The tree’s engine purrs rhythmically. And for the first time, I feel safe inside this dark, rotten chamber.
Chapter Fifteen
The tree door opens, and I stumble out into Universe Six, onto a pebble walkway, which leads to an iron gate. Beyond that is a cemetery, shrouded in the shade of giant trees. Stupendous. My nerves are still jangling from the last universe. A stroll through Creepyville is the last thing I need.
Relax, Ruby.
I take a breath, clearing my sinuses of the rotten tree smell, trying to calm the chemical and neurological havoc in my body. There’s no deerskin-clad Native American armed with a hatchet tailing me. So stop the rapidly firing neurons, please.
With trembling hands I unzip my backpack and find Mom’s GPS to mark my position before I get too far from the tree. Just in case this universe is a bust and I need to find my way back to the portal. I doubt that will happen. Honestly. Because Universe Five sucked, this one should compensate and correct. Probability theory, law of averages. Something should be on my side.
The cemetery gate creaks as I push it open, and flecks of black paint stick to the palms of my hands. I wipe them off on my jeans as I take in the tombstones and mausoleums. Actually there’s nothing horror movie about this cemetery. It’s peaceful. The grass is green and mowed, flowers bloom around the newer graves, the walkway is free of weeds.
I wipe my glasses clean and strain to see beyond the confines of the graveyard. I don’t see the school, or any other signs of Ennis or Ó Direáin. The air is crisp, tinged with the smell of apples. A blue jay flits from tree to tree, and I realize that fruit hangs from the branches. I reach up and twist an apple off, taking a bite. It’s sour, not ripe. I spit it out and continue along the pebble path through the cemetery, reading the tombstones and doing the math. Samuel Black was thirty-three years old. He died in 1907. A miniature stone marks the grave of a baby. James Cross was fifty-nine. One loss after another. Beloved mother. Father of eleven. An angel on earth. Forever remembered.
I make my way through the obelisks and cherubs, the statues of saints and the Virgin Mary, speculating on the causes of each death. Cholera, dysentery for the older graves. Cancer, heart disease for the recent. And, of course, car accidents. How many of the dead people I’m standing over were rear-ended, sideswiped? How many flipped, rolled, caught fire? How many would have been okay, if a windshield wiper hadn’t struck with arrow-accuracy?
Oh, please—don’t let me stumble across Mom’s grave in this cemetery.
Stop reading inscriptions, Ruby.
My leg throbs. My head hurts. And I realize I never visited Mom’s grave in California. Never. Not once. We should have gone to plant flowers, to scrub the headstone, to tape photos or something. Anything. I stop walking and consider this revelation. Regret and guilt bubble and combine to form a toxic thundercloud in my chest.
That’s when I see a tombstone, crooked and cracked from age, for a man named Edward Percival Smith. Perished Whilst Trying to Down the Oak Tree. Under his name is a picture of an ax etched into the stone.
Willow’s story. It was true? Was this the man who tried to cut the tree down and burst into flames? That means he was killed by the tree in at least two universes. Just a few days ago, I tried to convince myself that the tree was just a tree. A bunch of xylem cells and phloem tissue. Not a serial killer. Now I’m wondering otherwise.
I shake the thought, turning my attention back to the pebble path. Ahead, a large mausoleum dominates, the name Ó DIREÁIN carved into the gray granite above the iron door. Ó Direáin!
The mausoleum is the size of a one-car garage. I approach it cautiously, but my curiosity is raging. I need to get inside and look around. The door is ajar, but it’s stiff, reluctant to open. I push and pull, working it back and forth until it loosens enough for me to shoulder through, into the cold room.
There’s no coffin, so I’m guessing the deceased inhabitant is buried under the floor. Natural light filters in through the open door, but I can’t see much. I dig through my backpack until my fingers find the cold metal cylinder of my flashlight. I click it on. The beam of light reveals nothing until I shine it on the wall to my left. Ten oak trees stand shoulder-to-shoulder—drawings carved into the granite, each no less than four feet tall.
Under the trees, there’s an equation:
D(x) = x – n (mod 26)
Goose bumps spring up along my arms. Modulus 26. What significance does the number twenty-six have? In what system is that number crucial? I can think of nothing else but the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. My brain starts to whir, and I can hear Mom’s voice: D is for “decryption.” This has to be it!
I pace back and forth, thinking it through.
In order to get the decrypted value of x, you take x and subtract n positions. A math equation I can understand! If I’m right, all I have to do is shift the letters. For instance, if the encoded letter is an R, then I count backward through the alphabet for a set number of letters, and whatever I land on is the decoded value. But it would be nice to know the numeric value of n, which is how many positions to shift. Is this what Mom was talking about, what she called a simple cipher?
I look around the mausoleum, scanning the walls. The flashlight helps, especially in the corners. Finally, I shine the beam on the ceiling.
“What’s that?” The writing is so small it’s practically invisible. You could mistake it for a spiderweb. I aim my digital camera, then zoom in and capture the image. Now I can see it, on my camera’s screen.
I fumble excitedly for my notebook and pen, and write the letters of the alphabet, and then directly below that, the alphabet with a ten-letter shift. I should’ve guessed the key would be ten; after all, I’ve been navigating a ten-universe system with similar elements, rearranged. Decoding the cryptic message that’s carved above the portal door should be a breeze now.
Gry kbo iye coousxq? = Who are you seeking?
I slump with disappointment. It’s just a philosophical statement, nothing about how the tree works. Nothing scientific. A waste of time.
I leave the mausoleum and circle it to investigate the exterior walls, just in case there’s a clue. A plaque hangs on the rear wall, and etched into it is this:
PADRAIG Ó DIREÁIN WAS BORN IN ENNIS, IRELAND, IN 1841. HIS FAMILY DIED AS A RESULT OF THE POTATO FAMINE, AND Ó DIREÁIN IMMIGRATED, ALONE, TO THE UNITED STATES AT THE AGE OF TEN. AFTER Ó DIREÁIN PULLED A TWO-YEAR-OLD FROM THE PATH OF AN ONCOMING TRAIN, THE TODDLER’S GRATEFUL FATHER TOOK Ó DIREÁIN UNDER HIS WING AND TRAINED HIM AS A CARPENTER. Ó DIREÁIN WAS WIDELY KNOWN FOR HIS MATHEMATICALLY PRECISE WOODWORKING, AND HE EVENTUALLY EXPANDED HIS WORK INTO THE FIELDS OF ARCHITECTURE AND CITY PLANNING.
Mathematically precise woodworking. Like the intricately etched design on the tree door, the gridlike pattern.
I dig into my backpack and retrieve Ó Direáin’s thick brown journal. It’s broken into three sections: Biography, Codes for the Uses of Electricity, and Unbreakable Codes. In the biography section, there’s this:
His obsession with electricity ultimately led to his death, a result of his work on what he called a “travel tunnel.” Few records remain in regards to what he described as this “supreme and powerful machine” because Ó Direáin encoded his lab notes, or because he burned the pages at the end of each day. He also noted that his invention was “well-hidden, encased in an everyday object.” Historians suspect that this mysterious and ambitious project was an attempt to build an aircraft powered by jet engines.