Chapter Three

Breanne Walker

I parked on the opposing-traffic side of Sykes Avenue, grabbed my messenger bag and climbed out of my car. The car door slammed much harder than I intended, and the harsh sound reverberated off the trees, making my bones jump and probably waking a few woodland creatures.

Cautiously, I crossed the road and stepped into the woods. My steps were short, my arms outstretched—like the mummy in those black-and-white horror films—and fear was pulsing in my veins. The only sounds were the soft crunch of the debris beneath my feet and the pounding of my heart. I chided myself furiously for not having grabbed the flashlight stored in my trunk. Leaves rustled on either side of me, but I didn’t dare look to find out why. Instead, I stared straight ahead and repeated “I don’t believe in ghosts” until I almost believed it. Finally, a bit of light found its way past the massive tree trunks and lit the area in front of me in a hazy, orange tone.

Then the path in front of me was blocked by yellow police tape. DO NOT CROSS, it yelled out to the world in big, bold letters. I looked to the right and left; the entire area had been barricaded off. Undeterred, I ducked under the plastic tape.

“Wow! Wow!” someone screamed from my right. I turned to the right to see a park ranger emerging from the darkness and stomping towards me, flashlight raised and walkie-talkie at the ready.

“The park is closed! On the other side, girl!” he screamed, shining his flashlight directly into my face.

“I’m an employee at the museum. Dr. Ransome called me.” I pulled my ID badge from my bag and batted the blind spots from my eyes.

He popped his walkie-talkie back into his belt loop and accepted my ID. He looked it over and shone his flashlight into my face three more times before he believed I was the person pictured. Do I look that disheveled? He motioned for me to open the flap of my messenger bag, which I did. He pointed the light inside, looking through my bag without actually looking through it. He turned from me and walked a few paces away, radioing over to someone else and speaking quick codes in hushed tones.

Am I breaking into the Pentagon, I thought as minute after minute went by and still, I stood on the outskirts of…well, whatever was in front of me.

“Okay, Ms. Walker. You’re free to go on ahead. Dr. Ransome is waiting for you.” He handed me my ID and ushered me forward like someone from air-traffic control.

“Thanks for your time,” I said, tipping my imaginary hat. I walked away with a chip on my shoulder, feeling like an anthropological badass.

Once passed the armed guard, I stepped onto a grassy hill, promptly lost my balance, and slid onto my hands and knees. Definitely misjudged that one, I thought, hoping the ranger hadn’t seen. After slipping two subsequent times, I crawled up the slippery incline on all fours, digging my fingers into the drenched earth.

Once the ground had leveled beneath me, I stood and found myself in a small clearing, lush with green grass, surrounded by massive oak trees, and emblazoned with artificial light. I wiped my slick hands on my sodden jeans—trying not to think of the creepy crawlers I had probably squished when I fell—and looked around. Hurried, loud conversations and the drowning buzz of four electric generators—powering multiple, massive construction lights—filled the air. People rushed here and there, reading notes from clipboards and making frantic phone calls. The cleared space wasn’t large—3,000 square feet at the most—but every inch was jam-packed with rangers, a backhoe, and complete chaos.

How the heck did they get a backhoe up here?

Before I could speculate, I heard Greg yelling my name. I looked around and saw him waving his arms frantically. He was dressed in basketball shorts and a white tee-shirt and running towards me like a little boy on the recess yard.

“So…. glad…. you…. found it,” he huffed when he finally reached my side. He took a few gulps of air and then hunched over. From his pocket he pulled an inhaler and took a few puffs. Another surprising characteristic.

“Kind of hard to miss,” I said. I patted him on the back. “Are you okay?”

He rose slowly but clutched at his chest. His face was crimson, and he was still gasping for air, but he managed to say, “I’m fine. Great. Just great. This is some night!”

“I can see that!” I pointed to the commotion around us.

“It’s beyond exciting. You’ll be thanking me for pulling you out of bed for the rest of your life.” He beamed from ear to ear.

“Well, I don’t know about that, I do like my sleep.” I stifled a yawn.

“You can sleep when you’re dead,” he said, taking my elbow and guiding me forward.

He walked—rather, pranced—on his tiptoes, like he was afraid to bend the blades of grass. And he was talking a mile a minute. So fast, in fact, that I couldn’t understand more than half of it. If he keeps this up, he’ll need his inhaler again before we reach our destination. He maneuvered his way among the throngs of people. Then, without warning, he abruptly stopped and almost tripped me. Without an apology—or a single word—he dropped my elbow and stepped ahead to what he had pulled me out of bed for.

It was a gigantic, overturned tree, pulled up to the roots.

“Is that…supposed to be tipped over?” My voice was high-pitched and whiney. I felt stupid for asking, but I was completely dumbfounded. Steam was rising from the tips of the branches, and there was a strong smell of burning wood.

“No, not at all. That tree has stood tall and strong for over one hundred and fifty years, until Mother Nature decided to pound Gettysburg tonight. A bolt of lightning went straight through her.” He pointed to the charred split in the upper branches.

“So that’s a—”

“A Witness Tree. Survived the battle and thrived in this very spot.”

I felt cemented to the spot. He motioned me forward. My eyes bugged, and I obeyed like a mind-controlled zombie. From my minor knowledge of Gettysburg and its arboreal inhabitants, I could tell the tree was a white oak. They were known for large branches that shot out at abnormal angles, thick trunks—gray, scaly, and covered in moss—and warty acorns. Their bowers were bountiful and adorned with glossy, green leaves, lobed and symmetrical from the center vein. Most of those leaves now littered the ground beneath my feet. Undoubtedly this tree had been breathtaking when it was standing upright. The park rangers circled the tree like buzzards scouting prey, clipboards in hand. Some were taking exact measurements of the circumference of the trunk, its height, the length of its roots, and the branch span. I stepped closer and inched between two rangers. I ran my fingers over the trunk, realizing I was touching a piece of history. These trees were the only living witnesses to a time gone by. They were living monuments.  “The trunk hasn’t been cut for carbon-dating?” I asked, reverence striking me hard.

“No, not yet.” He stepped beside me and waved the surrounding rangers away. “They are waiting on me. All Witness Trees are registered with the Arbor Society. But that’s not what’s important right now,” he said guiding me back to the base of the trunk, where the roots were more exposed. The roots extended deep into the ground, some still grasping for dirt, as gravity took the rest sideways. He pointed down into the hole the tree had left behind. A hole, eight feet across and maybe six feet deep. I crouched down to get a better look. There wasn’t much to see, so I looked back to Greg with a so what expression.

“Pass me that,” Greg instructed a ranger at his side, who obediently passed him a small dust brush. He jumped into the hole. Placing his feet in a wide stance, he bent forward and began to brush away the remaining thin layer dirt from a point directly in the middle of his stance. To reveal what appeared to be a cloth, covering a sphere. An elongated sphere that thinned out towards the bottom, then broadened out.

Like shoulder blades and a skull…

I gasped so loud that I woke the birds nesting nearby.

“There’s more.” He looked up and shot me another toothy grin. More than a freaking body? He pulled himself out of the hole and motioned for me to follow him to the opposite side of the felled tree, where the roots were splayed upon the ground like two-feet long fingers. He looked to his sides—making sure no one was watching—then dropped to his knees and reached among the roots.

“When I arrived, I did a walk around the tree’s entire circumference,” he said, his voice muffled. “I saw something dangling among the roots. So, I halted the proceedings and rushed everyone out. I wanted you to be here when I pulled out whatever it is.” He crawled among the roots, obstructing my view; all I could see were the roots shaking as he grabbed at something deep within. Then he shimmied out from the tree and got to his feet. In his hand was a square-shaped object, wrapped in burlap. “Time to be part of history,” he said as he handed over the bundle.

“It could be trash.”

“Okay!” He threw his arms up like he’d been caught cheating on a test. “I peeked. But only enough to know it was worth calling you, and then I put it right back.”

The package was light, hard, but also pliable. Carefully, I slipped the rough burlap down, and my breath caught in my throat again. Beneath the burlap was a white cotton cloth. The fabric—like the burlap—was weather worn, stained and old. My fingers acted on their own accord; I removed the burlap and pulled back the cotton fabric, to reveal brown leather.

A brown, leather-bound book.