Chapter 35
read between the pines
Holly
Mim Daley peered at Holly over a stack of books, her glasses perched halfway down her nose. Her cardigan, purple with a sequined snowflake brooch, looked like it had been chosen for maximum whimsy. A black cat lounged across the checkout counter.
“Ah, Miss Kringle. I was so excited when you called this morning about the journals. We can set you up in the reading alcove where it’s warmest. I figured you’d like a little privacy.”
Ivar stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders. His hair was damp from melting flakes, and a blush of cold colored his cheeks.
Mim’s smile widened. “Well, if it isn’t our Forest Philosopher. Don’t tell me you’ve come to finally return those field guides?”
Ivar gave her a mock salute. “Eventually.”
Mim’s laugh was bright and delightful. “You’re just lucky you’re handsome enough to get away with overdue fees. Now, tell me, Miss Kringle—”
“Holly, please.”
“Yes, Holly. Tell me, are you related to the Hales, dear?”
“No,” Holly said. “I’m a bit of a local history buff.”
“Wonderful,” Mim said. “Now, Ivar, come with me. They’re still in the back. Holly dear, you make yourself at home in one of the alcoves near that large radiator. It’s the warmest place here. As soon as we get the boxes, I’ll leave you two alone. Try not to scandalize Poe.”
Poe, the cat, gave a single unimpressed blink.
When Ivar returned, he placed the boxes on the table and removed his jacket, tossing it on the chair.
Holly blinked. He was wearing his park ranger uniform: dark green pants, a pressed shirt, and a badge gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
Somehow, it made him look both official and wildly out of place among the dusty books and curling pages.
“I didn’t realize your vacation was over,” she said, guilt flickering across her face. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from work.”
“If saving the forest isn’t part of my job, then I’m doing something wrong.”
Her lips curved. “I suppose there’s something to be said for men in uniform.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Only something?”
“Don’t push your luck, Ranger.”
Mim’s voice floated from behind the shelves. “Children, please. Some of us are still within earshot.”
Holly bit back a laugh as Ivar sat beside her. A stack of leather-bound journals waited beside them, their covers cracked, edges flaked with age, each marked with the same looping initials: C.H.
Holly traced them lightly with her finger. “Cornelius Hale.”
“Who’s that?” Ivar asked, leaning in close.
“Henry learned his name from some of the old-timers. According to Henry, some of those who leave our world are drawn to Yule veins, whether they realize it or not. He said, for some, it’s like living near a pulse, a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat.”
Ivar tilted his head. “That’s poetic.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. These people are called Keepers.”
”So, what do they keep? The land safe? Or your secret?”
“Good question,” Holly said half to herself. “Henry said it was because they were drawn to the magic veins, but keeping our secret makes sense too, because they’ve left and they’re trusted to keep it. Oh dear, this might be a wild-goose chase.”
Somewhere in the distance, Mim hummed tunelessly while shelving books.
“Come on, Kringle,” Ivar said gently. “Don’t give up. We’ve got the journals, and a name that matches the initials. Let’s see what he has to say.”
Mim’s voice drifted from the next aisle. “And remember, darlings—whispering only counts as quiet if you’re not blushing while you do it!”
Holly shot Ivar a mortified look, which he answered with a grin.
“Come on,” he said. “Start reading.”
Mim’s chatter faded as Holly opened the brittle first page.
The journal began with notes about the house Cornelius and his wife were building.
The garden they were planning. How many goats they wanted.
Holly followed their progress through the first few years.
The next journal started with plans for a maple orchard.
They kept reading entries about weather and crops, and occasionally some local gossip. Then, one passage caused them both to pause.
March 24, 1884
This morning brought word that the parcel of land adjoining my northern boundary is to be sold. I have no intention of expanding as my maple orchard keeps me well enough occupied, but some curiosity is compelling me to see it. Tomorrow, I will walk the ridge to see the property for myself.
Holly turned to Ivar. “This is it,” she whispered. “This has to be the land.”
“Keep reading,” he said.
March 25, 1884
It is a strange piece of ground, dense with pine and hemlock, the kind of forest that muffles a man’s own footsteps.
The path down is steep and half-hidden, as though the land does not wish to be approached.
Yet the moment I crossed its boundary, a stillness took hold of me.
The air was close and cool, carrying no birdsong, only the faint hum of unseen life beneath the soil.
The trees here stand differently than in my own woods.
They are older perhaps, but not in decay.
Straight and tall, their bark pale and smooth as carved ash.
I felt as though I had entered a chapel built not by man’s hands but by time itself.
And there, in the hollow of the valley, the ground curved inward, forming a great bowl where the mist seemed to rest like breath upon a mirror.
The snow, though fresh that morning, had melted there, and the earth gave off a subtle warmth, like embers hidden deep beneath the ash.
I did not see the source of that warmth, nor could I name what stirred in me as I stood there. It was not fear, nor was it comfort, but a knowing. The land, I think, wished to be left in peace, but it also wished to be kept. Not cleared, not built upon. Simply watched over.
I left before dusk, yet the image of that hollow has not left me.
There is purpose in that soil, older than I can reckon.
I will make an offer on the land at once.
Whatever it is that sleeps beneath those roots, it is not meant for men to disturb.
Better it rests under the hand of one who will protect it, than fall to those who would see only timber and profit.
I do not yet understand why, but I know this: I am meant to protect it.
Ivar leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the page. For a long moment he didn’t move. “He bought the land to protect something he couldn’t even name.” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Do you think he ever saw the tree?”
“I’m not sure. If he’d been chosen…” She hesitated, about to start a conversation that would change Ivar’s life yet again. “Then yes, he would have seen it.”
“I’m sorry. You lost me there. Chosen?”
She nodded slowly. “Henry found some information about a ‘Heart Tree’ and a ‘Root of Light’ dating back to pre-Santa times. It’s what we now call the Yule Tree.” She pulled up the picture Henry had sent.
The drawing filled the center of the yellowing paper.
It wasn’t a realistic tree but a symbolic one: its trunk rising straight and true, its roots and branches mirrored in perfect symmetry.
The limbs curved into spirals that hinted at runes, and tiny marks like stars or embers dotted the spaces between, as if light had been translated into pattern.
The shape suggested an evergreen by its branches, which were tiered and tall and edged with needle-like strokes. But it was too symmetrical to be anything found in nature. It wasn’t a tree so much as the idea of one: life and light rendered as geometry.
Ivar rubbed the back of his neck. “Until I met you, I would have thought this was too strange to be true; now, nothing surprises me.” He pulled his field notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open.
Between maps and trail notes were sketches of the same tree.
“I’ve been doodling that tree since I was a kid.
I thought I had made it up. But clearly there's more to it. Obviously, that tree’s more than just the epicenter of a worldwide magical power source. ”
He focused on the picture again, pointing to the margins. “I mean, look at this. The light sleeps beneath the roots. It wakes when the world forgets. What does that even mean?”
“Where does it say that?”
“Right where I’m pointing.” He tapped on her phone.
Holly didn’t know what to say.
“Great. Now what?” Ivar asked.
“I can’t read that. To me, it’s lines and markings.”
Holly watched his color drain, leaving him ashen . The drawings, the prose, had peeled back something he wasn’t ready to face.
“I need some air,” he murmured, rising from the chair like the building was on fire.
“Wait for me.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
Holly took a few quick photos of the pages before straightening the journals carefully, almost afraid to disturb what they’d just uncovered.
Whatever she’d been afraid to say before, it couldn’t wait any longer. She’d finish what she started and tell him everything.