USING BOTH HANDS, BOWING his back and digging his feet into the soft earth, John tugged at the huge wooden door, sagging on its rusty hinges, each hinge as long as his arm. The door was more than twice as tall as he was, and wide enough to take a wagon load of hay, Al had once told him. A horse-drawn wagon, Al had said, in old-fashioned times. Scraping in the dirt, the door came slowly open, just enough for him to squeeze through.
Inside the barn now he stood still, looking and listening. If he kept quiet enough, if he paid close attention, and just listened, he’d learned that he could always hear something inside the barn. Small sounds, sometimes mysterious sounds. Animals, scurrying. Things tapping, things rustling. Invisible things. Outside, the sun was sinking in the sky, almost gone behind the ridge that bordered the vineyard to the west. Inside the barn, the narrow lines of light that shone through the cracks in the barn’s old boards were turning golden. Bits of dust and tiny winged insects were suspended in the narrow shafts. Hundreds—thousands—of tiny specks, some of them alive, some not. Some of them just floated, some of them flew, circling in the sunlight.
Everywhere, on the ground and in the air, there were insects. Millions of insects. Flying insects, crawling insects. Some of them buzzed, some stung. Some of them even lit up in the dark: lightning bugs, almost the first miracle he’d experienced.
There was no floor in the old barn, only dirt. The dirt wasn’t really dirt, more like the sand and shavings and whatever made the ground of playgrounds, deep and soft, if someone fell into it: dirt that didn’t get you dirty, dirt that felt good.
Walking in the deep, soft, fragrant earth with its hay and everything else mixed together over so many years, even before he was born, horses with their shoes and their manure, big tall wagon wheels with wooden spokes and narrow iron rims, he let his feet drag, toes digging in. He could feel the earth inside his sneakers, a particular pleasure. The ladder was ahead: wooden rails and crosspieces nailed to a post that showed the ancient marks of ax and saw. He began climbing: cautiously, two feet to each rung, hands gripping the rails hard. He didn’t like to climb. He liked to be high up in the loft above him, or in the tiny attic room in the house, looking out across the vineyards. But he didn’t like to climb. Ladders, trees, even jungle gyms, they were all the same, tests he could hardly pass.
This ladder, though, was only eight rungs. And even if he fell the ground below was so deep, so soft, it would be all right.
He stepped from the ladder onto the floor of the hayloft. It was here that the feeling of things began to change, in this one special place. He could sense it in the rough-cut wood, and the pegs that secured the beams and planks and the crisscrossed braces that angled high overhead. He could see it in the narrow shafts of sunlight between the boards that fell across the floor, magic from the sun. He could hear it in the buzz of the insects, and the sound of the wind, like a soft sigh from far away. And he could smell it in the air, heavy with time and place and ancient memory.
The barn hadn’t been used for years, Al had once told him, maybe twenty years. So the hay, that vast, fragrant mound that tumbled together with him when he jumped and rolled and wallowed, was older than he was. The barn and the hay and the smells, everything he saw or touched, had been there before he was born.
As he began to climb the mound of hay he sank almost knee deep, the hay prickling the bare skin on his legs. If he’d known he was coming, he would have worn jeans. And a shirt, too. Farmers always wore jeans and shirts and hats, even when the weather was hot. And now he knew why.
At the top of the mound, his own secret mountain, he raised his arms wide, threw back his head, and let himself fall forward—falling free, sinking, tumbling, hearing himself laughing as he rolled down the other side, cradled in the hay. He rose to his knees, shook his head, brushed the hay from his hair, stood up, stepped close to the edge of the hayloft, where he gripped the ladder to steady himself. Overhead, among the beams and rafters, birds flew busily, darting and swooping and then disappearing, returning to the sky while other birds swooped in through the gaps where boards were missing. Many gaps, many birds. Barn swallows, Al had called them.
Down below, he saw the rusted farm machinery, all tumbled together along the wall to make room for the truck. Except for the loft and the secret room behind it, the truck was his favorite place to play. Sitting on the split-open black leather seat with its springs showing through, gripping the big wood-rimmed steering wheel, just touching the pedals with his feet, he could almost hear the roar of the engine, feel the wheels thumping on the road as he traveled far, far away.
But now, so late, he had only time enough to check the secret room, make sure nothing had been disturbed.
Three paces took him to the wall of the secret room. The door to the room was padlocked: a huge, rusted lock that would never be opened. A narrow flight of stairs led up from the sagging wooden loading platform below the door of the secret room. But the stairs were rotted. No one would ever climb those stairs again. For as long as the world went on, no one would ever climb those stairs. So only he could enter the secret room. John Price, Explorer. John Price, Special Agent.
Yes, Special Agent …
Everyone—the good guys and the bad guys—they’d all searched for this place, all tried to find out what was inside. Because long ago, enemy agents had been here, planning how to blow up the whole country, one big mushroom cloud, everything turned to cinders. But they’d been killed by the FBI, somewhere else. So nobody knew what they’d hidden here, the plans to blow up the whole world.
Nobody but him.
So it was all up to him.
Only he could save the country. As if the spies had somehow returned, not really dead at all, he thought he heard a noise—a scurrying, a scuffling. Holding his breath, he stood perfectly still. Was someone down there, down below? If they were, they’d never see him, not as long as he stayed behind the great mound of hay, higher than his head. He could stand up, even, and no one could see him.
As he listened, he realized his mouth was open.
“Your mouth is open, John,” his mother sometimes said, smiling, teasing him. “Do you know you open your mouth, when you listen very hard?” Smiling. Still smiling.
With the memory of his mother, everything changed: a shifting of sight and sound as the possibility of danger from below faded.
Then, as it always did, the memory of his mother faded.
Leaving him alone.
Once more, alone.
Aware that his legs had grown heavy, his arms listless, he moved to the secret board, known only to him. The board was loose at the bottom. When he’d discovered it was loose, nails rusty in the rotting wood, he’d found an old piece of rusted iron, and pried the board free at the top. With the board laid aside, he’d been able to squeeze through the opening, to find himself in the secret room. The room had once been used to hang bridles and harnesses, for horses. There were racks for saddles, and bits of broken equipment. There was even a saddle hanging on one of the racks, with only the stirrups missing.
With a rock, he’d been able to bend the nails that held the board so that he could always remove the board, as he was doing now. Allowing him to squeeze through, as he was doing now. When he left, he would replace the board so that the bent nails held it firmly in place, the secret entrance to his secret place.
The floor was littered with cans and bottles and buckles and bits of metal the first time he’d come. But he’d found a broom in one corner, and he’d used the broom to clean up, especially the cobwebs. There’d been boxes, too: three large boxes, with hinged tops and rope handles. How clearly he remembered the moment he’d pried the hasp free on one of the boxes, and lifted the lid. Would he find a treasure: sparkling jewels and bags of golden coins? And guns, maybe. Like Treasure Island?
There’d been no treasure, no guns. But there were tools, and strangely shaped pieces of metal, all rusty.
And then he’d found the knife: a big old sheath knife, in its leather sheath.
His knife, now, kept in the chest.
His secret. His weapon.
He could still remember the feeling in his stomach when he’d pulled the blade of the knife from its sheath. He’d felt like he’d become another person. In that instant, he’d known how it must feel to be a man.
Cowboys carried knives on the same belt with their guns. The real cowboys, the ones in the books his mother read him, they always carried knives. Just in case.
Brushing cobwebs aside, he went to the small window. He climbed up on a chest, and looked out. He was careful to keep his head back, so no one could see him from the ground. He scanned the clearing far below, and the line of trees that bordered the clearing. Nothing stirred. Not even a squirrel, or a jackrabbit.
He stepped down, opened the chest he’d been standing on, took out the knife. He’d found an old oil can on the shelf, with some thick, gummy oil in it. He’d oiled the blade of the knife, and with some steel wool he’d gotten from Al, he’d worked on the oiled blade until it shone. There’d been a whetstone on the shelf, too, and he’d tried to sharpen the knife, the way he’d seen Al do it.
Closing the lid of the chest, holding the sheathed knife, he sat down with his back to the wall, his bare shoulders resting against the rough wood.
The time, he knew, must be almost six o’clock. Yesterday he’d lost his watch, somewhere in his room, he thought. It was because he was so messy, his father had said, that he’d lost his watch. And Maria, their cook, had agreed: “You make a mess, you lie in it,” Maria had said, “like a pig.” And she’d frowned: a dark, hard frown. Sometimes, when she talked, Maria spat. When he’d asked Al why Maria spat, Al had smiled. “It’s because she has false teeth,” Al had said. “And they don’t fit very well.” Maria was Mexican. After Maria had lived with them for a while, cooking and cleaning, he’d decided he didn’t like Mexicans.
He held the sheath with his left hand, and drew out the knife with his right. The handle of the knife was wood and felt smooth and powerful to his hand. He knew he would always have this knife.
From overhead, he heard the sound of a jet airplane: a faint, woolly, rolling sound, like thunder faraway.
How long had it been, that he and his father had gone to the airport, and made their way through the crowds in the terminal, and walked through that last long tunnel to the door of the airplane, and sat strapped into their seats, waiting for the airplane to take off? He’d never before been in an airplane, never heard the engine screaming, never felt himself pressed back in his seat as the airplane hurtled down the runway, then lifted into the clear blue sky. He’d gone to Santa Barbara many times with his mother, but always by car.
His Aunt Janice had met them at the airport in Santa Barbara. When she met him, she’d smiled: a small, sad smile. Then she’d hugged him, hard. While she held him, he’d felt her sob.
That night, the night before the funeral, when his aunt tucked him into bed and then kissed him on the forehead, he’d felt her sob again. She’d whispered to him, very softly: “You’ll always have me, John. Always.”
Then she’d said good night, and left him in the dark room with the door half open. From the hallway, on its wooden floor, he heard two pairs of footsteps, going toward the stairs. His father had been out there in the hallway, listening.
He’d lain in the darkness a long time, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. He’d never known when his eyes had closed, and he’d finally fallen asleep.
He couldn’t remember.
But he would never forget.
Because somehow, as he’d lain in his bed, in his room, the room in his aunt’s house meant only for him, with his toys, and his clothes, and posters of airplanes and lions and sharks in the sea, it had seemed as if he was back in the house at the winery. It had been dark then, too. Something had awakened him. The sound of voices, the sound of something crashing. The sounds—the voices—had come from upstairs. His father’s voice, and another voice. His mother? Someone else?
Had he been awake? Or still asleep, and dreaming?
His eyes, he remembered, were closed. Was he pretending sleep, or was he really asleep? If he’d been awake, really awake, wouldn’t he have opened his eyes when he heard the footsteps on the stairs? Had there been whispers, too? Soft, urgent whispers?
Had he opened his eyes? Had he seen them?
Sometimes he had dreams. And sometimes, when he woke up, it seemed like he was still dreaming. Sometimes, when the dreams were bad, he’d still been frightened, even when he was awake. So when he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him, he hadn’t known whether he was awake or asleep. Not until he saw his father’s face, so close, and smelled his father’s breath, and heard his father’s voice. But it was a harsh voice, a stranger’s voice. And his father’s face had been twisted into a stranger’s face. The face of fear, fugitive from nightmare memories, one face beneath another face, one of them hidden.
The same face he’d seen at the funeral. A stranger’s face, beside him.