The forest-green leather is warm beneath my palm, and I try to pick up a sense of Mom’s gentle touch, her laugh, the scent of frankincense that always trailed in her wake…
Nothing comes.
Nothingevercomes.
They say time heals all wounds, but next week marks four years since I buried my parents, and I still wake up every morning to the suffocating press of grief on my heart. As far as I can tell, the only thing time does is march onward; all that’s left for the living to do is try not to get trampled beneath it.
Another gust of wind buffets the rock, and a spiny lizard skitters across my blanket, smartly tucking himself into a crevice. Tamping down the simmering guilt, I slip the book into my day pack with the rest of my stuff, hop to my feet, and gear up for the drop.
Climbing shoes. Harness. Ropes. Chalk bag. Knife. Carabiners and hexes and cams… Check, check, check.
Tightening my fingerless gloves, I blow out a breath and step to the edge.
Darkness smothers everything in sight, casting shadows as far down as I can see. A strange, gray mist blankets the desert floor, saguaros floating like the masts of a hundred haunted ships.
It’s a long way down. A lot longer than it’s ever felt before.
El Búho Grande—the big owl—is the largest of the three owl-shaped sandstone formations that tower over the Santa Clarita Desert, marking the southern border of their namesake town—Tres Búhos, Arizona. Three Owls. It’s the only place I’ve ever called home.
The other two “búhitos” flanking me are significantly smaller—and much steeper, thanks to the protection of the big guy. But here on the Grande, where time has worn the top of the owl’s head into a slab the size of an Olympic swimming pool, I can see my death coming from miles away.
Off in the misty distance, a streak of lightning splits the sky. I count to five before I hear the thunder—still a ways off, but not for long.
Goddess, let me be on the ground before the rain starts…
But even that’s too much to ask, and as the first few drops darken the dusty red rock to a deep brown, I shoulder my pack, triple-check my knots, and begin the descent.
The ropes and anchors I set on the climb up are still in place, and at first, I make good progress. But it’s not long before the rain picks up, soaking me to the bone and making everything I touch impossibly slick. Ignoring the drumbeat of encroaching thunder, I focus on my footing, wishing for once Ihadn’tignored the NO CLIMBING signs posted at the bottom.
Fifty feet down, slow and steady. Sixty. Seventy-five. Another bolt of lightning flickers in my peripheral vision, the crack of thunder right on its heels, echoing across the eerie desert.
I need to hurry.
Shit. I hate the idea of leaving gear behind, especially since most of this stuff belonged to my parents—some of the few possessions I wasn’t forced to sell after they died—but Mother Nature clearly wants me off this rock, and I don’t have time to remove everything as I go. I’ll have to come back tomorrow, hope that some bored park ranger doesn’t take it down first.
Right now, it’s all I can do to clip in and work my way down without slipping and smashing my face.
Wedging my toes into a horizontal crack, I release the slippery rock and reach behind me for some chalk, knowing I’ll find a pasty mess, hoping it’ll help my grip anyway. But I don’t even find any paste—just a small, thin card, completely out of place.
It’s a Tarot card. I know it before I even look at it.
Fear prickles across my scalp.
I’ve never had my own deck, but Mom did. Before I sold our house, I nearly tore up the floorboards searching for it, eventually concluding she had it with her on that fateful day, losing it in the tumult of the Colorado River. But on the one-year anniversary of their death, the cards started appearing to me at random like this. Under my pillow, tucked into the spokes on my bicycle wheel, hidden in an old shoe. Last week the King of Cups dropped out of my electric bill. Yesterday I emptied the washing machine and found the Fool prancing around at the bottom, bright and undamaged.
I can’t say for sure it’s Mom, but the cards always bring me a message, and they’re never wrong.
I hold it up to my face now, blinking away the stinging mix of rain, sweat, and sunscreen.
The Tower.
At the center of the ominous image, a stone tower rises from a rocky outcropping at the edge of the sea. A bolt of lightning decimates half the structure and sends two people jumping out the highest windows, presumably to their deaths.
Not the most encouraging visual, given the circumstances.
I try to feel into the energy, to decipher whatever message is trying to come through. Usually I pick up on an impression, a general feeling. But this time the message feels more sinister, more urgent. I sense it in the tightening of my muscles, hear it like a whisper on the wind, straining to reach me through the rain.
Danger ahead, Stevie. Trouble and treachery. You’re not alone…
