Part Three
   
   

    J.C. ran his fingertips over the first step. Worn smooth from almost eleven years of his hands and feet climbing their way up to the house above. Light shining through the patchwork of leaves glared in his eyes when he craned his neck to see the rest of the crude ladder nailed to the centuries old sycamore tree.
    One hand over the other, one foot up, his body seemed almost fluid in these motions. Years of practice and repetition had made the journey up seem as natural as breathing. His hand instinctively went for the handle screwed to the platform and his leg swung up, causing the young man’s body to to neatly land on the floor of the makeshift tree house at least a hundred feet above the ground.
    His eyes roamed around the crude shelter, his hands drifting over the plywood walls. Deep breaths took in the hypnotic aroma of of old wood and even older books. His pack hit the floor with a thump, dust rising from the unfinished floorboards. Slowly, J.C. sank down beside his bag, carefully unzipping it and removing its contents.
    A small pile accumulated on the floor beside him, and when the pack had been emptied, he simply gazed at it for awhile. Part of him hated the objects, rejected them, wished he would forget the whole idea and just leave things as they were. It’d been good enough for eleven years and it was still good enough now.
    But another part, the stronger part, buried his hesitation with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. For eleven years J.C. had been making the trek to the sycamore, climbing its overgrown ladder, and sitting. Just sitting, staring in awe at the tree house, coming up with dozens of wild fantasies about how it had came to be. Of course, occasionally, he had brought one of his own books to read or music to listen to. But never once had he disturbed something in the Sycamore House.
    Everything had seemed too well preserved for a place that seemed so old. A sense of foreboding yet beckoning surrounded the whole tree. As if welcoming visitor’s, but only if they could control themselves. At seven years old J.C. had been a nervous, lanky little boy. Looking for a place to be alone and at peace. He had fled from his father’s house,a place he still refused to call home, and ran until he could go no further.
    He could have been running for hours, that’s what it felt like anyway, before he started to stumble, his feeble legs giving way beneath him. Over and over again he picked himself up and tried to continue, fearing and fleeing from his father’s drunken rage.

    When he was sure he could go no further, J.C. let himself collapse to the ground, planning on curling up and waiting for someone (or something) to find him. On his hands and knees the child’s chest heaved, searching desperately for oxygen. Blood dripped from his nose where his father had struck him and from other small cuts he had gained from unforgiving branches and barbs, reaching out as if to poke fun at the frightened young boy. Tears streamed down his face, earning him only more pain as the salt burned its way like acid through his many scrapes.
    Knowing that shaking in fear while lying on the ground would only get him eaten by a wild animal or worse, found by his infuriated father, J.C. slowly sat up. Wiping away the bloody tear mix from his face. Eyes the darker purple than violets scanned his surroundings. And that’s when he saw it. The first rung.
    Roughly cut and put together long ago was a ladder. What J.C. guessed as decades of overgrowth held the precarious piece in place. Small trembling fingers reached out to brush across the top. Tiny shards stuck in where years of abandonment had left the wood to splinter. The small boy rose to his feet, running his hand up the bark, looking for the next rung. When his slim fingers curled around the rough wood he lodged his foot on the lower rung. He continued this pattern all the way up the tree, his fingers searching for the next rung while his feet quickly followed their path. J.C. wasn’t sure where he was headed, but he knew it was further from where he was fleeing and that was  good enough for him. Finally his hand hit something like a platform and he reached around looking for anything he could use as a hand hold. His knuckles scraped against something that felt vaguely metallic and after investigating a little longer he discovered a handle.
    Clumsily he used it to swing himself up onto the floor of some type of shack placed high up in the tree, banging his shins on the way over. Using a moment to catch his breath J.C. peered around the strange room. Books were stacked everywhere, on shelves, in corners, and especially piled high on the little wooden table in the middle of the room. Maps and sketches were tacked to the walls, creating an effect much like wall paper. Boxes and bins were chaotically strewn everywhere and anywhere they could fit on shelves that sagged with the weight of them.
    The little shelter had same aura as a museum or zoo, you could look and enjoy all you want, but don’t you dare touch lest something awful happen.So J.C. was content to just sit and stare.

    For eleven years J.C. had been content to just sit and stare; but lately he had become restless, his curiosity never letting him rest, even for a moment. He knew it was time. The now eighteen year old stood, bringing with him the hand broom from the pile of items. One by one J.C  brushed the dust from every book, box, and shelf in the Sycamore House. The result was a coughing fit and a lot of fanning to get it all out the door. Next he began to sort the books, caressing the spines lovingly as he stacked them neatly along the wall. As he began to pull the boxes down, he noticed how light he felt. Like a weight was being lifter off his shoulders. Finally he was making this place his own. After years of feeling like a stranger in someone’s home, he was making it his home. The only place he could ever call home. It wasn’t a place he secretly feared, like his father’s house. Or dreaded, like school. It was home.
Each box he opened held something new and exciting. The first was a collection of pinned insects, carefully labeled and framed, the second a book of wildflowers with many samples pressed inside, the third held a globe. J.C. felt like a little kid on Christmas, his smile growing bigger with every box.
The final box resembled an old shoe box, it was a little heavier than its original appearance had suggested. Inside was something different than the other surprises the teen had discovered that day. It wasn’t anything like the science and research tools in the other boxes. Instead it was a small ladies jewelry box. Intricately painted with shocking detail. It looked so real J.C. could almost swear it really was covered in climbing ivy and blooming roses, blue and purple in color. Gingerly he removed the delicate antique, examining it like a scientist would a new specimen. In the gold lettering the front read the initials M. I. R. A small golden clasp held the box shut but could be easily popped open. The inquisitive boy was surprised to find that the box neither held jewelry nor was empty, but instead confined four keys.
Each had its own unique look and feel. The first was smooth, cold, and milky white; entirely resembling pearl. The second was a little rough, but warm to the touch; some type of wooden handle. The third J.C. was absolutely sure was made of pure silver. But the last was nothing special at all, just an iron key with chipping white paint.
                                
    The keys occupied his mind the rest of the day as he organized his new found “home”. Finally with the books neatly put away on the shelves, the boxes unpacked and their contents placed neatly around the room, J.C. decided he was satisfied. He took one last glance around before lowering himself down, the keys weight bumping against his leg through the fabric of his pocket. Happily, he sauntered through the woods. The fact that the Sycamore House was officially his now distracted him from even the mystery of the keys. Smiling like an idiot and laughing to himself he didn’t even notice the girl come through the trees until they smacked into each other and fell to the ground...