The Mysterious Disappearance of Contessa Willoughby: Part Two
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Reread Part One if you wish to recall where we last left Contessa or continue on to Part Two.
Part Two
It is said that time-travel is a fiction. But if you close your eyes and then open them — yes, go ahead and do it — isn’t that a kind of time-traveling? I believe that the next moment can become a new place if you look close enough. If, perhaps, you believe.
It would be the same for Contessa. Except that when she opened her eyes, she was certain she was no longer in her room. It was not what she could see — in fact, she could see nothing. It was so dark that were her hands not attached to her body she wouldn’t believe she had them. So how did she know she was no longer in her room? It was the smell.
The autumn before, her grandfather took her on a walk nearby to his home.
“I’m going to show you something special,” he told Contessa with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Stones!”
Contessa was on the floor arranging acorns that had fallen from the oak tree into neat rows according to size. “Stones, Papa?”
“Yes, let’s go.” It was drizzling outside and Contessa was warm by the fire.
“I promise, you will want to see this. Let’s go.” He handed her a pair of wellies.
They set off towards a path in the back corner of the garden. They wandered vacant fields where only a few months ago cows grazed beneath a warm summer sun and crossed solemn country lanes. All was quiet except for the patter of rain. The land glistened. A stiff wind blew. It seemed like everyone but Papa and Contessa were somewhere enjoying a fire. They continued on, advancing towards a hill that heaved under the weight of some strange shape. Contessa ran ahead to investigate.
“I told you! The cairns. They’re special stones!” her grandfather shouted after her.
She had never seen anything like it. These were not like the stones she collected at the beach and skimmed across the sea. No, these were a thousand times more grand. But there was something else about them, too. Now, I must be honest with you. Children often sense things that the adults around them are unable to. It’s not that adults are incapable, it is just they have chosen to forget. Choosing to do something is very different than being unable to. Forgetting, many adults believe, makes everything easier. These stones, Contessa knew in her heart, had a story to tell the way you or I do.
When her grandfather made it across the field, Contessa was standing in front of a trio of the largest of them. The two smaller ones, which rose up towards the sky, bore the burden of another stone that spanned the length of four Contessas. Together, they formed a kind of doorway.
“Where does it go?”
Her grandfather placed his hand on one of the stones and closed his eyes,“To people, long, long ago.”
Contessa watched him. The rain was scant but a drop had formed in the corner of his eye. Maybe Papa already knew their story.
“Your turn,” he opened his eyes. “Touch them.”
Contessa didn’t reach with her hand that day. Instead, she craned her neck towards the stones, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.
The wonderful thing about scents is that they are another way to time-travel. It wasn’t that autumn day with her Papa and the stones when she inhaled this time, but when she breathed in the darkness of wherever she was, cold air filled her nostrils with the memory of the cairns and her grandfather. Contessa exhaled. She was not scared. She knew whatever path she was on would lead her to him.
Contessa took a step forward. The ground seemed smooth and even. She took another step, and tripped. She reached down and ran her hand across the ground until she felt something thick and familiar, like something that belonged to the oak tree in Papa’s garden. Was it a branch? She tugged on it, but the earth grasped tighter. It was a root.
Contessa continued on. Moments passed but without anything to mark time, and no other roots to trip over, she wasn’t sure how long she had been walking. Then, from out of the darkness, a jagged silhouette materialized in front of her. She stopped. Ba-dum…ba-dum…ba-dum. It was the faintest beat, but she was certain that she heard it. She had a toy that made a similar sound, a drum she fashioned from an old, oatmeal container.
She walked towards the sound until the dark outline gave way to glittery forms. The beat grew louder. Ba-dum…ba-DUM…BA-DUM. She stopped again. Ahead of her, everything was cast in a warm glow, like the late afternoon light that convinced her the sun was made of gold. She looked around. She was in a cave. All around her, squat rocks anchored trunks of crystals that reached up from the ground and down from the ceiling. Closer to the crystals, she felt the beat inside her body.
“Can you hear it?”, Contessa pointed. But there was no one there to answer.
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