Chapter Six
Livia
Secret Hush Valley, the town at the foot of the mountain, no longer exists. It was wiped out after a devastating flood, which also killed Alfred Winston, his wife, and two of his sons. There’s no account of his other four children, and obviously at least one of them survived, or my mom wouldn’t have existed.
According to the timeline I put together, Alfred and his family had possibly only lived in the town for around three years before the flood.
After spending days upon days reading newspaper articles from the era and going over maps until I thought I was going blind, I finally found a strange kind of mail-order bride advertisement letter that had been written to the editor of a newspaper publication and was published some twenty years later by a young man.
In a few sentences, he gave an account of the battle against three men who lived hidden in the west of the peak of the mountain range, a mile and a bit more from where the rapids of Sonny’s Creek beat treacherously, and a giant oak tree laid its roots.
He didn’t go into much detail, just that his grandfather had fought bravely for the return of a fair maiden who was taken by three men, and he was killed in battle. The writer of the advertisement then sold the idea that he not only took after the likeness of his handsome grandfather but was also as brave and honorable.
And just like that, Finneas Wilbur Chatter, advertising for a bride, solved the mystery of the location of the three bears’ cottage.
Sonny’s Creek doesn’t exist anymore, either. Natural climate changes, shifts in the ecosystem—it could have been anything that made the creek disappear. But it was there once upon a time, and there are maps to prove its existence.
My muscles start to ache now, but I push through, and before long, it’s only adrenaline keeping me moving. I don’t look at the time. I have no idea how many miles I covered or how far up the mountain I’ve gotten.
I only stop for water breaks before I move on. But suddenly, I feel like my map is taking me around in circles. For a moment, I start to panic when everything looks the same as it did ten or fifteen minutes ago.
I check my phone for the first time, and I’m relieved that I still have a fairly strong signal. The instant a sliver of doubt enters my mind that maybe my mom was wrong, I think about my father and the way he looked at her with such irritation and disdain, and I’m given a boost of energy.
It’s here; I just have to find it, and so I carry on for my mom.
I come across a fence with a rusty sign hanging on a fenced door that says Trespassers will be prosecuted. I start to tremble. There’s absolutely no record of there being any privately owned land around these parts. Maybe it’s an old sign, I tell myself. But I need to get to the other side because that’s where Sonny’s Creek used to flow.
I’ve already been walking for hours on end. I need to be back in my car before the sun starts to sink into the opposite side of the sky. I can’t waste any more time trying to find a way around this fence. I have no idea how many miles the fence could go, and I’m not going to find out.
I reach out and run my fingers against the thick, heavy padlock and chain, my hand shaking as I contemplate a way in.
My reasons aren’t nefarious; I can explain myself if I’m caught.
I lift the heavy metal lock in my hand, then glance behind me, looking for a rock I can use to hopefully break it open.
But a frown settles on my face. Did I hear a clicking sound and a slight buzz in my hand? I look at the lock again and it’s open. How could that be possible? Before I start getting paranoid, I tell myself it was probably not locked in the first place, and I”m jumping to conclusions without merit.
The lock is open because there’s no documented landowner on this side of the mountain. With everything else I researched, I would have found something. I’m not even trespassing on private property, actually.
I walk for another mile and a half, sizzling with apprehension, fear, excitement, and sadness. And then I see it.
I stifle a laugh that surges up from my whole body and vibrates through every fiber of my being.
Holy shit. Am I seeing what I’m seeing?
I blink repeatedly in the bright mountain winter sunlight, convinced I’m imagining what lies before my eyes.
As if it had been created out of the words of a fairytale, the softly painted blue structure, surrounded by lilies and lavender, with its large bay windows and a soft magical glow around it that looks like a halo, calls to me.
The logical side of my brain knows it’s the rays of the sun creating the glow, but nothing can take away the magic of it all for me now. I don’t even care if I’m embellishing the truth. I don’t even care if I’ve replaced a crumbling edifice with something this fantastical, probably just as Barrett Marticus Ursid had described it when he captured their story on paper.
It exists.
It exists, mom.
Slowly, I take off my rose-tinted glasses, and that’s when I see the cracks that are hundreds of years old. I see it for what it really is.
The paint is peeling, and the flowers are wild and overgrown. The bay window is murky and can’t be seen through. The chimney sticking out from the roof is orange with rust and looks as if a single breath will have it disintegrate into dust. The roof is dilapidated from the rain and looks as if it is rotting in places.
Still, I stand transfixed with wonder. I’m staring at the house where the three shifter bears lived. I’m not even making this up.
It’s real.
“It’s here, Mom. It truly exists, just like you said it would.”
A level of peace settles over me, and I feel the warmth of the sun on my back as if my mom is with me. This is my moment. My goodbye.
“I love you, Mom.”
I take out my phone and immediately see an angry text message from my father. He wants me home immediately. I’m supposed to meet my—
I stop reading and discard it from my mind. I’ll deal with that later.
I just need one photo for proof, but at that moment, a robe of heartsickness drapes over my soul and replaces my peace. My father is never going to change his mind about my mom, no matter what proof to the contrary I show him.
Whatever went wrong with them is not something I can fix. With that comes the truth that my mom’s illness ran deeper than her trying to make my father believe that fairytales exist.
This is truly between my mom and me, just like it’s always been. I don’t need to capture this memory. It will stay with me forever.
I text my friends at FFF instead, and a string of celebratory emojis blows up on my screen.
I tell Faith I found the cottage as well.
I did it.
But the loneliness that engulfs me now is mammoth.
I take a deep breath and will myself to turn around and leave. No more fairytale hunting for me. I have terrifying responsibilities back home, and I can no longer hide from them.
And yet, I can’t let go. I can’t stop the fresh dose of curiosity from soaring inside me and twirling around my head, yet I know I must turn around and leave.
But I’m rooted to the soft earth beneath my sneakers, my gaze not once wavering off the cottage before me. I’m unable to quell the compulsion in me to move forward.
My limbs quiver with every step I take. My heart rattles almost painfully inside my chest. My curiosity is a beast that won’t let go of me.
I’m struggling to leave, to say goodbye, because of what my future holds, which explains the wide spectrum of emotions that spill from my pores. Excitement to peace, to heartsickness, to sadness, and now curiosity. I can’t turn around and leave.
Within moments, I find myself with my trembling hand on the doorknob that looks amazingly like a honey pot. My fingers tighten and twist against the brass knob, and suddenly the door opens for me.
My innocent curiosity turns instantly into insurmountable trepidation the moment I let go of the doorknob and step over the threshold into the cottage-style house.
The door slowly swings shut behind me. In the back of my mind, I hear the lock click in place, but all my attention remains fixed on what I see in front of me.
As if the sun has slipped in behind a cloud, gloom peaks in through the lace curtains on the windows and casts gray shadows all around me.
But my eyes must be deceiving me. I turn to the right and find a light switch. The modern embellishment surprises me, but the instant I flick it, light swathes my view.
At once enthralled and confused, I’m convinced I’m looking at a 3D image because it cannot be real. Almost stumbling forward, I touch a chair and snatch my hand away when it feels too real. The sight before me could easily be a replica of the illustrations my mom drew when she told me her version of the Three Bears’ home.
I must be dreaming. Or falling apart. Is this the result of keeping my tears and grief at bay for too many years, and it’s now manifesting as... madness? Am I seriously hallucinating?
I stand still, then whirl around. A heavy gasp escapes my lips, and I feel the sound echoing off the walls adorned with a kaleidoscope of tapestries depicting the changing seasons of a whimsical forest. Something else my mom had sketched.
My gaze filters over a huge fireplace embedded into one side of a river-stone embossed wall. On its mantlepiece is an impressive collection of porcelain and wooden ornaments depicting forests and mystical creatures.
The furniture is carved from dark, heavy wood and varnished to a soft gleam. Big, oversized chairs and sofas with plush cushioning in soft, thick velvet surround a huge, engraved coffee table littered with age-worn books, lanterns and candles, board games, and an array of trinkets, mostly eclectic in style. There’s also a ceramic pot of honey among the baubles.
I’m definitely dreaming, yet I’m in no hurry to wake myself just yet. I allow my gaze to travel over the living room again. From the thick, fur-like carpet beneath my feet to the bookcase that tries to lure me with the treasures to be found between its pages, I force myself to stay where I am.
I tilt my head to the side and discover the titles of universally loved classic literature, nature guides, and memoirs of people I’ve never heard of, interspersed with other books I’m unfamiliar with as well.
A desk of ornate craftsmanship sits before a bay window overlooking the meadow on the gray horizon. From the outside, the window looks grimy with dirt, but from the inside, it’s nothing like that.
The walnut wood of the desk, so lovingly nurtured into shape, is only complimented by the cherished use of it by its owner. Bottles of ink and varying stacks of parchment paper grace the surfaces of the desk. A pair of spectacles lay between the pages of an open book, and a teacup and saucer rest beside it.
I turn my head and take in the kitchen area. It’s as cozy and homely as the living room. The rusticness of it all calls to me—the iron hearth, accentuated by the copper pots hanging from the ceiling, their bottoms blackened—but it also means they’ve been happily cooked in.
The blue peeling paint of the kitchen cupboards and the thick checkered cloth that drapes over the table add to the overall charm. Four chairs are situated around the table, where four plates, four bowls, and four sets of cutlery lie. Bernard, Barrett, Bruin, and Goldenia.
It feels as if I’m on the inside of a museum. It was as if some passionate, rich, and eccentric collector had taken the same version of the story my mom had read to me and replicated each image into life. How else can what I’m looking at be true?
A strange feeling washes over me then. I hug myself and rub my hands down the opposite side of my arms. I can’t shake the feeling that the house looks both lived-in and not lived-in.
There’s not a speck of dust collected through neglect in a house this old, but there”s also a comfort about it that gives the illusion of it being inhabited. Which is weird because that would mean someone actually lives here...
My gaze ventures further into a passage that would undoubtedly lead to the bedrooms.
Oh no.
At once, I realize I’ve done exactly what Goldilocks, in any version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, has done.
She entered a house that wasn’t her own, and while I didn’t snoop around, break their chairs, eat their porridge, and or fall asleep in their beds, I still committed a crime.
I quickly spin around and head for the door. I should have knocked, and when no one answered, I should have come back later. Feeling dreadful for invading a space that wasn’t mine, I reach out and turn the doorknob.
My brain registers two things. The knob on the inside is the face of a bear, and the second thing is that no matter which way I turn the handle, the door doesn’t open.