Page 13 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Ten

Before he reached the center of town, the sky darkened.

Rain began to fall, then hammered down in sheets so heavy he could barely see past the hood of the car.

Thunder rolled and lightning split the sky above, casting stark flashes over empty roads.

The storm was so fierce he had to slow to a crawl, wipers flailing against the downpour.

For a moment, it felt like the universe was trying to hold him back, trying to keep him in Oak Ridge.

He pressed on, inching forward until the rain finally eased, allowing him to push past the town line.

Trees flanked the roadside, their leaves dripping in the storm’s wake, and up ahead, the turnoff to the southern highway came into view.

He eased his foot off the gas, a flicker of doubt making him pause.

He’d dreamed of escaping to Bates, earning his degree, becoming a teacher like Ward, but those aspirations had faded over the years, worn down by the harsh realities of life since his mother’s death.

This wasn’t the future he’d imagined, but it was a new path, and one that still led him out of Oak Ridge.

And he knew, deep down, it was the path Ward would have wanted him to take.

Turning back now would feel like turning his back on everything Ward had hoped for him.

He hadn’t left Pen all his worldly possessions just so he could stay stuck in Oak Ridge.

No, he had wanted him to go, to explore, to experience the world.

The doubt eased, not entirely gone, but softened by resolve. He gripped the wheel and pressed the gas, pushing through the last edge of his hesitation. He kept his mind on Ward, on the quiet certainty that this was what he would have wanted for him.

Before Pen left the county, he veered off onto a side road, tires crunching over gravel.

He took a detour toward an old state park where Ward used to take him fishing.

This was where he’d spread his ashes and say goodbye, in a place where the air still held echoes of their laughter. A place they’d both loved.

He shifted the car into park and grabbed the urn from the seat beside him.

He followed a narrow, well-worn trail that led to the lake, tucked away within dense woods.

Just as he remembered. At the water’s edge, he stood for a long while, gripping the urn tightly.

Ripples danced across the lake’s surface where insects skittered.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow.

He had promised himself he would do this for Ward, but now the time had come, the finality of it left him rooted in place.

His eyes burned, and his fingers tightened around the cool surface of the urn.

Just open it. Scatter the ashes. Say goodbye.

But his body refused to move.

Out of the stillness, a cardinal appeared. It swooped past him, red wings cutting across the gray-green pines, and landed on a spindly branch beside him. For a heartbeat, it just watched him, its head tilting side to side, curious.

Ward had always believed cardinals carried the spirits of those who had passed. He used to say that when he saw one, he believed it was Emily, stopping by to say hello.

Pen swallowed hard. A single tear slipped free before he could stop it.

“Alright, Ward,” he said. “I hear you.”

He uncapped the urn and tipped it forward. A soft wind caught the ashes, lifting them into the air before they scattered across the surface of the water. Pen watched in silence as they sank, disappearing into the dark waters of the lake.

Then, the cardinal took flight.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered, his words carried off by the breeze, his heart still heavy with grief.

He stood there for a long time, not yet ready to let go. The memories of their time together here playing out like a movie in his mind.

It wasn’t until the rain began to fall, soft and steady again, that Pen finally headed back to the car and the waiting road.

Two hours later, the rain had finally let up completely.

He pulled into a small gas station in Wayne, West Virginia, a rundown old place with a single pump with peeling paint.

A rusty Coca-Cola sign hung crookedly off the side of the building, squeaking in the wind left behind by the storm.

A lanky teenage boy emerged from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag, before stuffing them into the front pocket of his stained overalls.

“What can I get ya?” the boy asked, squinting at him. The clouds were beginning to break, and sunlight pushed through in bright, hesitant streaks.

“Fill her up,” Pen said, and he stepped out to stretch his legs.

The attendant began filling the tank while Pen walked to the back and popped the trunk.

He glanced at the stack of books nestled beside his suitcase, the Celtic folklore volume perched on top.

A spark of excitement surged through him at the sight of it.

He unzipped his suitcase and pulled out the folder Mr. Ross had given him.

Flipping through the papers, he stopped at the deed to the bookshop.

His fingers traced the address. Something about it felt certain.

Right. With care, he slid the deed back into the yellow envelope, tucked it between Ward’s suits, and zipped the case shut.

Pen pulled the map from the passenger seat and spread it across the warm hood of the car. He stared at the red path he’d charted heading south. Then, with the edge of his thumb, he traced a new route north.

“Where ya headed?” the teenage boy asked, craning his neck to see the map.

Pen looked up, then back down at the map. “LaGuardia Airport,” he answered, matter-of-fact, as if it had been the plan all along.

“New York, wow. Are you actually flying somewhere or are you picking someone up?” the boy asked, genuine curiosity in his voice as he finished fueling the car.

Pen paused, his gaze drifting to the trunk. “I’m headed to Scotland,” he said, folding the map. Saying it out loud made it real, almost like signing a binding contract.

“Gee whiz, really? I’ve never met anyone who’s been there. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get out of this place someday. See New York at least.”

Pen studied him. Not long ago, he’d been that very kid, dreaming of escape but shackled to a gas pump.

“I’m sure you will,” Pen replied, giving him a smile.

“That’s four dollars and thirty-four cents,” the kid said, tapping off the gas nozzle and slotting it back into the pump holder. Pen handed him a ten-dollar bill, climbed into the Fleetmaster, and started it up.

“Hold on, I’ll get ya change,” the boy told Pen as he put the car into gear.

“Keep it,” Pen called out the window. “Save it for your trip to New York.”

The boy grinned. “Thank you!” he yelled after him, waving with both hands, as Pen pulled away.

Pen smiled as the car rumbled onto the open road, heading north. The shift in direction felt sudden, but also right. He wasn’t just driving from one tourist attraction to the next anymore; he was charting his own adventure. Writing the first page of his own story.

As the familiar landscape receded in the rearview mirror, a quiet thrill stirred through him.

He was heading in the right direction. He could feel it in his bones.

Then, as if Ward were sending him a sign, the radio crackled to life, landing on a station playing Bing Crosby’s “On the Road to Mandalay,” one of Ward’s favorites.

Pen smiled, glancing at the empty urn. “Adventure, here I come!” he said, and he pressed his foot on the gas, the song carrying him toward a new dream.