Yearning for Yesterday

This story is my contribution to Thursday Doors Writing Challenge for the month of May, hosted by Dan Antion over at No Facilities blog. Photo taken by Robbie Cheadle.

Part 1

Thea had always been timid, content to blend into the background. But the day her father died, time stood still, her world froze. Most afternoons, she perched on a weathered bench that sat along Main Street in Farmville, Virginia, close to the Appomattox River. She watched as life moved past her. Farmville had once felt comforting: small and familiar. Her father had loved the history of the town, the proximity to Appomattox, and how everyone knew everyone. Now Thea only felt hemmed in.

She kept her head down, tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons, her auburn curls tumbling across her face like a curtain. She saw people passing by as they lived normal life. Normal no longer belonged to Thea. A family with four children hurried past, laughing together. An elderly couple strolled by hand-in-hand. Two shopkeepers leaned against the doorways to their stores, greeting customers and inviting them in. The scent of brewed coffee drifted from the café across the street.

Each afternoon, she returned to the bench, numbly drifting through her final year of high school. Her father should have been here. Instead, he was gone, and with him, the chance to take back the harsh words she had flung at him the night before he died. She had stolen their last moments together with anger, and time refused to give them back.

**

One day, without warning, a stranger with grizzled hair and a silvery beard sat down beside her. His clothes were worn, his shoes as well.

“My name is Elior,” he said.

She barely turned her head but tried to smile. “Hi, I’m Thea.”

“You wish to go back,” he said, calmly. “There is a door to the past.”

Thea stiffened and turned toward the man. “What?” She looked up into his amber eyes, the color of sunshine, warm yet intense. His gaze was full of understanding and knowing. “A door to the past?” she asked.

“Mm, it is hidden, elusive, and it exists for those who truly seek it. The Door of Echoes is what it is called. You must search for it. The Library of Congress in Washington DC is where you will begin.”

There was something about the man that made her pulse quicken. Something shifted inside Thea: a flicker of hope? She looked away, at the street, the people, the life that continued around them, indifferent to their quiet conversation.

Can this be? Washington DC?

When she turned back, the man was gone. From that moment onwards, Thea could think of nothing else. She had to find it, the Door of Echoes.

When her mother asked Thea if she planned to attend college or a vocational school of sorts, Thea vehemently said, “No, I must find the Door.”

Her mother tried again to reason with her daughter. “Your father would—”

Thea sighed and simply said, “Mom, please.”

Her mother gave in. “How do you know the Door even exists?”

“It has to,” Thea answered.

**

Thea worked two jobs, one at the supermarket and the other at the old theater. She spent her evenings researching online, but there was little to be found. When she earned enough money to feel comfortable, she bought a bus ticket to travel to Washington DC. Her mother drove her an hour to a Greyhound bus stop in Richmond. They spoke little on the way. There was nothing left to say that had not already been said.

Thea hugged her mother tight. “I will find the Door and make things right. I will let you know where I am and how I am doing.”

Her mother wiped away a tear and handed her an envelope. “I hope your journey gives you peace.”

Thea opened the envelope and found money inside. “No, mom, it’s too much.”

“Your father would have wanted it. Just come home to me when you are finished.”

Nervous yet determined, she boarded the bus. She had never traveled so far from home. A man boarded the bus just after her, wearing a dark gray suit. As he approached, they locked eyes. She found it difficult to look away, and she shivered. There was something sinister about him. She blinked heavily and placed her bag on the seat beside her in hopes he would not sit down. He faced forward and continued past her. She discreetly stole glances over her shoulder during the trip, during the comfort stops, or when she used the restroom on the bus. He seemed disinterested and slept most of the two hours.

When they arrived at Union Station bus terminal in DC, she grabbed her bag and hung it across one shoulder. She quickly disembarked, watching for the strange man as she dug out her backpack from below the bus and placed it on her back. She hailed a taxi. Once inside the care, Thea let out a great sigh of relief.

Were my uneasy feelings about that man just my imagination? It probably was.

They made their way to the hostel, where Thea would be staying for the unforeseeable weeks, maybe months, she needed to be in DC. She was taken aback by the size of the city, by the hustle and bustle: so many people, too many cars. She settled in and began working as a server in a DC diner. She spent her time-off in the Library of Congress, searching for clues to the whereabouts of the Door. Along the way, she met two others.

“We find your search intriguing,” Mike said, after Thea hesitantly explained what she was looking for.

Callise nodded. “Yes, maybe we can help.”

At first, she shied away from them, uncomfortable with conversation, unfamiliar with how to act with others she did not know. But they continued to show up and seemed sincere.

I can certainly use the help. She thought.

They knew their way around the library. Most evenings, Thea, Callise, and Mike wandered through various parts of the library, including the Manuscript Division and the Rare Book and Special Collections Division. Leaning together, they whispered beneath the grand arches of the Main Reading Room, with towering bookshelves and magnificent architecture, as they poured over ancient manuscripts. Thea felt privileged to be in this place where the hum of pages turning and quiet conversations could be heard. When they were not busy working, she gazed around the chamber, never tired of seeing its marble columns, bronze statues, packed bookshelves, and intriguing paintings.

Gazing up at the grand mural that stretched across the domed ceiling, she caught sight of a grizzled-haired man with a silvery beard on a distant balcony. She squinted.

Is that Elior?

It looked like him, though his hair was short, his beard was trimmed, and his clothes were sharp. He was frowning. She followed his gaze and saw a man who was eerily familiar, like the one she had seen on the Greyhound bus, yet different. A chill prickled her skin. There was something unsettling about the way he moved toward her. His black eyes seemed to shimmer.

Thea wanted to flee, but before she could react, Mike abruptly left his seat. He strode toward the man, who immediately veered away and disappeared through a side entrance. Mike moved to a bookshelf, plucked a large manuscript from its place, and returned to his seat across from Thea, offering her a reassuring smile.

That was strange.

She watched the side entrance a moment longer, making sure the stranger had not returned. Then, glancing back at the balcony, she found that Elior was gone. There were other times, fleeting moments, she thought she saw the grizzled-haired man watching her.

One evening, Callise paused from reading a manuscript, her gaze lingering on the faded ink. Tapping a passage on the page, she said, “The Door of Echoes does not remain in one place. Only those deemed worthy may find the Door.”

“I believe that you will find it,” Mike encouraged.

Thea’s pulse quickened. “I must.”

Callise gestured toward another passage. She spoke with reverence. “It is written that whoever seeks the Door of Echoes embarks upon a long and arduous journey. The signs will reveal themselves in order, one by one, and the path must be walked alone.”

The clues they later uncovered led them to believe that Thea’s next step in seeking the Door was to travel to the Mount Rushmore National Memorial in Keystone, South Dakota. Together, they pored over the details, studying precisely where she would find what she sought once she arrived. Her new friends did more than aid in research. They also equipped her with practical skills for her travels: how to pick a lock if a door was not open or how to hide if she found herself pursued.

After expressing her appreciation and saying goodbye, she took a flight to Rapid City.

**

It was Thea’s first time flying. When the plane landed, she cried out, “Oompa,” channeling her late Greek grandmother, who used to declare this word whenever anything exciting or joyful happened. She glanced around, embarrassed by her outburst. The young woman sitting beside her smiled warmly.

As Thea descended the stairs to the tarmac, an overwhelming urge to bend down and kiss the ground swept over her. Relief barely captured the depth of emotion coursing through her. Once outside the airport, she flagged down a taxi, eager to begin her journey through the Black Hills to Keystone. Though distracted by her mission, the beauty of the hills took her breath away.

Upon arrival, she checked into a humble hostel, located at the base of the mountain leading up to Mount Rushmore. Her task was clear: search for the hidden Hall of Records located behind President Lincoln’s stone-carved likeness.

Was it truly there? Or is this a wild goose chase?

There, she was to find a document with clues to the location of the Door of Echoes. She knew obtaining permission to scale the monument was impossible. Stealth would be required.

Can I do this? She wondered not for the first time.

In Keystone, Thea bought supplies and filled her bag. She called another taxi and headed up the mountain.

**

The road curved through towering pines and the granite formations of the Black Hills. Thea stepped from the taxi onto the Grand View Terrace, a perfect vantage point to view the sculpted images of Presidents Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln as they watched over the land. She followed the crowd as they filled the park, moving along an open walkway where colorful state flags fluttered in the wind. Beyond the Terrace, the Presidential Trail wound through the woods, leading closer to the base of the monument. She strolled then climbed and descended wooden staircases, while cameras all around her snapped and people murmured. She never imagined the land would be this immense and the monument so grand.

Thea wandered all day to get a feel for the park and to wait for the right time. Nervously, she gathered with the crowds in the Outdoor Amphitheater for a program, ending the day with the history of the sculptor, Gutzan Borglum, then the lighting of the monument. She glanced to her side and saw a man dressed in a park ranger uniform who looked surprisingly similar to Elior. She wondered if it was her imagination. When she looked back again, he was gone.

Remembering the reason for her presence in this place, she cautiously exited one way as the others left the amphitheater the other. She avoided the park rangers and staff and hiked off trail until she reached a metal fence with a rusty gate that was standing slightly ajar.

Just where it said it would be.

Thea took a deep breath and climbed the remnants of an old staircase, once used to access the monument—now decaying, half-buried beneath creeping brush. She illuminated her path with her flashlight, hoping no one could see her light from a distance. Her knees knocked, but she continued. She felt the weight of being alone and worked hard at not imagining the dark stranger from DC. She breathed deep the crisp night air to calm herself. A chorus of crickets in the background kept her company. When the stairs ended, she scrambled the remaining distance on her hands and knees, the granite scraping her palms.

Once at the top of the monument, Thea circled around to the back. Catching her breath, she took a minute to look around. It was fascinating to be standing behind the four sculpted heads of the presidents on Mount Rushmore. She climbed to the top of George Washington’s head and gazed in wonder at the star-filled sky and the shadows below pierced by dots of light. She carefully descended and followed the path to the back of Abraham Lincoln’s head where she found the entryway to the Hall of Records.

It’s really here!

Cautiously, Thea entered the chamber. The only sounds were those of nature, the scream of a soaring hawk and the singing sounds of nocturnal insects. Walking along the 70-foot tunnel inside the chamber, trailing her hand along the sixteen enamel panels that told the story of Mount Rushmore, she searched in all the nooks and crannies.

At the end of the tunnel there was a room. Thea swept her flashlight around the dark room and found several weathered wooden boxes; their edges had been worn smooth by time. They held old documents and artifacts. It did not take long to locate the specific box she came here to find. She lifted the lid of the teakwood box. Inside, lying on top of a pile of old papers, there was a black and white photo.

The image was of a stressed wooden door, embedded in a stone wall, trimmed with ornate symbols burned into the doorframe. She turned the photo over and found something written on the back, its ink faded but legible. She pointed the flashlight and read, “Below the Potala Palace in Lhasa, Tibet. There you will find a clue. Remember, the past is not lost, only waiting to be found.”

Tibet? That’s on the other side of the world. How can I go there? How can I do that?

Thea lowered the lid and lay down on the cool stone floor, staring at the photo. Questions and doubts swirled around inside her mind. She thought of her mother and wondered how she was doing. Guilt nagged at her, but she pushed it aside and thought of the task. A feeling of determination shivered through her.

She spoke aloud, and the words echoed back, “Even if I have to spend all my days and travel to the ends of the earth, I will find the Door of Echoes.”

**

When the sun rose, so did Thea, surprised she had slept at all. She sneaked back down the mountain, weaving through the park, hailing a taxi, and making her way to her hostel at the bottom of the mountain in Keystone. She was surprised how easy it all had been, then wondered if the Door itself had a hand in helping her.

Or maybe the man who seems to follow me?

Though Thea felt antsy to get going, she felt she needed to earn a little extra money before traveling so far away, just in case. Wandering through Keystone, she saw a “Help Wanted” sign at the Rushmore Borglum Story museum. As instructed, she learned the history of the sculptor, Gutzan Borglum, and the project. Thea put on a uniform and led tourists on tours of the museum, explaining as she went. It was fascinating, and she even made a couple of friends. They asked her what her plans were.

“I am just wandering,” she said, suspecting the true reason would seem strange to them.

**

Once she earned enough, secured her passport and visa, applied and received her travel permit, booked a travel agent, and exchanged US dollars for Chinese Yuan, Thea said goodbye to her friends and promised to stay in touch. After nearly twenty-four hours of air travel, she arrived at her destination, Chengdu, in The People’s Republic of China. As advised, she planned to spend two nights and a day in this city acclimating to the elevation.

The line to pass through immigration in Chengdu was intense. After a long wait, her shiny new passport was stamped. Outside the airport, people scrambled to the line of taxis, shouting and calling out destinations to the drivers, who haggled with the prices. At least, that is what Thea guessed they were shouting as the unknown language swirled around her like buzzing bees. She feared she would never get a taxi. Finally, as the people thinned out, she was next in what appeared to be some semblance of a line.

Soon after pulling away from the Shuangliu International Airport, they found themselves in bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns honking, and people shouting. Thea gawked at scooters and motorbikes as they wove among the vehicles; some with only one rider, some with a whole family, and others that were precariously stacked with goods. A vendor maneuvered his cart through all the chaos.

Once the gridlock loosened, she held on to the hand strap above the door as they flew along the bustling streets. There were near-miss collisions and a cacophony of sounds. She gasped when a bus almost hit a daring cyclist. She laughed in relief when they arrived at her small hotel, thankful they had made it. She stumbled from the car and unclenched her muscles.

**

In the morning, the owner of the hotel told Thea of the Chengdu Giant Panda and Breeding Research Base, the largest one in China.

“You can visit,” the owner said with pride.

It sounded heavenly. She had a stuffed panda toy on her bed back home; one her parents had given her when she was a little girl. The memory gave her a pang.

I can’t go back. Not until I find the Door.

With the owner’s help, she retrieved a taxi to take her to the panda base. The traffic resembled a car chase from a movie scene, but she made it safely none-the-less. She spent the day wandering around in awe at the sight of pandas of all ages and sizes, including the giant pandas. Thea wanted to pinch herself. She never imagined this being part of her journey. It seemed too incredible an experience to believe it was real. When the day was over, she dined at a small restaurant that served spicy hot pot. She returned to her hotel and went to bed, anxious to get the night over. Tibet waited to share a clue to the whereabouts of the Door of Echoes.

~~

Thank you for stopping by and reading the first part of my story!

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