Monday, the seventh o' June, in the Year of our Lard, 1999

A lingering trace of morning mist covered the forest glade. Sunlight fell through the thick canopy in resplendent shafts of golden light, simultaneously dissolving and illuminating the mist below. Light and shadow played together here, at peace for once. Depending upon where you stood, you could either bathe in sweet, warm sunlight or find peace in the soft, cool shadows.

There was a hint of a summer breeze – barely noticeable, but enough to stir up the dandelion seeds which floated through the air like miniature pixies. Rising, falling, circling, rising again – it seemed as though they were dancing to the songs of the birds whose music filled the glade.

Santiago held his breath as he walked through the trees. He somehow felt as though he was trespassing upon sacred ground, an unnatural intruder here in Nature’s sanctuary. With each step made by his old, worn boots, he half expected the forest to come alive and swallow him whole.

So it was that he nearly jumped when he saw a figure at the far end of the glade. A lady stood there, amidst the dark trees – a young lady, with dark hair and darker eyes. Dressed all in white, she stared at him for a moment before turning and disappearing into the foliage.

Santiago paused for a moment, unsure as to whether or not he had imagined her. He ran to the far side of the glade – but when he got there, he saw no trace of the ghostly lady. He listened for several minutes, but heard only the sound of his own panting breath. He searched the ground for footprints or signs of passage, but found not a single one. His eyes darted nervously at those dark trees, and he felt very cold all of a sudden.

"Must o’ been the ale," he said to himself, though he didn’t really believe it.

At the center of the glade stood an old, abandoned house. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, and the wood was moldy and covered with fungus in many places. The cottage was besieged on all sides by weeds and various other forms of vegetation, and vines of ivy had begun to scale its walls. To Santiago, it seemed as though he was looking upon a lone knight in the midst of a final, desperate battle against armies of decay and corruption – a battle measured not in seconds, but in years. Struggle as he might, the valiant knight would eventually fall. It was just a matter of time.

He tried Lucero’s key in the old, rusted lock, and the door responded by swinging open with a creaking yawn. From inside, there was the smell of dust and mildew. The sunlight fell dimly upon a plain wooden floor stained dark with mold. The contents of the room spoke of neglect and decay; everything in this house had been abandoned a long time ago, and left here to rot away over the years. The face of a clock stared at him silently, frozen forever at a quarter past five. Tarnished silverware lay upon an old wooden table, patiently waiting for a dinner that would never come. The cabinets were covered in cobweb shrouds, as if the spiders had wished for them to remain sealed forever. But now, even the spiders were gone.

Santiago could still hear the sounds of the forest outside, living, breathing. But here in this house, there was nothing alive. He felt as though he had entered a tomb – an old, forgotten place of dust and shadows, and things that had been broken a long time ago.

He left the door open, as if closing it would prevent him from ever leaving. Though it was mid-morning, the sunlight did little to illuminate the room – it merely hovered near the entrance like a shy stranger, reluctant to enter without invitation. There were two windows in the room, one on the east wall and one on the west. Both were stained brown to the point of opacity, and he decided to remove them altogether. He then unfastened the shutters and pushed them open, allowing more light to pour into the old house.

The cabinets and closets held various items of clothing, as well as a few suits of armor – all of which were in surprisingly good condition. Santiago’s eyes widened as he opened one armoire and discovered a collection of weapons – one of almost every kind. There was a large trunk at the far corner of the room, the lock of which was answered again by Lucero’s key. There were bags of coins within, as well as an assortment of parchments and journals. He shivered as he thought of the words written upon those pages. Though their author was dead, these words remained, frozen forever here in tiny blotches of ink. He imagined that he could hear the voice of his old friend, speaking to him in dead whispers from those dusty tomes.

He was about to close the chest when he noticed a dark velvet pouch at the bottom of the chest. Inside he found a locket of tarnished silver. He gently pried it open to reveal two miniature portraits. The one on the left was that of Lucero; it had been drawn years ago, when he was younger and his face was free of care. But what struck Santiago’s attention – and made his hair stand up on end – was the portrait on the right. For there he saw the face of the young woman he had seen in the forest not more than an hour ago.

Santiago sank back against the wall and shivered. He glanced around the house – a house that had been locked up and abandoned years ago, like a dark, terrible secret. Why had Lucero given him the key? Why had he wanted him to come here and find this museum of memories?

"Lucero, what happened here?" he whispered to the darkness, as if his old friend was standing nearby, waiting to answer. But no answers came.

Santiago found himself wishing that the forest would claim the house once and for all, taking with it all of the memories and mysteries, leaving nothing behind of the man who had once lived there. But there was no escaping it. Lucero had led him here for a reason. There was something here, some sort of puzzle that had been left uncompleted – and Santiago was the one who had been asked to solve it.

With a sigh, he stood up and carefully closed all of the cabinets and coffers, locking them up once again. Stepping outside into the sunlight, he turned the key in the door and prepared to head back to the Peregrine. His stay in the old, dead house had in turn made him feel old and dead. But now, the sounds of the forest were as music to him, and he listened to them as if for the first time. And as he walked on, the sunlight warmed his skin and made him feel alive again.

- Santiago, LOA [Atlantic]

To read more of the adventures of Santiago, visit Santiago’s Journal.