, Tim Gabelman worshiped that lake. Did you know that? The members of his spiritual club were taught to believe it was a god. They said so to the police. They called the lake by a special name, but I can’t remember it now. Anyway, that’s why they would ‘meditate’ underwater.”

  “They thought of the lake as a . . . deity?”

  “Yes, they specifically thought of the lake as an entity. And if they were willing to make sacrifices to holy wells, they were willing to make some for their lake god. Which is what most people in this town think. And I think you know what I’m getting at here.”

  Yes, I know exactly what he’s implying.

  That famous Siskinoa drowning victim Donna Marchand was a human sacrifice.

  Chapter 19

  There’s no need for me to reach out to Luke. The next morning, he’s at my porch holding up a pair of hiking boots with a smile on his face. “You can use these. They used to belong to an old girlfriend.”

  “Oh, thanks. I guess. How do you know these are going to fit?”

  He doesn’t answer as I slip them on. Perfectly snug.

  “We should head out now so we don’t lose the sun,” he says, turning around.

  While taken aback by his change in mood and urgency, I rush to put on a jacket and grab a water bottle. Once outside, we start out at a brisk pace.

  For a while, we remain silent. It gives me a chance to just relish the sun on my face and the bracing wind nipping at the tops of my ears. Yet, my thoughts inevitably drift back to my conversation with James as I now struggle to keep pace with the subject of that conversation, Luke.

  However, if James was trying to warn me about Luke and to shift my opinion of him, as it seemed, he didn’t succeed. Instead, James’s tone, expression, and willingness to regurgitate Siskinoan suspicion the other morning has left a stale aftertaste. So for his sake, I block the conversation from my mind.

  And to only reinforce my opinion on the matter, my internet research on “holy wells” turned up nothing nefarious. The practice seemed harmless, and the claim of finding animal bones at Tim Gabelman’s holy well was hearsay. And who’s to say he had been the one who placed them there, anyway? And the whole thing concerning Donna . . . . Well, I blocked that out, too. I've never heard anything more outlandish.

  Luke finally rouses me from my thoughts. “Watch those roots,” he says, pointing down behind him at ridges of mossy tree roots. I’m several steps behind him and generally reckless about my footing, so I’m thankful for the warning. He combs a hand through his hair, which he has tied up like he usually has it, and I can tell he’s struggling to say something else.

  “Hey, I’m really sorry for acting a bit standoffish lately. This whole thing with the clues and the hammer . . . It brought up memories of my dad and . . .” He trails off, and I wave off his concerns, reassuring him that it was no big deal.

  We fall into silence again but his mood has lightened up. He glances over his shoulder at me and smirks. “So you and James, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I blush, forgetting that he had spotted James and I on what was essentially a date. “I know that you don’t like him.”

  “Nope.”

  “He says he didn’t—” I quickly stop myself. I was about to reiterate James’s reasoning behind the “firing” just to fill in the silence, but I rather not interfere in their quarrel.

  But Luke quickly catches on.

  “He said he doesn’t what?”

  “Nothing. So how often do you visit the holy well?”

  Luke chuckles at my pivot, but his smile quickly disappears. “I don’t. I don’t visit the holy well. Sometimes I come by this area in search of Western Hemlock to fill in orders for that kind of lumber.”

  More silence. I don’t mind since this is the biggest hike I’ve done in a while. I find it difficult to concentrate on my footing over fallen trunks and strewn rocks while talking.

  “And what about your job?” Luke says after several minutes. “You said you were also fired.”

  Between labored breaths, I tell him about Schofield Designs and all the shenanigans that led to it being the worst employment experience I have. “ . . . And there was this one time when I practically begged to shadow more senior designers just so I can have more experience and, you know, contribute better work, but Patricia said it would’ve been distracting for those designers. She completely made it up, especially since Leah said she didn’t mind. Patricia liked orchestrating our progress up the company ladder, perhaps in case one of the designers was actually talented.”

 

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