The Journal and the First Clue
1168 Words
Moonlight streamed in through slits between the boards in the creaky old door that opened up to Calla’s Mother’s old cottage; the wind howled through the trees. The air inside was stale and cold and heavy with dust and memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to relive. It was the same small, one-room space she remembered, but somehow emptier. On the surfaces of the wood, it was as if a thin layer of grime had coated them, and there was the scent of dried herbs, which clung weakly against the air.
One more time, the hand of the enormous woman gripped the knob on the door. She stayed standing on the threshold and hesitated. Her chest tightened. She shouldn’t be here, she thought, as if she’d stepped into a past she’d buried with her mother. After everything, the attacks and the claw marks and the glowing object, she had needed answers. Here was the one place that could give her any clues.
Closing the door behind her, she stepped inside. It was her weight that creaked the floorboards, that stirred up small clouds of dust as she walked. She glanced around the room, upwards on the table where she once upon a time watched her mother's concoctions, the shelves still holding dried flowers and empty jars. The chair in the corner, worn from years of use, sat slightly askew as if her mother had only just left it.
Her mind drifted, and Calla ran her fingers lightly over the edge of the table. She could hear her mother’s strained voice as she spoke low and soothingly to detail some herbs and their properties. Her chest ached with the memory of it.
She whispered to the empty room, “Why didn’t you tell me anything?”
She shook her head and pushed the thought away. It wasn’t time for self-pity. She needed to focus.
Her hands brushed aside old scraps of paper and bits of dried roots as she began opening drawers. It was mostly junk, things her mother had probably forgotten to throw away. Calla continued to dig, digging more frantically by the minute. She had to know; there had to be something, anything, that could help her understand what was happening.
Nearly an hour later, she slumped into the old chair, her fingers covered in dust. Frustration bubbled in her chest and threatened to spill. She'd hoped this place would have answers; she’d hoped it would have people, but it only housed fragments of a life long gone.
She looked down and caught a flicker of something. A corner of the boards near the hearth was raised slightly, making it noticeable. Calla frowned and leaned forward to brush the dirt away. She felt a small notch on the edge of the board, and her fingers traced it.
She grabbed the nearest thing around her—a rusted knife from the table—and she wedged it into the gap. So she grunted and pried the board loose until she revealed a hollow space beneath. She got her heart beating faster as she reached her hand inside, her fingers touching something smooth and cold.
She pulled it out, and her breath caught. The journal was leather-bound, its edges worn and cracked with age. On the front, her mother had scrawled For Calla.
She opened it with her hands shaking. Familiar notes began, and her mother’s neat script, which she had seen before, filled the first few pages. The more she turned, the more the handwriting got messier, blurred, and frantic.
The words let off the blur and became cryptic.
The wards are weakening. The Eclipse Stone is the key.
They cannot know. The clans' divisions prevent them from knowing.
Betrayers among us. Observe, Calla.
Calla’s breath hitched. The Eclipse Stone. She’d never heard of it before, but her mother had written about it as if it was the most essential thing in the world. Her eyes scanned the page again, her pulse pounding in her ears.
“What is this?” she murmured.
She turned to another page, and the words there froze her blood.
The Shade stirs. It watches. It waits.
The words pressed down on Calla’s like a weight crushed her chest. It was the same name the elders had whispered after Elder Theron disappeared. The same force that had been creeping through the haven since the wards had flickered.
Her mother had known. She’d known this was coming somehow. Why hadn’t she said anything? Why hide it in a journal?
Her mind spun, and Calla leaned back in the chair. There was a ritual that referred to the strength of the wards, the pages said, but the instructions were incomplete, the words muddling into smudges and scratches of black ink. It clawed at her frustration. Why hadn’t she left all the answers if her mother had left this for her?
She brushed her fingers along the edge of the journal and saw something wedged between the pages. It was a small scrap of paper, a hastily sketched map. Calla recognized the landmarks; they were rough, but she could see them. The forest is beyond the haven. The cursed lands.
Her throat tightened. No one went to the cursed lands; the cursed lands were an expanse of shadow, and the air was heavy with decay. It could only mean one thing if her mother had marked it on the map.
Her mother’s words rang in her head, and her hands trembled in front of her as she stared at the map.
The Eclipse Stone is the key.
She whispered, 'What does it mean?'
The cottage was silent, thick, and unyielding. There was a shiver down her spine, the feeling of a faintest prickle of fear curling in her chest. Something terrible had been coming, as my mother knew, and she had left this journal as a warning. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
She held the journal to her chest and stared at the uneven floorboards as she stood. The words on the page swam in her mind, and the questions she couldn’t answer were heavy.
Why hadn’t her mother said anything? So why should Calla have to take the responsibility alone? What was the Eclipse Stone’s connection to the wards?
Her gaze lifted to the map; her heart beat a little faster. Those cursed lands were full of questions—and danger, in her mind—and loomed as a dark shadow. But one thing was clear: If she wanted answers, she’d have to go there.
Her steps were slow as she turned toward the door. Outside, the wind battered the walls of the cottage, louder now than ever. She gripped the doorframe, waiting a moment as her mind raced.
Was she ready for what she might find? Was she walking straight into something she couldn’t escape?
She took a deep breath and, stepping out into the night, her hand tightened on the journal. Whatever came next, she would have to deal with.
- Writer
