Note: This post is an excerpt from my book, The Storytellers. Copyright © 2023 Alex Brown. All rights reserved.
WARNING: If you have not read A House Named Haven, THERE WILL BE SPOILERS. Read at your own risk. Or read A House Named Haven first.
Foreword
I ask for a moment of your time before you go any further, Dear Reader. As you are well aware, all stories start somewhere. Those that desire comprehension tend to do so at the beginning. But if you recall, this is no story; at least, not a fictional one. And it is most certainly not at its beginning.
At least, not the beginning of the beginning. Though we have reached the beginning of the middle. Theaters are able to signify this with flourish. At the end of the first act, the lights dim upon the stage before going dark. The curtain is pulled together so that even the most clueless of theater-goers know that it is indeed at an end of sorts.
Not so with books.
When a reader finds their way to a story’s end, there is no curtain’s close, no dimming of the lights. There’s simply another page to turn—a page found utterly empty. The reader is often left with more questions than they had before reading the book. And unlike the second act of a play, oftentimes, they must wait longer than they’d like before they are able to have some of those questions answered.
Unless, of course, the theater company whose performance they are attending is going through a considerably difficult set of costume changes or are otherwise poor timekeepers. Then, the audience, too, will have to wait for the show to go on. In either case, they will gradually lose interest the longer they are kept waiting.
It is never a good idea to keep those expecting a story to wait for too long. But some stories take time to tell, to gather and grow. You’ve been patient with me. I’ve rested enough. And though I do not wish to continue the tale I’ve begun to uncover, I will. I will chase it to its end—the real one—and not just an ending of sorts.
Allow me, Dear Reader, to remind you of where we’ve been. Permit me to dim the lights and close the curtain on the terrible events that occurred, all those long years ago.
Those events have already been recorded—painstakingly—with no small amount of peril and danger on my part. I do not wish to dwell upon them any more than I already have, not even for the intents and purposes of summarizing what has already transpired in this tragic tale. I’m not certain I would, even if I were able.
What is better, Dear Reader? Would you rather be told what happened in a play or would you rather see it for yourself? While the one is considerably shorter and more convenient in the small scheme of things, there is a reason for its brevity. Much would be lost in a retelling. Subtle nuances that the actors brought to life in their performance, hints at the larger story that would not be noticed in your friend’s skewed, distorted understanding of what happened.
An appreciation for the story would be lost in such a retelling. Don’t settle for such a thing as that. I implore you, refamiliarize yourself with the story of Rose and Ed Bode. I will wait. It makes no difference to me.
After all, by the time you read this, I will undoubtedly be working on finishing my investigations into this tragic tale. Either that, or the shadows at which I jump will finally be more than sinister figments of my fearful imagination, and my tale will finally be at an end—leaving this tale tragically unfinished. But that is neither here nor there. I have a story to tell. The lights are dimmed, and the curtain is drawn closed. The second act is about to start. Let’s begin, Dear Reader, shall we?
Chapter One: A Dimming of the Light
Though a great deal of time may have passed since you read the first part of this tragic tale, that was not the case for its protagonists. We find Rose and Ed Bode right where we left them—holding hands in their darkened, empty home with dirty, tear-streaked faces. We find them with unanswered questions and broken hearts.
You see, life is fleeting. The harder one tries to hold onto it, the easier it slips through their fingers. Those who remain behind are left holding onto something else. Such was the case for Rose and Ed, and they had no idea what to do.
How does one respond to the death of a loved one? It’s different for everyone. Even in the most ordinary and expected circumstances of one’s passing, there is a numbness that accompanies death. A numbness that leaves one lacking feeling, when all they want to do is feel. That numbness is temporary. Eventually, it will depart, and when it does, the pain of feeling will return as loudly and harshly as ever. It lingers long after one’s passing.
The circumstances that had taken their grandfather from them were anything but ordinary, and they certainly weren’t expected. At one moment, Rose and Ed had been enjoying a summer day with Grandfather, and the next, he was taken from them by a cold and dispassionate man—the Drifter—seemingly without reason or cause.
For Rose and Ed, numbness still spread and grew within them. It drowned their emotions, like a weighted net sinking into the depths of the sea, taking anything ensnared in its web down with it. It left them feeling less and less than before. It left them feeling as empty as the house they were standing in.
It was supposed to be found full of life and love. Their parents were supposed to be there. They promised that they would be. They had lied to Rose and Ed.
Lies are terrible creatures, Dear Reader. Even the well-intentioned ones—no matter how white and pretty they present themselves—can still be covering a dark and ugly truth. There are instances when lying to someone might be the best possible option, but those must be followed up with an explanation. Since Mother and Father were not around to explain, all Rose and Ed saw was the truth. And it was indeed ugly and dark.
Even though Ed had just spoken, it seemed like months since he’d done so. The silence in the room hung heavy in the air, like clouds covering the moon at night, leaving the earth below in thick, oppressive darkness. It was almost as heavy as the grief they felt weighing on their hearts. Almost.
Then something happened, something that broke the silence, tearing through the heaviness that hung in the air. It was a sound that started at a soft rumble and made its way to a full-blown grumble that refused to be silenced. It was Argos’ stomach.
Rose and Ed both jumped, startled, and then looked down at the massive dog at their feet. He looked back up at them as innocently and unabashedly as he could manage, his stomach still rumbling all the while.
Rose and Ed started to laugh. Just like that, the dark clouds parted, and the grief that hung heavy on their hearts lessened ever so slightly. With the silence broken, Rose and Ed found that other things could also be broken, such as the anchor-like hold that grief had on them.
“I’ll see if I can find anything for Argos to eat in the freezer,” Rose said, still chuckling.
“I’ll make us some sandwiches,” Ed volunteered helpfully. Like any self-respecting ten-year-old, he knew how to make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but sometimes a meal is still special, regardless of its simplicity.
Rose let go of Ed’s hand and walked to the freezer in the corner of the room as Ed busied himself with gathering his sparse sandwich-making supplies. Rose didn’t expect to find any dog food for Argos. That would be rather strange, seeing as the Bode family did not own a dog. And when Grandfather would come to visit them in the past, he’d bring a bag full of Argos’ food for the duration of their visit.
Grandfather. Rose paused, her hand on the freezer door. The sadness started to creep back toward her heart, like weeds slowly advancing on unsuspecting flowers with the sole intent of choking out their life. Then, Ed dropped the peanut-butter-clad knife clumsily to the floor with a clatter. That brought Rose back. The weeds slowly slunk back to the shadows, to the dark places where they were safe from the scorching sunlight.
Rose opened the freezer and found what she was looking for. The refrigerator was mostly bare, emptied when the Bodes left for their vacation three days ago. But the freezer still had food that could keep over an extended period of time. Rose grabbed one of the T-bone steaks, wrapped in parchment paper and tied with a string.
She set it on the counter to let it thaw for a moment, aware that Argos was watching her every move. She looked back at him, assessing his size with a judgmental eye. Then, she took out another T-bone steak, this one a larger, beefier cousin to the one on the counter.
When Ed finished making their supper, she gave Argos his. The two Bode children sat at the kitchen table while Argos lay beneath it, munching his way happily through his meal. Rose and Ed ate less loudly, but the meal was no less enjoyed. It had been many hours since they’d eaten, and they hadn’t realized how hungry they’d become.
They ate quietly. Not because of good manners—though they did possess those and then some. Their silence came from not wanting to speak of the terrible events that had transpired. Perhaps they felt that if they were not mentioned, they would not be so. They didn’t wish to speak of what they would do next. That didn’t mean it didn’t need to be spoken about.
Some things should not be spoken about, even if you know of them. For example: Pointing out someone’s gray hair or bald spot. While something may be obvious to you, it may not be obvious to someone else. Not all knowledge should be shared; not all information should be discussed. Besides, it’s incredibly rude to point, all the more so when it’s to draw attention to someone’s appearance or something they might be self-conscious about.
The situation Rose and Ed found themselves in called for stating the obvious, though. Sometimes a point of clarity is needed—especially in a situation with less clarity than one would like.
Rose and Ed had to find out why all of this was happening. They had to find Mother and Father. Knowing the questions to ask was obvious. Decidedly less obvious was how to go about answering them. They still needed to be asked. So, as they ate their simple meal together at the kitchen table, Rose voiced the question they were both thinking, but neither wished to pose.
“What do we do now?”
Ed was thankful that she voiced her question when he had just taken a bite of sandwich. It gave him time to think while he chewed. The truth was, most of the time he looked to Rose for answers and leadership. Of the two, she was always the one who was sure and certain, regardless of the path they took and plans they made. It was a little alarming to see Rose so uncertain. But older siblings don’t have all the answers. For, no one ever does, regardless of their age or birth order. Sometimes the younger siblings must step up and speak.
Ed felt overwhelming pressure as he was called upon to answer Rose’s question. He had felt a similar weight before, though in a considerably less uncertain situation. Whenever he was called on in school, Ed made sure he had all his facts straight before answering. He also had the habit of thinking aloud. It helped him straighten and smooth out the thoughts in his head, much like taking out clothes jumbled and wrinkled in a suitcase.
“What do we know?”
He asked himself the question, smoothing out the crumpled napkin he had used with his supper. The simple action helped him focus. Rose, familiar with her brother’s process—and the concept of rhetorical questions—remained silent.
Ed continued, laying out the facts for himself.
“We know something strange is going on, of which we have no knowledge. Mother and Father are most likely wrapped up in it, considering the fact that they aren’t here, even though they said they would be. We know they lied to us about the summer class as well since Maggie didn’t know what you were talking about when you spoke to her on the phone.”
Ed gesticulated with his sandwich as he spoke, waving the remainder of it at Rose. The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, unremedied by the aftertaste of peanut butter and jelly.
“We know that whatever they are doing—whyever they are gone—is likely connected to the reason they went away in the first place. It is also highly probable that it has something to do with this “Pattos” whom Grandfather warned us about before the Drifter shot him.”
Ed paused. The words were heavy, not wishing to be voiced aloud. He pushed past them, swallowing his grief. If he weren’t able to manage his sorrow now, he’d choke on it.
“The Drifter is undoubtedly working for Pattos, whoever they are. Why he came after us, why Mother and Father are not here, and why Grandfather is gone, I don’t know. But it’s all connected. It has to be!”
Ed ground out the last part forcefully. His pent-up stress and anger gathered over the past few hours went out as well. He still tried to smooth out the napkin, but the wrinkles were no longer there. The motion had done nothing to untangle the knot of the problem he was trying to solve.
“It has to be connected,” he muttered. “It has to be. Otherwise, nothing makes sense.”
Ed was right on several counts. It was indeed all connected. Once he figured out how it was connected, it would all make sense. Ed loved putting together puzzles. Right now, Ed only had a few pieces of the puzzle. And as puzzle pieces go, Ed was holding onto non-border pieces that weren’t even remotely close to each other in the larger picture. He had no idea how they connected. And the harder he tried to force pieces together that didn’t fit, the more hopeless he felt.
It’s been said that life is a puzzle. It’s confusing and difficult to piece together. It’s all the more difficult when you don’t have all the pieces. However, sometimes life has a way of surprising you. As you find yourself on the verge of despair, holding the pieces you can’t figure out, sometimes, a peculiarity occurs. Someone who has put such a puzzle together before comes along and helps you figure it out. And suddenly, you aren’t despairing. Suddenly, it all makes sense.
Of course, with the Bode children’s luck, if such a circumstance existed, the sheer opposite was just as likely. There was just as likely the possibility that someone would come along to steal the few pieces they had and leave them, once again, with nothing but despair.
There aren’t many things that can dampen one’s mood more than the situation the Bode children found themselves in. They had more questions than answers. A grief loomed over them as they sat, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches alone in their home. Even if one liked such a meal, the circumstances would prevent them from enjoying it to its full extent.
Their situation shouldn’t have gotten any worse than it already had, but that isn’t how life operates. There’s no scale of pain and sorrow for each person that once it tips too much in one direction, comfort and joy replace them. If there were such a scale, it wouldn’t always balance out. Sometimes the pain and sorrow outweigh the comfort and joy—impossible to budge; impossible to counteract. Sometimes, Dear Reader, even when things can’t possibly get any worse, they do.
