Rainbows

The forest swallowed her up like a gulp of lemonade. It was a summer day, and her mouth felt the parch, but the taste of the day ahead filled her to the brim with dreams of reckless adventure and dauntless imagination that only exist for a mere season known as the age of thirteen. Ambition drove her to the hills, crunching through fallen leaves and feeling whimsical next to the hidden gems in the babbling wooded brook. Anything could happen here if she wanted it to, and anything could not happen here, too. She followed her normal dirt path and put her childish dreams on play as she passed the third line of trees and followed her heart into the wilderness’ abyss.

The normal fancies overtook her as she met her typical fortress of daydreams, an organized semi-circle of fallen branches that covered a few stumpy logs like a woodsy rainbow. She took her normal seat at the center of the mound upon her favorite tree stump and let out a sigh of contentment as she gazed upward to the treetops.

“What do we have in store today, friends?” she asked the forest. “Shall we journey to the tree farm and offer pinecone gifts under the trees for the woodland creatures, or perhaps we visit the haunted barn and muster up the courage to pick its lock? Or maybe we venture to the edge of the forest, dreaming of the limitless beyond?” She listened closely for a response. With no answer to be heard, she invited the forest spirits to accompany her on a normal day’s adventure.

She strolled toward a fallen sycamore that straddled a watershed. She pulled herself up on the trunk, her steps decorated with moss and mushrooms. She held her arms out to brace the air and teetered as she moved forward. Almost at the end of the tree, she readied her dismount, but as her weight pressed the bark cracked open. The trunk guzzled her red tennis shoe as it cracked open and swallowed her calf. She sat there stunned for a moment, staring at her lost leg in the hollowness. She pulled her limb out, finding scrapes adorning her leg. She peered inside the trunk to find a few piles of acorns and to her amazement an ebony book sitting inconspicuously upon the forest floor.

Shocked by the sight, butterflies danced in her stomach as she reached for the book. A metallic beetle scuttled across the cover, and she pulled her hand back. She was startled but curiosity tempted her again. She picked up the book and inspected it. It was fairly weathered, and the binding felt worn as if it had known much life. The pages were the color of ginger and the back cover was covered in a moist residue of soil.

She glanced around, but only the trees stood as her companions as she held the ebony treasure. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered endlessly, and the voice in her head cautioned that she should not open the book. She felt a pang of awareness that this could be someone else’s prized property. She could be barging in on secrets she had no invitation to share. She gingerly placed the book down inside the hollow trunk and placed her hands on her knees to think. Who else ventured in these woods? The quiet trees, the crinkling leaves, and the chatty creek were indeed her good friends, but were they also the friends of another? She thought these woods were hers alone. Perhaps this journal was a gift, an offering of adventure for the day? And besides, if it did belong to someone, how could she return it without knowing its contents?

She picked the book up again and opened the first page. It read, “To him whom all blessings flow.” The writing she could not decipher, a man’s or a woman’s she could not figure. There was no name or date, only those lyrical words.

She turned to the second page. It read, “No one can serve two masters.” She turned again to the third page, and the fourth, reading respectively, “if it causes you to err,” then, “part from it.” Perplexed and astounded by the cryptic messages, feelings of regret and depravity overtook her. What was once a carefree morning felt very heavy indeed. Morality tickled her spine, but she kept turning. The rest of the pages were blank, until she discovered the back pages of the book. Within a choppy rectangular cutout, she found a band of $100 bills taped up.

She brushed her hand against the money and carefully removed the tape, removing it from its cut-out coffin. She beheld another message at the base of the money’s tomb: “Better is the poor who walks in his integrity, than one perverse in his ways, though he be rich.”

She inspected the money and counted it: $20,000. Why on earth was this in a hidden journal in the middle of the woods? And the narrative of the journal was cumbersome on the soul. Was this money left for another person in the forest, for “him whom all blessings flow”? Regardless of her apprehension, peace overcame her. These woodlands always welcomed her with open arms. Perhaps this black journal and its contents welcomed her as well. She ran back home with the book under her arm.

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Later that evening, the moonlight illuminated two souls venturing among the sycamore trees.

The first youthful soul pranced through her familiar path with a small book under her arm. She placed the book back in its hiding place and returned home--a happy scheme danced in her thoughts.

The second decrepit soul lurked among the trees, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He stumbled upon the place of his desire but stopped to see a small figure placing an object in a tree trunk. Stunned with regret, he hid behind a tree and watched her walk back toward the tree line with a happy countenance.

Like a dog returning to its vomit, he approached the trunk to find the ebony book. He picked it up and brought it into the moonlight. He turned the pages to where the fortune previously lived. Was it a feeling of disappointment or relief that the money was gone? All that was left was a post-it note embellished with a rainbow.

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Over the next days, a young girl walked along the sidewalks of her neighborhood with a notebook in hand. What she was writing down was known to her and to her alone, but she smiled confidently as she took each stride.

On Friday morning, neighbors glanced around in surprise like the girl at the hollow trunk as they opened their daily mail. An unmarked envelope arrived in the mailboxes of every neighbor on the street.

At 101 Smith Street, Mrs. Talley, old and grey, approached her mailbox like she did every morning at 10:00. Retired, lonely, and widowed, she found a blank envelope among advertisements. She opened it, discovering $500 and a post-it note reading, “For your oxigen tanks,” signed with a rainbow. She looked up and down the street. “Who could have possibly…” she murmured to herself.

At 103 Smith Street, Davey Hamilton, eight years young approached his mailbox. He tore through the mail looking for toy magazines, but to no avail he set the mail on the kitchen countertop and returned to his Legos. Between the overdue water bill and the electricity bill a blank envelope fell onto the floor as Daisy Hamilton pieced through their family’s debts. She opened the blank envelope to find $500 and a note that read “Maybe this will help,” signed with a crayon rainbow. Tears filled her eyes as she glanced around at her bare cabinets.

That day on Smith street, folks from every household found $500 in their mailboxes with a child’s handwriting and a rainbow. A neighborhood meeting was called as the news spread and mail was checked. Neighbors gathered in the cul-de-sac, congregating in elation about the mysterious giver.

Mr. Thomas Jacoby looked out his window to observe the crowd, had he checked his mail that day he would have known, but self-pity and shame kept him inside. But curiosity drew him to his front porch, where he observed Mr. Hamilton with a megaphone, standing on a fold-out chair.

“Good evening, folks! We all know why we are gathered, as we’ve been blessed by a mysterious giver with the autograph of a rainbow. All of us neighbors have seen better times. You all know I’ve been out of work for months now, and my family is blessed by this contribution. We want to thank our benefactor. Please step forward if you are present.” Neighbors glanced around, anticipating the donor, but no one moved. Mr. Hamilton glanced around as all the faces in the crowd searched each other. “I’m confident the donor would be someone who lived here, who else would know all the mishaps and secrets of this street?” Mr. Hamilton brought the megaphone to his hip and watched the crowd.

“You’re sure right, Mr. Hamilton! Who could have possibly known that our car needed new tires? We were so worried about how I’d get to work,” said Mr. Purvey.

“My mom just passed away. We got a note that said it was for the funeral. But funeral was spelled wrong. A child must have done all this. Also, the rainbow—it has to be a kid. Should we really use this money? It could be stolen,” Mrs. James explained her stance to the crowd and others nodded in agreement.

“Has everyone checked their accounts and stashes? Does anyone have any missing money?” Mr. Hamilton scanned the crowd, silence equated that everyone’s account remained untouched. “I’ve alerted the police station and they are looking into this, but since the money was distributed so evenly and with purpose, they won’t confiscate it. So, I guess if you need this money now, use it. But be ready to pay it back in days to come if we find it’s been stolen.” The neighbors nodded in agreement.

They talked amongst each other for an hour to come about the mysterious donor, but as the sky grew dark everyone went back home. All but one person moved into their homes for the night, all but Mr. Thomas Jacoby.

He looked out on the street in silence, as he knew that he and one other soul on the street knew the origin of the money. Thomas Jacoby rocked in his chair and reflected upon his last few days. He’d had an awful time of it, pouring his pill bottles down the toilet and watching the withdrawal of his life’s choices take its toll. His face was grim; he looked aged and tired. Days ago, he had gone to the bank and withdrew all the money he had left in his account and hid it away in the woods. He knew it was the only way to fight his temptations and choose the right path—the clean and righteous path.

He felt horrible from days without pain killers or alcohol, but a smile appeared on his face. He gazed at his mailbox, realizing that if indeed every family received something on the street his house was included. He walked to his mailbox and opened the lid. A blank envelope sat lonely in the box, he took it hastily and opened it. His eyes grew wide as he removed $500 and the picture of a crayon rainbow and the words “for peace.”