Chapter 35 Underground
Underground
Kate Shaw
Lydia and I share a common pain: We failed our parents.
We spend our days trying to justify our existence.
Lydia’s spirit gift didn’t allow her to forewarn her parents and defy death, and I was never good enough to be my mother’s child.
Those failures are heavy burdens for young girls to carry.
They warp the paths we follow and weaken our spines.
Lydia seeks the mystical while I seek validation, and we both fall short.
“Tunnels…” Lydia is saying, and I blink a few times to catch up. She stirs the pot of vegetable soup while I slice a loaf of honey wheat bread and spread creamery butter. Outside, Gus lights lanterns and sets the porch table.
“Like the tunnel near Little Switzerland?” I ask.
“No. Underground tunnels. From mica and gemstone mines. Literally a highway of tunnels that link mountains and valleys but all out of sight. Today, while you went to Micaville, we found an entrance on my property.”
“Today?”
“Yes. We showed Professor Covey the photos Gus took of my graveyard. That excursion we took when we didn’t get to see Birdie’s books. When the professor saw the prints, he suspected the graveyard held a secret, so we went back this afternoon and confirmed his suspicions: The tombstones are fake.”
“Fake? Who would go to that kind of trouble. And why?”
“In this case it was clever moonshiners. The center headstone hid an entrance to an underground room with remnants of a copper still. Remember how I said my graveyard and Birdie’s looked similar? Three headstones in a row? Now I wonder if Birdie’s hides access to the tunnels.”
“But why?” I ask again. “Who would use them? Where would they go?” I shudder.
“Private spaces for private reasons. The one on my property has three intersecting tunnels branching off from that chamber. And look what we found hidden in the cuff of a jacket.”
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and take the photocopy of the message. Lydia watches my astonishment grow when I read, Romi say go see Birdie. Go leff at fork 5 X then rite.
“But you live an hour’s drive from Baines Creek.”
“But much shorter if you go by tunnels that don’t cross valleys or zigzag around mountains and through towns. The path goes beneath the obstacles.”
“How long would it take to walk?”
“Don’t know. But the fact that one can travel from my graveyard to Birdie’s place all underground is intriguing. Professor Covey says there could be a thousand passageways.”
“Do you think tunnels could run from Baines Creek to Micaville?”
“Maybe,” Lydia says, smiling. “Why not? It would make sense as to why no one saw the child.”
I cringe. “You’d never find me wandering in the dark like that.”
Once was enough when Birdie took me to the mushroom cave and I almost got separated from her because my steps were unsure and I lagged behind. It’s why I didn’t want to go there when the killing snow came; the dark terrifies me.
Lydia continues, “It’s clever or cunning or convenient depending on your purpose, isn’t it? Whatever the reason, knowledge of the tunnels has exposed a mysterious world. No telling what we’ll find. With this revelation, Kate, Birdie’s world, and mine are connected.”
Soup and buttered bread along with sliced apples and cheddar cheese are served on the porch by lantern light. After more conjecture about hidden tunnels, Gus asks if I like the Narnia books.
“I read them years ago. Even taught them in middle school. The children loved them.”
“And you didn’t?”
“They’re good but simplistic.”
Lydia interjects. “They’re more than simple stories. Mr. Lewis created a fantasy world full of talking animals and kingdoms that revealed truths and the meaning of life.”
“Which is—?”
“Love, sacrifice, and redemption. That there’s something greater than ourselves.”
“But all I see are fairy tales.”
“And that’s a good start. Lewis believed fairy tales were important, both in their structure and message. Every time I read one of the Narnia books, my faith is reaffirmed in something bigger than mankind. The universe gets righted. There’s a set in the guesthouse.”
I use my standard refute against Lydia’s argument. “I think myths and folklore are man’s fabrications. They’re meant to elicit control or fear or power. Blind faith has always eluded me. I’ve never seen the need for mythology and organized religions.” I hate my righteous tone.
But Lydia isn’t put off by it. Her voice isn’t condescending. It’s kind when she says, “The timing has to be right, Kate, and maybe your time hasn’t come.”
She speaks as though I don’t know what I’m missing. That whatever it is, it will wait for me. What does that even imply? That I need to grow up or grow young or merely grow?
To lighten the mood, I say, “And the Bavarian armoire in your bedroom. That’s the portal to Narnia, isn’t it?”
Gus says, “I thought so. Hoped so. In the dark insides I could squint my eyes and almost see Aslan and the Witch and Mr. Beaver.”
“The armoire could be the door to Narnia, couldn’t it?
” Lydia chuckles. “I was mostly grown when Narnia was published, but even as an adult, I was frustrated when my wardrobe didn’t open at the back and let me step into a snowy world more purposeful than my own.
Narnia would have been a great escape when I needed to go somewhere, anywhere else.
I do know this: Fairy tales are indispensable to our lives, Kate.
They connect us to our imagination. They shape our values and beliefs. Fairy tales are the vehicle to truth.”