The oceanography of the.., p.1
The Oceanography of the Moon, page 1
PRAISE FOR WHERE THE FOREST MEETS THE STARS
“Enchanting, insightful, and extraordinary.”
—Novelgossip
“Though the novel appears to start as a fantasy, it evolves into a domestic drama with murder-mystery elements, all adding up to a satisfying read.”
—Booklist
“Vanderah’s beautifully human story reminds us that sometimes we need to look beyond the treetops at the stars to let some light into our lives.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars is a magical little gem of a book filled with lots of love and hope.”
—HelloGiggles
“A captivating fantasy tale of mystery and intrigue . . .”
—Fresh Fiction
“A skillfully written and thoroughly entertaining novel by an author with a genuine gift for originality and a distinctive narrative-driven storytelling style . . .”
—Midwest Book Review
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars by Glendy Vanderah is an enchanting, heartwarming, not-to-be-missed novel that is bursting with love and hope.”
—The Patriot Ledger
“A heartwarming, magical story about love, loss, and finding family where you least expect it. This touching novel will remind readers of a modern-day The Snow Child.”
—Christopher Meades, award-winning author of Hanna Who Fell from the Sky
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars is an enchanting novel full of hope and the power of love that will pull at your heartstrings. Perfect for fans of Sarah Addison Allen.”
—Karen Katchur, author of The Sisters of Blue Mountain
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars will grab you from the very first page and surprise you the whole way through. This is an incredibly original, imaginative, and curious story. Glendy Vanderah has managed to create a world that is very real and, yet, entirely out of the ordinary.”
—Taylor Jenkins Reid, acclaimed author of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo
“In Where the Forest Meets the Stars, Glendy Vanderah weaves a deft and poignant story with well-drawn characters, including clever Ursa. With an unexpected and heart-racing climax, readers will wait breathlessly to find out what happens. A beautiful story of love, resilience, and the power of second chances.”
—Susie Orman Schnall, award-winning author of The Subway Girls
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars is a lovely, surprising, and insightful look at the way bonds are formed—both the ones that we choose and the ones that seem to choose us.”
—Rebecca Kauffman, author of The Gunners
“Where the Forest Meets the Stars is an enchanting novel . . . Readers will be taken by Glendy Vanderah’s rich and relatable characters and the way in which she weaves their stories together. At its core, Where the Forest Meets the Stars is about having faith, nurturing hope, and trusting your heart above your head, because when you do, miracles are possible.”
—Janis Thomas, bestselling author of What Remains True
“A powerful story of the way in which hearts are mended by love, compassion, and everyday miracles. Cleverly plotted and building to an intense crescendo in the final chapters, Where the Forest Meets the Stars is a beautiful and unforgettable debut.”
—Julianne MacLean, USA Today bestselling author
PRAISE FOR THE LIGHT THROUGH THE LEAVES
“A memorable story of love’s healing power.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Light Through the Leaves opens with an unspeakable mistake and characters you think at first will never find their way back. Then, with the assured hand of a master storyteller, Vanderah weaves a deeply moving tale of healing and redemption, catapulting the reader toward an ending that will make you believe in nature’s magic.”
—Steven Rowley, bestselling author of Lily and the Octopus and The Editor
“A unique page-turner of remarkable richness, a tale of unthinkable trauma and the powerful, steady healing to be found in the natural world. I love the women in Vanderah’s novels, women who are allowed to be as flawed and raw and brave and fierce as men. And I loved the unfolding layers in this book, layers of love and disaster, secrets and longings, mothers and children, and always, nature as the steady backdrop to all life, offering the hope of renewal at all turns. Exquisite.”
—Barbara O’Neal, USA Today bestselling author of When We Believed in Mermaids
“Glendy Vanderah’s love for nature shines through in this captivating story about love and loss and carrying on in the face of tragedy. Bursting with extraordinary moments of magic and beauty, it is an enchanting story that tugged at my heartstrings from the very first page and did not let go.”
—Suzanne Redfearn, bestselling author of In an Instant
“The Light Through the Leaves is simultaneously painful and perfect. Dappled with beauty and buoyed up by an undercurrent of magic—or maybe faith—it is a story to be cherished and cheered.”
—Amy Harmon, New York Times bestselling author
ALSO BY GLENDY VANDERAH
Where the Forest Meets the Stars
The Light Through the Leaves
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Glendy C. Vanderah
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542039529 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542039525 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542026505 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542026504 (paperback)
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch / Black Kat Design
First Edition
For Scott
CONTENTS
1 RILEY MAYS
2 VAUGHN ORR
3 RILEY
4 VAUGHN
5 RILEY
6 VAUGHN
7 RILEY
8 VAUGHN
9 RILEY
10 VAUGHN
11 RILEY
12 VAUGHN
13 RILEY
14 VAUGHN
15 RILEY
16 VAUGHN
17 THE LETTER
18 VAUGHN
19 RILEY’S JOURNAL
20 VAUGHN
21 RILEY
22 VAUGHN
23 RILEY
24 VAUGHN
25 RILEY
26 TYLER WEBB
27 RILEY
28 VAUGHN
29 RILEY
30 VAUGHN
31 RILEY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
RILEY MAYS
I shouldn’t have kept her in this little box all these years. She wouldn’t like that. She was what people would call a “force of nature,” always lively and laughing and loving. Especially loving. I never met anyone who loved so much.
She was at her best when she was loving things outdoors. Clouds and forsythia and snow, ants carrying crumbs she fed them while we lunched in the park.
Even dirt. She loved dirt. She didn’t wear gloves when she gardened. “That ruins the experience,” she used to say.
She held a palm of soil out to me. “Do you smell that? Do you feel it?”
I was eight or so and didn’t understand what she was asking. I took some of the dirt into my hand and touched my nose to the cool, black crumble.
“That’s time,” she said, “the actual smell of time, of eroding mountains, and stones pushed by glaciers, and the lives of everything that ever existed on Earth.” She held the soil to her nose, inhaling deeply, eyes closed in pleasure. “It’s the smell of eternity. There are bits of stars in this soil, Riley. Do you smell them?”
I closed my eyes, as she did, and breathed it in. Yes, I smelled stars. I felt like I was whirling in a swirl of stars in a soil-black universe. The intoxicating aroma nearly made me dizzy.
That’s how it was with Aunt Julia. Always magic. Even in dirt.
That’s why I have to get her out of the box. She needs to be part of the magic again.
I’ve been looking for the perfect spot for her ashes since I was twelve. I can’t believe it’s been nine years and I still haven’t set her free.
The perfect place has to be outdoors, but not just any pretty place. I want it to be somewhere she would exclaim, “Look, Riley! Isn’t this an enchanting scene!”
I thought I’d found the right spot in September when I last hiked this creek trail. That day, this little rocky waterfall was covered with golden and scarlet leaves. When I first saw it, all the vivid color and silken threads of silver rushing through the mossy stones, the first word that came to mind was Enchanting!
It was perfect. And it wasn’t far down a trail in a park that’s only a forty-minute drive from the house. I could visit Julia at the waterfall anytime I wanted.
But now that I’ve arrived at the cascade, I’m not sure it’s right for her. It looks different in February. No colo r. Everything is black and brown, and the water is barely trickling. There isn’t a cover of snow to make the scene prettier because the weather has been unusually warm. Even the sky is colorless today.
I shouldn’t have waited until her birthday to do this. I should have done it right away while I felt good about it. But I could have guessed this would happen when I’ve backed out of dispersing the ashes several times.
I sit in the cold creek stones and take the white crematory box out of my backpack. I open it and unwrap the inner plastic bag.
“Happy birthday, Julia.”
I sift my fingers through the rough ashes. At first, I was afraid to touch them. Then one day I realized they looked like moondust, and I had touched the surface of the moon many times. That’s when I started to like handling the ashes—and needing to touch them.
I suppose that’s why I haven’t found the perfect place to put them. I don’t want to.
I rub the coarse ashes into my left palm. I read the words I penciled on one side of the crematory box when I was thirteen. I can hardly see them, but I know them by heart: In spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits. One of Julia’s favorite lines of poetry, from Endymion by John Keats.
I study the diminished waterfall in front of me. The creek makes soft licking sounds as it passes over rocks. A downy woodpecker calls. The cascade trickles and drips.
I’m not feeling the magic.
“It’s not the perfect place I thought it was,” I tell Julia. “I’m not leaving you here.” I return her ashes to the box, delicately brushing remnant dust off my hand into the container. “I’m sorry.”
I’ll take the ashes home and return them to my bookcase. I use the box as a bookend, always with Julia’s copy of Endymion right next to it.
My bookshelf has been home to the box since it came to me, about six months after Julia died. By then my mother was dead, too, and I’d been living with my cousins, Alec and Sachi, for almost a month. Alec had to go all the way to Chicago from northwestern Wisconsin to get the ashes. That was the same day he picked up my mother’s ashes at a different crematory.
Alec hadn’t expected me to come into the kitchen and see the boxes he’d brought home. I’d gone downstairs for a glass of water and caught Sachi and him discussing whether they should tell me where he’d been. I stared at the two small cartons on the counter. The white one said “Julia Mays,” the brown one, “Nikki Mays.” I immediately knew what was inside.
“Riley . . . ,” Alec said. “Can I get you something?”
I kept looking at the boxes. How strange it was to see those two women compartmentalized into small containers when only a half year earlier they’d been almost my entire life.
Alec said, “These are . . .” He looked like he’d rather do any awful thing than tell me what was in the boxes. “These are your mother’s and aunt’s remains. They were cremated. We told you that when you first came to live with us.”
I didn’t say anything. I rarely did at that time.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Would you rather not . . . we could put them away until you’re ready.”
I’m still not ready.
“I’m sorry,” Alec said again when he saw how I stared at the boxes. “I’ll put them somewhere . . .”
As he started to remove the boxes, I took the white one off the counter. I was surprised by how substantial Julia felt when she was only ashes. I hugged her to my chest and walked toward the stairway.
“Riley . . . ,” Alec said behind me.
I turned around.
“What about your mother?”
What about your mother? The question of my life. I still see that question in Alec’s and Sachi’s eyes sometimes. I think they’ve always known there was more to the story of Nikki, Julia, and me than what the police told them.
Alec offered the box with Nikki’s ashes. I could only manage to shake my head before I turned away and continued up the stairs.
To this day I don’t know what he did with Nikki’s ashes.
Sleet starts falling before I return to my car in the trailhead lot. Driving is hazardous, but I still take the long way home and get the groceries on the list Sachi gave me. On the way out of town, I slow down at a house with FOR SALE and SOLD signs on the front lawn.
If not for the clock, I wouldn’t have looked twice at the junk piled on the curbside. It’s the kind of family history I can’t bear to witness: all those broken things that can’t be saved. A child’s pink bedside table missing a leg. A stained upholstered chair dangling an arm. A doll’s head with a vacant stare perched next to its dissociated body. A cheap hollowed-out chest, its drawers stacked on the ground in front of it. Shoes, hats, pants, and shirts too ragged for Goodwill overflowing from cardboard boxes. The sleet that bleeds over the mess somehow makes it seem more miserable.
I avert my eyes from the spectacle of the family’s broken possessions as I pull my car to the curb. The mantel clock is vintage, early nineteen hundreds. I imagine it was once cherished, looked to often, setting the rhythm of the house in which it lived. It’s been positioned at the heart of the junk pile, in the precise middle of the chest, as if the owner of the house tried to re-create the clock’s days of honor. I think they want someone to rescue it, to fix it, to love it as a family did decades ago. But the glass over its face is shattered. Even the junk pickers have left it to the cruelty of the wet weather and the coming trash smasher.
I lift the clock off the chest and take it into the car, propping it against the back of the passenger seat. During the drive out of town, the sleet storm wanes. I’m about ten miles into the countryside when the sun fully emerges from clouds.
I occasionally look at the clock, feeling its presence. As if I have a passenger riding with me. It looks sad to me. Old clocks always do.
“You’re lucky I found you,” I tell it.
The clock’s cracked face stares quizzically at me.
“You were going to a garbage dump. People tell time with cell phones now. Old kinds of clocks don’t much matter.”
The clock’s gaze is melancholy.
“It’s okay. You’re going to be useful again.”
I don’t look to see if the clock is relieved by this news. I’m more concerned about how weird it is that I’m talking to a clock.
When I arrive home, Sachi helps me carry the groceries into the house.
“Look what I found in someone’s garbage.”
She pets the clock as if it’s a stray kitten. “What a beauty. He’ll love it. He’s in his room.”
I jog up the stairs. Kiran meets me at the door to his bedroom, as if he knows what I’ve found and he’s waiting to receive it. “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Thank you, Riley.”
“You’re welcome.”
He carries the broken clock across the threshold with care and earnestness, like a war surgeon conveying a wounded patient into an operating room. He gently sets the clock on his worktable, and after a moment of studying it, he sits in the chair at the table. He opens his box of instruments. Following a long prayerlike pause, he selects a tool and begins his work.
I love to watch Kiran with his clocks. The reverence with which he handles each tiny mechanism. After he studies a piece he’s removed from the clock, he carefully sets it on the worktable, positioning every cog and wheel in some precise constellation that has significance to him. My heart seems to pause as Kiran leans into the mechanics of time, a river of sunlight washing the color out of his cropped hair. The bright afternoon light has turned his blue dress a glowing white. A dreamy glitter of dust motes drifts around him. He looks like a holy man conducting magical rites with sacred relics.
As unique as Kiran, the space around him is not the realm of a typical eight-year-old. The dormered room with periwinkle walls is more like a shaman’s cave. Or a wizard’s den. The twin bed with a white coverlet, the only evidence that the space serves as a bedroom, has become lost in a maze of small tables purchased at antique and junk stores. Upon those twelve tables, Kiran has carefully arranged and intermixed hundreds of clock parts and fossils.
Fossils are the other objects Kiran uses in his cryptic communication with the universe. When he’s done disassembling the old clock, he’ll execute my favorite part of the magic. One by one, he’ll place the clock parts in precise positions alongside gears, screws, microchips, and hour hands, and among stones imprinted with ferns, corals, mollusks, and trilobites.
