9. Ring Box
RING BOX
Ry left shortly after our talk in the attic, leaving me deciphering the comment he made earlier.
He had made it seem as if there were no significant other in my uncle’s life at the time of his death, and the townspeople seemed to deem him nuts, so how would he not be alone?
Was he in fact saying that the trees were his company?
While that truly sounds like the makings of a sad poem, I find some solace in it.
Knowing that my uncle had a deep connection to nature, much like me.
I grew up attracted to the call of creaking branches in a quiet forest near my childhood home.
My thoughts wander to the old hickory tree near the woods on this property, and I dearly hope there will be a break in the rain tomorrow so I can travel out to see what had caught my eye out the attic window.
I am adjusting to the house perfectly, and expect that is because it already felt like home the moment I stepped inside.
The quiet knowing of the trees on the property and the house filled my bones with an uncomfortable recognition instantly.
Will it always feel like this? Or will this quiet secret it’s holding reveal itself in time and leave that part of me at peace?
I unpacked some of the cardboard boxes we had brought down from the attic earlier in the day.
The rectangle containers floppy and breaking apart when I moved them onto a table to shuffle through with more ease.
A sure sign of how long they had sat up in that attic unmoved.
More old books filled a couple, much like the one that yelled out to me from the library shelves.
One thing I can count on with this rain is the amount of reading it persuades me to do.
Not that I’ve ever needed persuading. Tonight, I look forward to digging into the ancient myths of the trees, hoping I will gain more perspective on my uncle’s disposition to this land and the trees that occupy it.
Quite a few of the boxes were overflowing with vintage furs, women’s gloves and clip-on earrings that must have dated back to the early nineteen hundreds. More than once, I found myself entranced with the stunning, ornate brooches that were mixed in amongst all the retro magic.
I imagine there must have been a woman in this house at some point.
Or multiple women based on the sheer number of feminine accessories.
Did my uncle have a love or many in his early days?
The inheritance paperwork hinted at no sign of him ever having a spouse, making his mystery grow with every discovery.
Sorting through the miscellaneous but vintage pieces is a sort of therapy. Anytime I hold something that has endured an entire lifetime as someone’s property, the energy of sentiment surges through me. The emotions lingering on certain objects, giving me some palpable peek into a past time.
It charges me almost, but there are so many items here that the vibrations feel like ropes securing me to them as if they are mine alone. Still, I continue pulling out items as if it were the only thing I was put here to do.
The evening has quickly fallen into dark night, and the rain remains steady against the expansive roof of the estate. Reaching down to grab the last item at the bottom of the box, I pull out a smaller box, but instead of cardboard it is made of wood. A small trinket box of sorts.
The light brown wood isn’t one I recognize, but there is an engraving of interconnected leaves all along it.
Arms of a willow branch weave along the smooth surface to what I think is a magnolia flower etched deep within.
The clasp, fabricated from an actual branch that looks glazed with some hardened sap, holds the box closed.
I pull on it, and it snaps open, breaking the sap as it drops in bits and pieces to the floor.
I slowly open the lid, feeling a weird sense of dread and omniscience at the same time. A cold breeze graces the room from one of the open windows, chilling me to the bone, which is odd for this time of year, even if it is raining.
My gut restricts in a manner that feels all wrong. This box feels wrong. But I open it anyway. My curiosity wins the battle as the lid falls back on its bronze metal hinges. The knots in my stomach grow like rot on a carcass sitting under leaves on the forest floor.
I discover two empty spots inside the box.
They look to be nooks to hold some sort of circular object, a ring perhaps.
Above one opening, someone marked “Opal” in a beautiful hand-etched script.
The name written delicately in a dark reddish-brown ink resembling dried blood.
The second compartment is marked Jade, looped in that same dried liquid. Both are empty.
My mind automatically goes to the ring I found within the jade willow tree. That must be a mere coincidence, but I’m having a hard time believing in those anymore. I packed it in my cosmetic case. My bare feet leave vanishing imprints on the floor as I quickly go to retrieve it.
To my relief, the ring is just where I left it.
The box in my other hand feels heavy, as if it awaits this transaction in quiet anticipation.
Reluctance tries to find me, but I ignore it as I fit the ring inside.
A perfect fit. But how? These two worlds of Detroit and this estate keep merging, making my head spin.
I look at my finger wondering if the ring could fit, the buzzy feeling growing stronger and stronger behind my eyes. There are too many coincidences for me to make sense of. The ring hidden in the jade willow now fits perfectly in a box found miles away marked “Jade.” And then—there’s my name.
Nausea creeps up inside me stronger, urging me not to.
My skin hums with a warning I can’t ignore.
There is a battle within me, my subconscious telling my body yes, but an electricity making itself known all around me to stop.
The ring hovers just above the tip as I decide to fight back on the repelling energy around and put it on once and for all.
BOOM!
A bolt of lightning cracks outside, echoing through the house and vibrating up the pads of my feet. I drop the box and the ring, all but jumping out of my skin. The rain must have turned into a storm, and it sounds like a big one at that.
Picking up the box, I secure the ring back inside, saving my curiosity for another day. A feeling of unfinished business works its way into my being. I bury it, like I do so many other things. I doubt it will stay that way.
The wind picks up, and the storm is in full effect by the time I get my bearings. My body moves on autopilot as I start to close the storm windows by securing the metal latches, rain splashing inside the windows and onto my face every time the wind blows.
Being so near the gulf, the house is fitted with huge storm windows and large pull-down guards made from waterproof fabric.
I yank down the guards and attach them to the hooks at the bottom of the floor, a feat easier said than done.
A rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning breach the open shades of the windows I haven’t yet reached.
I quicken my movements, hoping the floor isn’t completely soaked by the time I’m done.
The last two shades are toward the front of the house.
As I walk that way, a pulsing glow reflects off the entry mirror.
It must be from one of the windows connected to the adjoining sitting room.
I’m about to turn my head that way when without warning my eyes blur and I am pulled into another vision.
The house looks almost the same, but lined with candles—placed with purpose.
In the front greeting room, more candles are visible, and I can see them lined up on the floor with the door wide open, flickering as if they have been waiting for my attention.
The house seems simpler, more rustic. An era from long ago.
I creep towards the door, afraid of what I will find inside the room.
My heart is pounding through my ears, so it is all I hear.
Whatever time I’m in, there is another door in the back of the room that links out to the outside, because I can see the storm still raging behind the window.
A crying sky setting the scene the way only nature knows how.
I turn to look to my right and realize this is not the estate anymore, but some place that resembles more of a castle.
With stone walls and thick wooden doors.
A large, engraved plaque taking up most of the wall hangs above where I stand now.
It greets me with intimidation, bearing the design of a red lion as I look up at its expansiveness. A medieval coat of arms.
I turn again to get a better view of the room, something swinging in the distance. My eyes focus on the object as a heavy, oppressive feeling crushes down upon me. I freeze in place.
A paralyzing fear stops my muscles from working. The screen doors in the house open and slam shut repeatedly just as a soft scratching sound—like nails moving back and forth against a chalkboard—makes my stomach turn.
A woman with pale skin hangs from the banister in a white nightgown.
The rope bound tightly around her neck creaks like a warning.
The tips of her bare toes skim the floor, creating a sound I will never forget.
My eyes open wide as I’m frozen by the weight of what I am seeing.
This isn’t just a stranger I’m looking at. It is me.
Startled by this unexpected sight, I rush out of the room and am instantly taken back to the present day.
The rain is still pounding down outside, and now, so is my heart as I make my own rain in the form of cascading tears down my cheeks.
I attempt to settle the rapid beating within, trying to convince myself that what I saw could have never taken place.
After all, here I am in the flesh, alive and well.
I sit in place for God knows how long. The storm continues booming outside, and I know I must continue securing the windows.
My legs tremble as I lock up the rest of the house.
With no one to talk to, I feel just as mad as my uncle must have felt.
I have been constantly shoved into the unknown since coming to this house.
A portal of sorts that opened the moment I walked through its door.
I’ve heard of such things in stories growing up, Alice in Wonderland being one such book.
However, whenever I would speak of it, my mother would always hush me and tell me not to fret over fantasy.
But there is a fantasy to my visions that is encroaching on my reality, and it envelops me in a chaotic sense of familiarity I can deny no longer.
Alice had never felt as if she had been in Wonderland before, but with each vision, I feel closer and closer to where I have always belonged.
My mind being my most powerful portal, taking me not actually to a place of fantasy, but perhaps to the realest, most concrete reality I have ever known.
Even when parts of it feel like hell on earth.
The rest of the night does nothing for my nerves.
The forest making itself known in every aspect of this house calms me a bit as I hold the warm painted teacup with branches along its side.
Everything about the makings of this house feels like whoever created it wanted to bring the forest and all of its beauty inside.
Maybe that is why I feel so at home in its presence.
Snuggling up to Carya, I crawl into bed but still can barely settle.
My best bet is to read—a sure way to clear my head after the night I just experienced.
I bring the tattered green book closer, looking at the craftsmanship that surely must be over a hundred years old.
Turning to the first page, hoping to dive into an ancient fantasy that doesn’t resemble any of my horrid illusions.
The first chapter bears a small picture of hickory leaves and tells a tale belonging to the Druids.
A story of ancient tree Beings within the roots that speaks of a time unknown to man.
In this tale, a young tree sprite, created to provide power in the form of her own blood for a most insatiable tree Being, vanished before he could claim any control over her.
Protected by her mother, she hides in the mortal world, in human form from the one who craves her most.
I turn the page, hoping to know more about this spellbinding folktale, but the next pages fall apart to powder against my fingertips.
Most of the paper inside has been burned, making the words unreadable, and time making the pages unable to retain their dignity.
I frown at the sad outcome of this book.
However, the endpapers bear some markings, their thickness holding up despite the rest of the pages of the book.
A variety of tree species are drawn as if alluding to some sort of family tree or patriarchal hierarchy.
They must belong to another Druid belief about the ancient tree Beings they believe ruled them.
Underneath each tree illustration holds a brief description.
Under the oak, inked in gold embossing, reads The Rooted Realm of Oak and Oath.
And there are others, all under their respective tree names.
The Rooted Realm of Pine and Pride. Hickory and Heart.
Ash and Action. Cypress and Charisma. Cherry and Choice.
I scan the page looking for the one to bring me the comfort I need most as I sit in this bed with my cozy feline.
None of this is real, but it might still fill the missing piece in my heart.
So, I skim along the tree-filled endpapers with my unpolished pointer finger, hoping what I find will give me some reassurance.
And it does. Under a beautifully sketched willow reads, in loopy cursive, The Rooted Realm of Willow and Worth.
My lids grow heavy as I continue to make out some pages that didn’t fall to pieces upon my touch.
The book bobbing against my face as I grasp at any type of rest. I know I drift off at times, sleep knocking, but my anxious mind not letting it in.
Those moments of slumber riddled with dreams of tree roots, damp moss, a dirt-stained dress and soft earth under my nails.
Or, much as I hoped it wouldn’t, my mind trails off to the vision of me hanging there amongst the candles. A girl lost to her internal anguish. Apart from the shock of what I was seeing, it felt as if I belonged there in that vision. Like I had been there before.
My visions inhabit me, crawling into the synapses within my mind, creating a distant perception of a parallel life I had truly lived in.
Those are the ones that seem to have picked up since coming to this estate.
A life lived once, where there was just as much warmth and passion as pain and destruction, all stemming from this house and something else. Or perhaps someone else.