PART ONE:
I have always hated math. Mathematics required precision; there was no room for creative exploring or questioning. No matter what you think or do, two plus two will always be four. It was a subject I didn’t understand very well, and a subject I felt frustrated and stifled in. I loved the way Science approached things. I felt like I could expand my mind more in the subject. However, I was always bored with the subjects that Science covered. I am disinterested in earth, life, and space. Overall, I didn’t like school.
I’m more fascinated with mythology and fairy tales. I loved stories about mystical creatures and fighting. In fact, when I was little, my uncle used to read me fairy tales every night before I went to bed. Even now, I search for new stories and read them myself before I fall asleep. I’m not sure what makes me love fairy tales and fictional stories so much. Perhaps I’m drawn to them, because the impossible things happen . . . .
I live with my aunt and her second husband with four cousins in Ireland. My mother died in childbirth, and my father disappeared years ago, presumed dead. The police never found a body, but they found a substantial amount of blood in the forest that matched my father’s DNA. This was a subject we avoided and was rarely spoken of. In fact, I didn’t even know what my father looked like, because there were no pictures of him around the house. However, I often thought about them and wondered what kind of people they were . . . .
My eyes were glazed with that bored, faraway look they always get when I’m doing homework. It was a dulling task I had long ago given up. I had just started to drool onto my hand when I snapped out of my half sleep. I glanced around the room, waiting for something to happen. To my dismay, nothing remotely interesting happened—except for a librarian glaring at me for yawning deeply and rubbing the sand out of my eyes. I gave her a lazy grin and left my seat. I’ve heard of a Dewey Decimal System that libraries use to organize books, but I didn’t have any clue how to use it. I rarely found books in libraries that fascinated me.
I meandered down the aisles, reading and tracing the spines of dusty books and shelves. I could smell the distinct musty scent of old books. I strolled down the aisles, reading and tracing the spines of crooked and bent books. I checked shelves after shelves, skimming the yellowed pages. Every single book I picked up, I shoved them into random places. I was probably causing an inconvenience to the strict librarians, but I had no intention of remembering where every book was originally stocked.
I found a book with the title, “King Arthur,”
I raised an eyebrow and picked it up. I flipped it open to the first few pages and began reading. I was hypnotized by the story almost immediately—by the Knights of the Round Table, magic, and all the interesting fantasy creatures. I had never read anything like it. By the end of the afternoon, I had left the library, with the King Arthur novel and a book full of Irish folklore collections.
The late afternoon sky was a grizzly grey, and it was drizzling. My backpack was slung on one shoulder, and the books were tucked under the other arm. I was strolling down the sidewalk whistling random tunes and drumming my fingers against the book covers. The streets were devoid of people so the walk back to the house was blissfully quiet. I stamped my feet against the porch—ridding my boots of mud and dirt, and came inside. I kicked off my boots and fell into the leather couch. It was a wonderful moment with just me, the warm fireplace, and the Knights of the Round Table.
I was a little irritated at the books I had been reading. The stories were amazing, but the author had never heard of spell check. There were misspelled words everywhere! He spelled fony instead of phony; feind instead of fiend; nock instead of knock; dupper instead of sup—I paused in my thoughts. If you put the misplaced letters together they spelled . . . find!
I wonder—
“Deirdre!” I flinched at the sound of my name then scrambled off the couch and into the kitchen where my aunt, S., was waiting. To this day, I have no idea what the S. stands for, but that’s what I’ve been calling her from the time I could talk.
“Sorry Aunt S. I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s quite all right, lass. Just try to be more aware of your surroundings.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed with a sheepish expression.
“Alright, now have you done your math homework?” We both knew that I hadn’t.
“Uh . . . no.”
“Go do it, then! How do you expect to get into college if you’re failing math?”
I paused. “The Art Institute of . . . Ireland?” I didn’t know a bloody thing about art, let alone doing it.
“Tsk! You can’t even draw a straight line, lassie. Now, go do your homework, right. You might hate math, but you’re good at it.”
I frowned at the very idea.
“Yes, ma’am,”
“Good girl, now hurry up. I’m making dinner and it’ll be ready in an hour.”
I remained at a B average, because of my refusal to study and my half-heartedness on homework and tests. When I try to focus, my mind forgets all the formulas, goes black, and then I get a killer migraine. Today wasn’t an exception. Within a half hour I was finished and mulling over the word ‘find’ I had found in the book. I finished the rest of the story, but I didn’t find any more hidden messages, just incoherent nonsense. I shrugged and began on the Irish fairy tales. These stories were different from the King Arthur stories, but I enjoyed them, nonetheless. I frowned at a misspelling. Then I realized the k (find k . . . .).
“Deirdre,” my cousin called. I scowled.
“Dinner’s ready.” I smiled. After all, I was starving.
The weeks and months passed, like a leaf in the breeze. I searched harder for books with hidden messages. Only, the majority of the books didn’t have anything useful, except for the message WRONG. The message evolved painfully slowly:
FIND THE KEY D. FOR A DARK LIFE OR TO DIE FROM LOYAL BLOOD. MEET AT THE FOREST X.
—A
Points: 398
Reviews: 189
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