Land-Chantings

The sea to sky highway, that's what they call it. Where the mountains live along the water roads of the North Pacific Ocean and their towering heights kiss the white tufts in the western skies of North America.

A wishful thinker is what she called me. "I'm a skeptic, I believe in science. I want the facts and I want the proof. Then I will believe. " The first time Debbie and I conversed about beliefs was upon the topic of ghosts. “There must be a reason you believe in ghosts! Did someone convince ya? Someone show you something? Oh! Did you watch a movie to think that such bollocks could be true?”

“I don’t know. I just like to believe.” Is all I could muster out through the ache of my tightening throat and welling eyes. Having lost my parents, it was a sensitive subject. She was a wise woman nevertheless. Took me in like family and shared with me her wisdom. A non-believer my godmother was; she did believe in one thing. Land-chantings. Similar to the modern day geocaching, land-chantings are treasures said to have been secretly stowed away in the depths of mysterious bodies of water, or within secret caves deep in the vast mountain ranges; Places unreachable to the people of the 17th century. Through the generations to present day, the maps and stories of these land-chantings became nothing but folk fables and legends, sometimes coming out in campfire-like tellings during thanksgivings or Halloween. People now adopt the tales so as if you should come across a land-chanting, the soul of the rightful owner shall shadow you until your time, hauntings and possessions and such.

She had this notebook that accompanied her everywhere, unpermitted to be touched by anyone but herself. A 1998 Moleskine, small, and black. Though now it was sun-bleached, and so worn it looked as if a book hungry wolf got to it. When I was a child I would await the perfect minute, just a quick distraction so I could steal it for myself and see what was kept beneath that old cover. Not once was I successful. After she passed, her dreams were unveiled.

Now here I am. Sailing through the winding waves of highway 99 into my ever so undetermined future.

Meet me in 70 Mile house at 10am, call me when you arrive in Clinton. That’s all Pat told me. Where in 70 mile house? What if I don't make it on time? What kind of car should I look for when I arrive? All questions left for my own imaginative mind to create answers to...not that it would help me in the long run. The drive is fairly straightforward, stay on the highway until you hit the 97 and turn left. I’ve been in Clinton once before and a memorable village it is. Established somewhere in the mid 1800’s, Clinton is the epitome of quaint. Defined as attractively unusual or old-fashioned; it appears to have never left the 1800s. The main and only road running through the village is lined with heritage sites and renewed historic buildings. The fact that it’s planted in the interior desert only accentuates the whole ‘stuck in the Wild West’ feel. I pulled over at the first gas station I saw, one out of the two. “Hello, do you have a phone I could use quickly, mine doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Certainly dear, here y’ar.” A nod of appreciation from me to the older lass behind the cash and I was turned, hastily dialing the number I was given. “No luck deary?” Nancy, as read on the purple and white polka-dotted name tag, had rather successfully asked. My face was never one to be credited for hiding emotions. I was tired and frustrated. I felt a wave of hopelessness wash through my body. It couldn't be the wrong number, I checked it over countless times before my departure. Pat was never one to be too reliable. Sisters, Debbie and her definitely were. All I could do was continue on my way and hope to see her there.

Arriving in 70 Mile house was just as unexciting as someone spoiling the end of a movie. One gas station with a general store incorporated and one motel. I took my choosing of parking in the general store lot and waited. My heart nearly escaped my chest at the knock on my window. “I’m sorry to scare you! I’m hoping you are Rose?” Pat she was.

“O-oh, yes, I’m sorry I tried to call you in Clinton but the phone lines don’t seem to connect.”

“Ah, we are having some issues with callers from outside the province, no worries. Do you want to follow behind me until we reach the house?”

The drive on left me with plenty of time for my mind to run in circles with anticipation. What if I do find it? What if I die trying? An endless amount of answer-less questions circulated through my head, I barely thought to look around. It was a crisp February day. The frost on the aspens that engulfed the logging road were dressed in a frost suit that sparkled in the sun's cast. The light layer of snowfall upon the road danced entranced under the silent opera winds. I observed the snow tracks printed by the unseen family of deer that recently pattered along the same route. My mind began to lighten and just for a moment I forgot about tomorrow.

Her house spilled a comforting air the moment I walked in. Antique lamps filtering the light with a yellowy orange haze and the grand velvet sofa sitting in front of a coffee table; Underneath hundreds of National Geographic mags, Farmers INC, Log Cabin Life, and many others toppled in a chaotic organization. Her two dogs, Clyde and Gypsy lay sound asleep utop a cowhide.

“Tea?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

We sipped tea and discussed tomorrow's venture.

“You take Clyde with you Rose. He’s good company and will sound alarm if you're to run into any predators.”

“Thank you Pat. Goodnight.”

The walk up to my cabin; The night sky was as dark as a raven's wing, millions of tiny lights gathered in a precise perimeter just above. I stopped to admire the lineage of three scattered stars, Orion's belt just above the hill. The rough lines of a spoon, the little dipper to the left upon the silhouettes of the black tree lined horizon. Stars are one of those things that I always wanted to know more about but never found the time fascinating they are. Goodnight moon.

The sun came with the appearance of a northern light sky. Glowing a spectacular sea of fuchsias and lilac; It was as if the sky were the water cup of a watercolor artist who they had just dipped in their used brush, the residue of the paint bursting in diluting the soft clouded space above. I gathered my short list of belongings then commenced my journey. Debbie’s book was filled page to page with maps, hints, genealogy charts, pictures and notes...all leading to a land-chanting. This land-chanting as documented belonged to my 4-times great grandfather, according to my godmothers notebook. Pat told me that there was an original notebook, before the one Debbie carried around. It was passed on for those following generations, mother to daughter to granddaughter and so on, all for them a life's dedication to find this land-chanting. That’s what brought Pat here, to 70 Mile. Decades of hope thrashing in her mind, she found the family property and got it. It’s here. And I am here.

Clyde and I started our uphill commence about 4 hours past. We trudged in and out of interchanging forestry. Half an hour of walking through aspens scraping the skies, standing strong and tall. Coming onto the hour we were tripping over exposed roots of cedars and pine. Now, walking knee deep in powdered snow, I wondered what exactly I should be looking for. My thoughts were interrupted by the shout of my stomach.

“Tcha, we’ll find somewhere to rest Clyde, we need a snack. Or at least I do.”

Clyde was definitely not a bikini model, but knew how to keep warm in the winter's calling.

“Damn! What the …”

As gracefully as I thought, I sat down on something that would be in no case considered a suitable seat. Looking down to find the culprit, the tip of a twig just below the surface of the snow. A particular gleam it had, I tried to pull it out but without a budge. Growing interested as it neither appeared to be bent from my plummet nor happened to bend as I tried it...it was metal? Bronze maybe, copper would have bent. Immediately grabbing my godmother's notebook I rapidly flipped through to find the section of descriptions.

“...So I’ve welded together a tree with the scrap medal from the railyard. This way it will camouflage into the forest, no one will suspect a thing. To watch the newcomers walk right by it. Idiots.” Grandfather's words. I think we could have been good friends. The realization grabbed me through the shock. I’ve found it. It is right here. How could it have been that easy? Dig! Dropping to my knees I start to dig like a dog. Huffing, every inch of snow removed, an inch more of the tree revealed. Stopping for a moment, I try to yank it out. Flying backwards into a tree, the bronze lands on top of me. About 6 feet in length, it was only about a dime's in diameter. In replacement of roots, a small iron box attached, with a wee keyhole founded on the bottom.The key! Scavenging through my pockets to find the key Pat gave me before I left, eureka. I felt sick with nerves and excitement, after unclogging the keyhole from snow with a wooden twig, I inserted the key.

“Oh no!” The lid falling open downward, about a hundred coins waterfall out into the snow.

About an hour went by leaving me with a total count of one hundred and thirty three coins. These are the Ducats. Venetian Ducats, said to be worth about $150 each. He hid 20,000 dollars. I need to find Pat.