Little Red Book

It was a beautiful, balmy day in Rosedale, but Tilly ran outside, weeping. It was moving day. Their modest ranch had been foreclosed on, and all the animals with it. Tilly’s mom said she could have one more ride on her horse, Poncho. So, Tilly saddled up and rode up to Vineyard Mountain with a packed lunch and opened the gate marked “Do Not Enter.”

She listened for a moment. Sometimes Farmer Diggs would start yelling from his long driveway. Sometimes his dog, Brutus, would start barking. But today, all was quiet.

She loped along on Poncho, over the gravel road, and slipped onto a dirt path leading into the forest. Moss hung from trees, and ferns grew everywhere, vibrant green. She followed a babbling creek, mesmerized by the flecks of sun reflecting through the trees, lighting up the water like dancing fireflies.

Turning a corner, she came upon a familiar meadow of clover and let Poncho graze for a while without his bridle. Clover meant Poncho wouldn’t wander far.

She spread out a light blanket and grabbed her picnic lunch—a bologna sandwich with pickles, a bag of potato chips, and a can of Coke. She lay down after her meal and watched the clouds drift by until her eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off to sleep.

She was awakened by a noisy crow cawing and saw Poncho on the other side of the meadow. She quickly gathered her belongings and the bridle and jogged toward him.

Poncho turned his chestnut head to her and huffed, then continued champing.

On the far side of the field was a bull with sharp horns and an angry stomp. One of his horns was red. He’d obviously gouged something. Maybe a deer—there were a lot of deer on Vineyard Mountain. It didn’t see her, luckily. And if she could just get to Poncho quickly, she’d be safe.

She held her breath and crept as stealthily as she could toward Poncho, relieved when she could finally slide his bridle on him.

She was about to mount him when she winced at a sour smell in the air. She heard flies buzzing and turned toward the sound.

She saw a boot protruding from behind a shrub, and prickles ran down her spine. Slowly, she walked toward the boot, which she could now see was attached to a body. Farmer Diggs.

Her heart lurched in her chest. “Oh my god.” She thought fast. Was he alive? She walked to his side to find a hole in his chest, blood dried from the sun in a red bloom on his white T-shirt and jean coveralls. That explained the blood on the bull’s horn—it had gotten Farmer Diggs.

She checked his pulse. He was unquestionably dead. And there was something he’d scrawled in the sand. Letters. Spelling the words: FIND BOOK.

What book?

She knew she should call the police. She would call the police. The closest phone was at Farmer Diggs’ farm, so she hopped on Poncho and galloped to his place.

She tied Poncho to a post and stepped onto Farmer Digg’s porch. The door was unlocked and creaked open to the smell of burnt coffee and toast. “Brutus?” she called out, but the dog didn’t seem to be home, so she stepped inside. An antique green checkered couch and matching recliner filled the small parlor. An old TV sat on a small bookshelf, as well as a rotary phone. She picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone.

And set it back down. She thought about the strange message in the sand: “FIND BOOK.” What would it hurt to look for a book? Just a quick, cursory glance.

She checked the bookshelf—it held an old dictionary, a Farmer’s Almanac, and a couple of war-story paperbacks. She leafed through each one, half expecting some secret note to be hidden between the pages, but there was nothing.

The sun shone through the windows, lighting up the dust specks in the room.

She stepped into the kitchen and saw an old-style percolator coffee maker, still on the stove.

She saw a couple of dishes in the sink. Above, on the windowsill, were a few cookbooks. She paged through those as well. She found a handwritten note in one, a recipe for “Grandma’s Stew.” Nothing else.

Stepping into the small bedroom, the floorboards creaked as she walked across to his bedstand. She turned on an old Tiffany-style lamp with a glass dragonfly and found an old family tree book. The list of names on the tree ended with him—he had no wife or next of kin.

She set the book back with a sigh and glanced in his closet. He had so few clothes—half a dozen shirts on hangers and a few pairs of shoes on the floor. Her foot accidentally kicked over a boot, and when she leaned over to stand it upright, she noticed a loose floorboard.

Curious.

She grabbed the edges with her fingernails and lifted it easily.

There, inside a cubby in the floor, was a small, bright red book.

Wide-eyed, she lifted it in her hands. It was strangely warm, the way a living thing would give off heat. And when she tried to lift the cover, a slight current ran through it. Enough of a zap to make her drop the book. It didn’t hurt; it just surprised her. So she picked it up once more and carefully, with a firm grip, opened the book.

Words glowed in white gold. Though she was sitting in a dark closet, it was brighter than candlelight.

The words were in a strange language and with strange letters. Some she recognized, some were completely foreign. Not like the Cyrillic alphabet, which she’d seen in movies and once at her school. No, this was something… not quite human. She thought of elves and fairies and other magical creatures. After all, the book was warm and glowing. It had to be magic.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, the letters seemed to lift off the page and float in the air, morphing, changing. Soon, they formed words she could read.

ELIXIR OF LIFE

She felt a powerful zap and dropped the book again. That time it hurt.

Elixir of life? Like the Holy Grail? What could it be? Holy water from a church? The old coffee in the percolator? She smiled at that thought.

She didn’t want to get shocked again, so she grabbed a shoe and pushed open the book with it. Nothing. No glowing lights.

She sighed, conjuring up courage.

And grabbed the book firmly. She felt only a light tingling this time as she leafed through it. Again, strange letters rose from the page, twisting and reshaping until she could read them clearly:

WELL WATER

Blam! A strong shock this time.

She dropped the book and clutched her hands, which stung.

Well water? Where?

When she’d dropped the book, it had closed. She carefully picked it up and set it back in the cubby, covering it again with the floorboard.

And she ran outside, looking for a well.

At first, she didn’t see it, but then she saw a clump of vines and pulled them back to reveal a stone surround filled with water.

“Elixir of life…” she whispered, wondering what it all meant. Her eyes widened as an idea came to her. She thought about Farmer Diggs. “Elixir of life? I wonder…”

She ran inside and grabbed a coffee mug from the cupboard. She sprinted back to the well and filled the cup.

Carefully carrying it, she mounted Poncho, and they galloped along the dirt trail, through the forest, and out to the meadow. The bull was not to be found, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She rode to Farmer Diggs, dismounted, and knelt down beside him.

“The elixir of life…” she whispered reverently, and poured the water on his wound.

And waited.

And waited.

She shook her head. He was dead. What did she think—she had the power of life, or resurrection? She felt foolish.

And then, she heard it. A deep moan. And she watched with wonder as color returned to the farmer’s face and his wound closed.

“Farmer Diggs?”

He tried to talk, but no sound came out.

She leaned her ear close to his lips.

He whispered, “You’re not allowed on my property.” And then he let out a chuckle and sat up.

“Farmer Diggs! You were—were…:

“Dead? Yes. Quite dead. You got my message, I see.”

Tilly nodded her head, speechless.

He frowned with bushy white eyebrows. “Did you call the police?”

Tilly shook her head, feeling slightly ashamed. “No. I… wanted to find the book first.”

“Good. That message was for you. You’ve been coming to my property every summer, defying my rules, opening my gate, thinking you’re being sneaky.”

“I’m sorry, Farmer Diggs.”

“No, you’re not,” he laughed. “You’ve got spunk, a sense of adventure, you’re brave, and you don’t like to follow rules. You’re just what I’ve been looking for.”

Tilly grinned sheepishly. “What do you mean?”

“I need a new guardian of the book. You can tell no one. Just like you didn’t tell the police. You can live here—you and your family. I know about your foreclosure. And I’m leaving.”

“But…”

“Shoosh. I’m not done. You can heal people now. But you have to be sneaky about it. You have to be stealthy, and sometimes, you have to let some go.”

“How will I know?”

“Oh, you won’t know. The water heals those who aren’t ready to pass yet, who still have some unfinished business.”

“What was your unfinished business?”

“Silly girl. Passing the baton to you. That bull is the nicest fellow. He didn’t want to gore me. I made him when I saw you in my field.”

“What will you do now?”

“The Bahamas sounds nice.”

Tilly laughed.

“See? That’s another thing. You’re not freaked out by all this.”

Tilly frowned gently. “No. Strangely, I’m not.”

There was an earthquake that summer in Rosedale, and though many were injured, miraculously, no one perished. There was talk about a young lady who went to visit each patient—a sort of Florence Nightingale with her kind words and positive spirit. And a little book she carried, hidden in her pocket.