Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [13]
I twisted and turned along the path, breathing in its Christmas pine scent, until it broke open to an area covered with enormous boulders, all glazed with a layer of ice. Behind them, as tall as a two-story house, the waterfall came into view. I couldn’t hear any splashing water, probably because it was still quite far away. If I wanted to continue on the path, I’d have to climb the boulders.
I sighed. Now that I’d be living through northeast winters, I figured I’d have to learn how to walk on snow and ice. I loved being outdoors, and I wasn’t exactly planning to spend November through March inside our city apartment.
“Boulder number one,” I said out loud, staring at my first challenge. I placed one foot on the rock, and it immediately slid off like butter on a hot bun. Standing back on both feet, I considered another method. I decided the best way was to carefully wedge my boots into the crevices between the boulders and avoid the flat icy surfaces. I stuck my left foot between two boulders. Once it felt solid, I leaned against the rock, lifted my right foot to another crevice, and wedged it in hard. I lifted my left foot to a higher spot. Nice! It was working. I was moving up. I realized I’d started whistling a little tune. Wedge, lift, and move up. Wedge, lift …
I scaled the rocks, one careful foothold at a time, using my hands for stability. Every once in a while, the fingers of my gloves stuck in the sun-glazed ice, and I breathed on them to melt them free. I caught my boot in a tight crevice once or twice and twisted my foot, but nothing too terrible. I was feeling like an adventurer. As I got closer, I realized why there was no splashing sound from the waterfall: It was frozen solid. Ice hung like great long fangs.
I kept climbing until I came to a hollowed rock alcove, right at the base of the falls. To my surprise, two flat boulders there had been fashioned into a stone seat, backrest and all. I sat down, tuckered out and actually sweaty from the climb. Since I’d never touched a frozen waterfall, I took off my gloves, reached up, and ran my hands along the toothy icicles, as slippery-smooth as glass.
If it weren’t for the evergreens, my view from there would have been awesome: the whole expanse of Mo’s garden. But I was satisfied with the spot I’d discovered: secret bench, snowy trees, and frozen waterfall.
I reached inside the pocket of Mo’s coat and pulled out the envelope from The Book of Dreams. I waited a moment, holding my breath. Finally I opened it and delicately unfolded the fragile page inside. It was a drawing of a tree with names on its branches: a family tree. Under the tree were the words The Arbor Lineage.
My eyes shot directly to my own name: Birdie Cramer Bright. How did my name get on this old family tree? Or was this drawing some kind of fairy magic that would lead me to … I wished I knew more!
On one branch I found Dora, my great-great-grandmother born in 1916. Jean Cramer was next, but her name was stricken through in red ink. She must have been Mo’s mother, and I remember hearing that she died when Mo was very young. More names followed, all with birth years beside them. There was Maureen, who was Granny Mo, of course, b. 1939. Emma P. Cramer was listed next. My breath caught in my throat when I saw that my mother’s name had been crossed out, just like Jean’s, but in silvery pencil. What did that mean?
I folded the paper back into the envelope and tucked it safely in my coat pocket. Then I closed my eyes. Leaning back on the stone seat, I put my hands in my pockets. My left hand grasped the broken Singing Stone.
The stone’s rhythm and tune rose and vibrated into my heart.
I opened my eyes as a wild wind swept away the clouds and the sun-filled sky