The Heartstone

The

Heartstone

Lisa Finnegan

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

copyright © Lisa Finnegan 2009

ISBN 978 1 4092 6872 7

All rights reserved.

no part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the publishers.

Many other writers helped me on this journey, a special thank you to Morgan Llywelyn who guided my steps in her workshop and then listened to me on the phone while encouraging me not to give up and to Alexei Kondratiev of the Irish Arts Centre, NYC, for his Irish lessons. Thanks also to the students and teachers at the Gotham Writers Workshop and for the many hours of exercises and discussion with Alex Lamb, Joan Conwell and George Konetsky. I trust they were not in vain.

This book would not have been written without the loving support of my parents, Keith Nelson and Leda Serey and also my sisters Kirsten Cunha, Raina Roe and Erica Roe. I would like to thank Kim Sharp for his gentle encouragement over the long first draft process. And a heartfelt thank you to Lori Fraad, my best friend for over twenty-five years, who will always be there for me in spirit.

To my husband James

&

The Splinters, Alex, Joanie and George,

who helped it all come together over coffee

all those years ago.

Ariana had just curled up on the couch in her oldest jeans and faded UConn sweatshirt with a bowl of light popcorn and her, “
American in Paris
” video. Sleet bounced against the window from sullen January clouds. She was fast-forwarding through the previews when the buzzer rang.

It was her first Saturday off in three weeks, now what? Sighing she freed herself from the mauve and blue mohair blanket draped over her lap. The buzzer rang again. She stopped the machine, brushed the crumbs off her hands and put the bowl on the end table.

"Alright, I’m coming." Slipping into sneakers, she pushed back her hair, tugged her shirt down. She listened a moment to the static garble on the intercom and buzzed the door open.

The place was a mess. She’d had no time to clean yet, tomorrow she promised herself. Still, the hardwood floor was swept. The door to her bedroom safely closed. The desk was a wreck. Papers were everywhere amid the clutter of Chinese take-out cartons and a huge pile of mail overwhelming her computer. She tried not to look, dimming the track lights in that part of the room. At least there were flowers in the vase and framed posters added vibrancy to the white walls.

It would have to do. There was a knock. She opened the door with a bright smile that faded quickly. A bored young man stood there with a box tucked under one arm. He checked his delivery slip.

"Ariana Cameron?" He held out his clipboard.

She signed, and put the box on the couch. She sat down studying it. It was wrapped in brown paper, heavily taped and covered with "Air Mail" and "This side up" in Aunt Fiona’s precise handwriting. She was always so meticulous. The present was early; Ariana’s birthday wasn't until next week. She considered waiting to unwrap it.

Inside, on top of Styrofoam peanuts, rested an ivory envelope. The face of the card was a sketch of a cliff with the sea crashing against it. Fiona was an artist; every year she created a different design for Ariana’s card. She smiled, inside the note simply said, "Happy birthday! This was your mother Julia’s. She wanted you to have it when you turned twenty-five. Happy quarter century! Love always, Aunt Fi.”

Fiona wasn't her aunt by blood but by affection. She had been her mother Julia’s best friend. After her mother died, Fiona helped Ariana through her rebellious teenage years. They'd lost touch when she moved to New York, but Fiona always sent a birthday present.

Under the peanuts rested a wooden jewelry box with an inlaid Celtic knot on the lid. Mingled wood and silver spirals chased around the sides of the box. She recognized the box. It had rested on Fiona’s dresser as long as she could remember. It had been Mom’s. Fiona had never let her touch it. She looked at the box sitting on her lap. Why now? The note didn't explain.

Taking a deep breath she turned the clasp. As the clasp unlocked and the lid rose, the silver detailing writhed and turned brilliant for a moment. She let go of the lid and leaned back. The box was empty except for a huge crystal on a silver chain resting on velvet, colors prismed through it. Her ears rang and the room receded. The ever-present street noise of New York faded to a whisper. The room dimmed. Her head spun.

This had been Mom's? There was a sharp pang in her heart; she would have loved to see her wear it. Ariana cradled the jewel in her palm. Slowly the cool polished surface warmed until she couldn't tell where her hand began and the stone stopped. She hesitated then clasped the chain around her neck.

The stone was heavy. It dragged her down. She sank to the floor. A galaxy of colors spun on the end of the chain. She felt drunk or fevered. Her stomach churned as the room shifted. What was going on? Her hand swept the table clear as she tried to rise. Popcorn arced through the air like missiles casting rainbows behind them.

The floor changed the solid oak liquefying, sucking her down into a whirlpool, spreading out to encompass the whole apartment. She clawed for solid ground but there was nothing to hold onto. Sliding into the funnel dragged from the familiar world, there was no time to scream. Passing into the swirling mass, it felt as if a thousand bees stung her at once. She screamed, but made no sound. Everything went black.

* * * * * *

There was a high metallic shriek cut off abruptly, then silence. A bright yellow and red light played behind Ariana’s closed eyes. Someone moaned. She wished they'd stop. “Shut Up.” She mumbled through thick lips. The moaning stopped and she realized it was herself. Her head was thick and swimming and her stomach heaved.

Gingerly she opened her eyes; sunshine lanced her from a Technicolor sky. She lay flat on her back: coarse grass hummocks lumped under her: trees canopied overhead instead of the walls of her apartment: birdsong replaced sirens. Where was she? What had happened?

She remembered putting the jewel on and the apartment disappearing, then the horrible pain, now she was here. Her stomach surged: Ariana rolled over vomiting. Wiping her face, she sat up. The only other time she remembered feeling like this was when they took out her appendix.

She'd been drugged somehow, kidnapped and brought where? Tall trees surrounded her, gnarled mossy faces peering from knobby trunks. Young leaves pushed forth from hoary branches. Roots thrust into the rich earth and a carpet of tender grass spread out toward her. Bramble bushes filled with purple red berries and jewel toned birds bridged the gap between old giants and new growth. The sun caressed her face.

Even the air tasted green, a fresh earthy tang reminding her of that trip she’d taken to Ireland a few years ago. This must be upstate. Ariana tried not to imagine what lurked in the forest, just trees, some birds and Bambi. Fear insisted on bears and copperheads. Taking a deep breath trying to calm down like they'd taught in that meditation class she'd taken once. Where were her kidnappers? Why was she alone?

The grass around her was burnt in a four-foot circle. She was covered in fine ash. Ariana frantically inspected her skin, patted her hair; no burnt frizzy ends. Her hands shook as she brushed herself off. She whimpered. Her head spun, she felt sick to her stomach. The forest blurred. She blacked out.