Anya's Secret Journey: Uncovering the Lost Athenaeum

Anya’s grandmother only took her to that place once· They had to claw their way through the bushes, her grandmother’s gnarled hand pushing aside branches and thorns while her other hand held Anya’s small, soft one· As an adult, Anya wondered how much that journey must have hurt her grandmother· Her swollen knees ached, and her bare feet surely protested every step of the way·

Back then, the journey seemed much longer, and Anya’s short legs struggled to keep up· Her grandmother kept one eye on the storm clouds above and the other on the roots that twisted below· They only ventured three acres deep, not too far for a loud holler to reach the nearest farm, which is why her grandmother swore her to silence· Yet, her grandmother knew how to make an adventure out of every journey·

“Are we close, Grandmother?” Anya asked, her youthful excitement waning into boredom· Her grandmother grumbled through clenched teeth, hiding the pain she felt·

“Shh,” her grandmother rebuked, then added softly, “Almost·”

She wasn’t lying· Soon, they arrived at a broken but immense structure, a place that seemed older than her grandmother’s age-worn skin and gray hair· The building had fallen into ruin, with creeper plants carpeting the ground so thoroughly that Anya couldn’t see where nature ended and the man-made began·

The ground beneath them changed· No longer were Anya’s small feet snagged on protruding roots· Instead, the ground became soft, not enough to pull them down but enough to make a gentle squishing sound, making her think they were walking on marshland· Her grandmother continued her slow, steady pace, holding Anya’s hand as they approached what used to be a door·

Suddenly, her grandmother stopped and looked at the desolate structure before them and the empty space around them·

“Where are we?” Anya asked, pulling a fragment from the ground· She held a bound set of papers, once cream-colored but now brown and brittle with age and mold· The edges of the sheets were smeared and blurred by time and water, unfamiliar shapes covering almost every inch·

“This is what was called an athenaeum,” her grandmother said softly, her voice catching with sadness· “Before the war, they were everywhere· They housed what were called books·”

“Oh,” Anya responded, more intrigued by the sheets she held than the ruins around her· “But what are these?” she asked, holding the wet, sodden pages up to her grandmother’s face·

Her grandmother’s eyes grew damp with tears that reflected the gathering storm clouds·

“That was a book,” she said, reaching out to touch the object before pulling her hand back as if burned by a memory· “These markings would tell a story, just like the ones your Momma and I tell you every night· But we wrote these stories down so people could share them forever·”

Thunder crashed above, and a flash of lightning lit up the sky, burning their eyes with its afterglow·

Her grandmother turned to her, eyes filled with a struggle Anya couldn’t understand· She bent low and pulled an object from her apron·

“Do you know your letters?” she whispered·

Anya blushed, not from fear of the laws that forbade knowledge of the letters, or the “Alphabet,” as the tzar called them· Her grandmother had never cared much for the tzar and had taught Anya well, in secret, under the cover of night· They went over the letters after sundown when Anya was supposed to be asleep· Her grandmother made her repeat each one until they flowed off her tongue· She didn’t yet know how they fit together, but she trusted her grandmother would teach her someday·

The blush came from the fury of thinking her grandmother doubted her memory·

“Of course you do,” her grandmother said, answering Anya’s silent protest· “And you love a secret· Take this,” she said, forcing Anya to hold an object that seemed a perfect, clean copy of the one she had held· The letters she knew were clear on its surface, untouched by water·

“Spell those out for me,” her grandmother asked, her voice barely above a murmur, almost begging·

“AY EN EYE EM AY ELL EFF AY ARE EM,” Anya read aloud, making sure only the two of them could hear·

Her grandmother’s tears overflowed then, and she pulled Anya close, hugging her tightly·

“Do you know the way home?” she asked, her voice a breath on Anya’s head, her arms wrapped around her· Anya nodded as raindrops began to fall from the sky·

“Go home,” her grandmother ordered· “Don’t look back, and tell no one where we went· Hide the book with your most treasured secrets· When you’re alone with your mother, tell her you saw the place where four legs are good, and two are bad· She’ll understand·”

She turned Anya away, the raindrops turning into sheets, and pushed her shoulders toward home·

“Run, Anya,” she shouted· And Anya ran, not knowing why but trusting her grandmother’s urgency· She never spoke of where they had been·

When Anya got home and her grandmother was nowhere to be found, her father begged her to tell them where they had gone· Anya swore they had gotten separated in the storm· The tzar’s men screamed at her, demanding she tell them the truth, but she insisted they had stayed within the town borders·

One early morning, as darkness still held the sky, her mother crept into Anya’s room·

“Anya, my love, do you know where Grandma has gone?”

Anya felt the love and hurt in her mother’s voice, the ache for her own mother evident in every word·

“We went to where two legs are bad, Mother, and four legs are good,” Anya replied, pulling the covers to her mouth, fearful she had said too much·

Her mother paused, her face a canvas of battling thoughts· Her mouth turned up slightly, a small hint of solace amid her heartache· She placed a hand on Anya’s cheek, pulled her close, and told her that grandmother would be proud·