Later, in bed, I started thinking
about my birthday and about the number six.
I had brought up with me the book I’d been reading earlier—Your Days Are Numbered, that book about
numerology. I thought it was all
silly—but I decided, just for fun, to use that book to see what I could “learn”
about myself.
The book said that to find my “life
path” I had to add together the day, month, and year of my birth. So … 30 + 8 + 1983 = 2021. Add the digits 2 + 0 + 2 + 1 = 5. So five is my “life path number.” According to the book, my “constructive”
qualities included “freedom,” “mental curiosity,” “cleverness,” “travel.” Those all fit. But some others didn’t—like “sociability” and
“companionability.”
Among my “negative” aspects were “thoughtlessness”
and “inconsistency” and “bad taste.”
And highlighting my “destructive” aspects
were “abuse of freedom,” “indulgence in drink,” “indulgence in dope.” These are traits, says the book, that I must
work to avoid. Not a bad idea.
The book then suggested that I can
discover my “vibration” by using the vowels in my name. It even provided a little table to show me
what to do. Victoria Stone had six vowels.
I added up their “number value,” as the book advised, and came up with
9. This number means I want to serve the
whole world, to give all the benefits of my knowledge and experience, that I
have wisdom, and on and on.
But here’s where I knew it was all
silliness (though, of course, I’d known this from the start): Is attractive to all and loved by all. That had never been true, and I was fairly
certain it never would be. All, you see, is the largest category of
all.
I closed that ridiculous book and
would replace it later on the shelf.
Much later that night, still in bed
but about to turn off the light, I remembered that Blue Boyle had brought a
gift. Quietly I crept downstairs to the
living room, where I’d left the package.
A streetlight’s faint glow flowed into the room, but there wasn’t much
of a moon to help.
The first thing I noticed was the
horse book that Elena had left open earlier in the day. She’d turned it over, as if she’d planned to
return to it later. But, of course, she
hadn’t. I wanted to see what she had
been looking at. I picked it up, turned
it over, and held it up for the streetlight to illuminate the page.
On the top half of pages 218–219
were words; on the bottom, pictures. The
words were under a heading—Foaling. I knew what it meant. It’s word used for horses, to describe the
process of giving birth. The paragraphs
were all about how mares deliver their young.
But even if I hadn’t known what the
word meant, the ten pictures would
have left no doubt. Arrayed across the
bottom of the page in two rows—five color pictures in each row—they showed a
mare delivering her foal. All stages are
visible—from the first appearance of the foal’s head to the first nursing after
the birth.
No wonder Elena wanted to stay
behind and read a little more before we ate.
Though I doubt she was doing much reading. A better word, probably, is looking.
And wondering.
I closed the book, then looked over
and could make out the Blue Boyle’s box, still sitting on one of the end tables
right where we’d left it.
I picked it up and took it back up
to my room. It wasn’t heavy. Not at all.
Back in bed, I slowly unwrapped
this box that looked and felt as if it could hold nothing much larger than a
softball. I pulled the top from the box
and saw just a piece of paper wrapped around something in the bottom.
I picked it up, unwrapped the
paper. It had been covering a rock. A plain old rock caked with dirt. There was no message. Nothing else.
Just a dirty rock.
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