Chapter 6
Calista
“In order to survive, a cycle breaker must fight the gravitational pull yanking them back into the heart of darkness.”
—Eloisa Hobby
Calista fled the dock, jacaranda petals swirling around her, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the bitterness rising in her throat.
Mindlessly, she ran. Her pounding pulse strummed over her eardrums, a rhythmic accompaniment to her anguish. Her mother was dead. No chance to repair what ruptured so long ago. It was over.
The finality struck her like a blow.
To outrun her grief, she picked up the pace.
The resort’s cobblestone path gave way to wilder terrain.
The feral, thick, verdant grass brushed against her shins as she plunged through it into a copse of trees.
The jacaranda along the path merged into other vegetation—live oak, pecan, sugarberry, cedar elms, and mulberry.
Branches snatched at her face and arms, and she welcomed the sting, a physical pain to distract from the overwhelming emotional turmoil.
Calista had no idea where she was going. Away. That was all she knew. Away from Athena’s concerned looks and curated words. Away from the ghost of her mother. Away from the stifling burden of regrets.
The forest swallowed her whole. Shadows deepened as the canopy closed overhead.
Shafts of sunlight pierced through in places, creating a dappled pattern on the forest floor that shifted and swayed with the breeze.
The rich scent of lichen, rotting leaves, and damp earth filled her nose as her lungs heaved, gasping for air. But she ran on.
Ran and ran and ran . . .
Until her foot caught a protruding tree root.
Calista stumbled, instinctively thrusting her hands out to brace herself, and crashed into a white oak. Rough bark bit into her palm. Pain lanced through her ankle. She bit back a curse and slumped against the tree. Panting, she paused and glanced around, taking in her surroundings.
Gone was the charm of the dock, the gorgeous flowers, the quaint cobblestones, and the imperial jacaranda trees.
Here, raw nature reigned supreme, dense and untamed.
Forest sounds enveloped her—the rustle of leaves, birdcalls, the skittering of some small creature through the underbrush. Gradually, her racing heart slowed.
That’s when she heard it.
Faint, melodic tinkling carried on the breeze. The sound danced just at the edge of her hearing, beckoning her forward. Calista cocked her head, listening intently.
There it was again, clearer this time.
Curiosity tugged at her, pushing aside the storm of emotions that had driven her into the forest. Without thinking, she moved toward the sound, favoring her injured ankle. She couldn’t put full weight on it, but she could hobble.
The path—if it could be called that—narrowed. Moss cushioned her steps. The light filtering through the canopy took on an ethereal quality, fracturing through leaves in ways that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Shadows moved strangely, always just at the corner of her vision.
More than once, Calista could have sworn she saw figures darting between the trees, but when she turned to look, there was nothing but foliage and dappled sunlight.
A shiver ran down her spine. Her rational mind insisted it was tricks of the light, her imagination working overtime, but there was something about this place that made her question what was real and what wasn’t.
The tinkling grew louder with each step, building from a whisper to a symphony.
Calista pushed through a curtain of hanging vines, their leaves cool against her flushed skin. She parted the overgrowth and stretched out in front of her was a clearing, unlike anything she’d ever seen.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of wind chimes hung from branch after branch.
The chimes ranged from delicate crystalline things, pinkie-size, to massive tubes with bone-deep tones.
Metal gleamed alongside driftwood and glass, creating an audiovisual cacophony that should have been overwhelming but was not.
Calista stepped into the clearing, and it seemed as if the chimes responded to her arrival.
Their song swelled, a melody into her very soul that plucked at tender heartstrings she didn’t know existed.
Each note carried with it a fragment of emotion—joy, sorrow, hope, regret—as if the chimes were giving voice to all the feelings she’d gulped down for years.
Awestruck, she stood rooted to the spot, tears welling in her eyes.
The music washed over her, through her, leaving her feeling lost and empty. All the pain she’d been running from caught up with her in a rush, but here, surrounded by this otherworldly chorus, it felt bearable somehow.
Cathartic, even.
In the center of the clearing stood an ancient oak, its trunk gnarled and twisted with age. It towered over the other trees, branches reaching toward the sky like grasping fingers.
Drawn to it, Calista approached with tentative steps.
The tree branches creaked, like a murmured secret in the middle of the night. Getting closer, she noticed something odd about the base of the trunk. Nestled between two massive roots was a hollow, covered by a transparent lid that shimmered iridescence.
What was this?
Calista knelt. Pain shot through her ankle. She winced and repositioned her leg and inspected the ship-portal-shaped lid with a gold handle in the center.
She slid her fingers over the cool, smooth surface, but when she touched the handle, a warm sensation spread up her arm and settled in her chest. A rational person would have argued the sensation came from the sun as the clouds parted overhead, but the heat was too warm for that simple explanation.
Compelled, Calista turned the handle and lifted the lid.
Inside the small space, she found an old book and, for a moment, thought it was a grimoire. A spell book would explain a lot.
The leather cover, soft and supple from years of handling, was the color of rich bourbon. Its edges were worn smooth, the corners gently rounded, with tooled vines wrapping around the spine, leaves and flowers intricately detailed.
A brass clasp, tarnished with age, held the book closed.
She pushed down on the center of the clasp, and it released with a satisfying click, revealing fanned pages warped from humidity. The paper was thick and creamy, with a smooth tooth that caught the light and shone off gilt edges, flaking in places.
Calista opened the book, and a soothing scent wafted up—a mixture of old paper, leather, and something else, something earthy and green. It smelled of secrets and memories, hopes and dreams poured onto the pages.
A journal.
But whose?
She shifted, sat against the oak, and settled in. The chimes quieted as the wind calmed, giving her space to read.
The first page bore an inscription in deep blue ink, the handwriting elegant and flowing.
Tiny flecks of sand clung to some of the letters as if the writer had been sitting on a beach.
In the top right corner, a pressed flower—a tiny purple blossom Calista didn’t recognize—had been affixed to the page.
To those who find solace in these pages, may you leave a piece of your journey and take with you the strength of those who came before. —EH
EH—Eloisa Hobby?
Had the island’s owner created this repository of confession and healing? Calista turned the page. The first entry was dated fifteen years earlier:
I came to this island broken, convinced my life was over.
My husband’s betrayal shattered everything I knew about myself and my future, but in this place, surrounded by the whispers of the wind, the wisdom of nature, and the kindness of strangers, I found a peace I never thought possible.
The pain isn’t gone, but it no longer defines me.
I leave this clearing lighter than I arrived, ready to face whatever comes next.
Thank you, Hobby Island, for showing me that endings can also be beginnings. —Much love to other seekers, Vivian
Was this the same woman who’d shown up at the dock dressed in pink to escort guests to the resort? Vivian’s words touched her heart. How many others had come here seeking connection and hope?
Calista flipped through the pages, skimming entries from people of all ages, genders, religions, and backgrounds. Some wrote of loss, others of fear or confusion, but running through them all was a thread of transformation, of finding strength they didn’t know they possessed.
The anger and hurt that drove Calista into the forest receded, replaced by unexpected calmness. These strangers, separated by time and circumstance, had sat where she now sat, pouring their hearts onto these pages.
Toying with her locket, Calista read on, seeking more comfort. She was so engrossed in her thoughts she almost missed it . . . but the handwriting stopped her.
The loose script, the deep forward slant.
A scrawl she recognized instantly, even though it had been twenty years since she’d last seen it.
Her mother’s handwriting.
The entry was unsigned, but she knew to the depths of her soul that Demetra had written this entry.
Calista’s heart pounded as she stared at the page, torn between the desperate need to know and the fear of what she might discover. The chimes went silent, seeming to hold their breath, waiting.
The island’s magic works in mysterious ways.
I came here to escape, but instead, I confronted the truth.
My greatest regret and my deepest love are two sides of the same coin, one light and one dark.
To my lost stars: If you ever find your way here, know that the night sky doesn’t rule forever.
Look for the light. It’s always been there, even when you can’t see it.
Lost stars? Was Demetra speaking of her and Athena? Calista wrapped a twirl of her long dark hair around her index finger and almost popped her thumb into her mouth the way she had as a nine-year-old torn from her mother, back before her father cropped her hair.