Death, and the Girl He Loves

“Sure are.” When he noticed where my gaze landed, he added, “We’ve had a few people come to us looking for answers. The whole town has been dealt a tricky hand.” He glanced down at me, his eyes sad. “I guess it’s time to set things right.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve figured out how I’m supposed to do that?”

He bit down, gestured toward Grandma and the rest of the gang, and took my hand. “I need to show you something.”

Granddad gave the cue to the rest of the Scooby gang and herded us down our creepy stairs that led to our even creepier basement. It was not my favorite place to be, and yet it still held memories. Creepy memories, but memories just the same. Being in the shadowy room flooded me with feelings of nostalgia. It surprised me and I took a moment to absorb those feelings, pretending I was allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I’d never been so glad to be in a creepy place.

A single bulb burned overhead as Granddad took down an old box off a shelf. It was my father’s stuff. I’d riffled through it before. It was how I found out that my paternal grandfather was not only still alive, but he lived close by, doing fifteen to twenty in the state pen.

Granddad gestured for me to sit on an old sofa we should have thrown out years ago. He sat the box on a rickety table my grandmother had refused to get rid of because I’d made it in middle school. It was a constant reminder of one field I should never go into: woodworking.

Brooke and Glitch took up half the sofa, too. They scrunched together so Grandma could sit beside me, while Jared stood against the arm, close enough to touch my shoulder. Kenya seemed to feel like a fifth wheel. She scanned the small room, trying to figure out where to stand. She chose to sit on the other arm of the sofa, the one by Glitch. He smiled up at her when she did so. Oh, yeah. There was definitely something there.

Cameron was busy being Cameron. He stayed near the stairs. Still refusing to join in the fun. Pouter. I wanted to tell him his face was going to freeze like that, but he probably wasn’t as gullible as I was. In my own defense, I was seven the last time I fell for the frozen-face thing. Possibly eight.

“I’ve scoured the ancient texts for years,” Granddad said. “Studied the prophecies that talked about the end of times. But there were several things I never noticed until recently.” He raked through the contents of the box, looking for something specific. He paused to focus his attention. “For one, there is one text that talks about you going into hiding before the war. It’s short and easy to miss.”

My ears perked up. “You mean like I did?” I asked, astonished.

He nodded. “They speak of you going into hiding in a place that is void of the sun.”

“Granddad,” I said, grinning, “Maine has sunlight. Just not as much as we do.”

“Exactly,” he said, slapping a hand on the table. “That is exactly what I want you to realize. To know deep in your heart, Pix. These texts are translated from the original documents. Some of them were in French. Some in Italian. But all those from Arabeth were in a very old form of Gaelic. They had to be translated, and because of that, they were diluted. The original meanings, the truest sources, are lost.” He fixed a pointed stare on me, willing me to understand his deeper message. “What I’m trying to get across to you, to all of you, is that we have to take everything the documents say with a grain of salt.”

“So, you’re saying don’t take them literally?” Brooke asked.

“Kind of. I mean, there are just some aspects that are going to be inaccurate.”

Hope spread through me like a warm blush. “You mean, they could be wrong? I may not be the prophet? This whole war thing may not hinge on me?”

He dropped his gaze. “No. I’m sorry, hon. That part is pretty clear.”

“But you just said—”

“Pix.” He pressed his mouth together, searching for the right words. After a moment, he said, “There are too many prophecies, too many accounts, to dispute that part. Too many predictions from your other ancestors, from the other prophets up the line. What I’m saying now is, a lot was left out.”

“Like what?” I asked, trying to squelch the disappointment sinking into me.

Grandma put her hand on my arm. “We have been scouring the archives since you left. Looking for clues. On how to stop this. On how to help you. On how it all ends.”

“And?” I asked with more hope than I’d wanted to.

“We can’t find anything that explains how you do it. They only say that you do. Over and over and over. You just do.” She patted my knee. “In all fairness, Pix, the prophets before you may not have been able to see how you do it.”

Granddad bent his head.

“There’s more,” I said to him. “I can tell.”

He kneeled beside me, put his hand over Grandma’s. “It’s just that, there’s something else we never realized until recently. It never occurred to us.”

“Okay.”

“All the prophecies, every single one of them, talk about events through history, give accounts of things that came to pass decades, even centuries ago. They all lead up to the present time, but they end at the same time. They talk about the dark days leading up to the war, the trials and tribulations you overcome, your going into hiding, the dissention in the church when you do so, and then it just says you come back to where it all started and you stop the war before it ever begins. In the blink of an eye, it just stops.”