Creepers (19 page)
Authors: Joanne Dahme
“Back in the time when witches were burned at the stake, people were accused of being witches simply for being different. And everyone was so afraid about surviving in this new land. Fear always feeds superstitions. Perhaps Prudence's mother was simply an independent, special woman. From what you and the Geyers have told me, she sounded very spiritual, but her beliefs were grounded in God's presence in the natural world, it seems.”
I nodded and smiled. It was a nice answer, but it still
did not explain many things. “But how come she didn't die like they did?”
did not explain many things. “But how come she didn't die like they did?”
She bit her lip while combing out my hair with her fingers. “Who said she didn't die? Perhaps she just has a feisty spirit.” She looked into my eyes and smiled. “She obviously loved Christian and Prudence very much. To think what could be if all of us had the ability to make our love span a few centuries. I think that was, or is, the witch's real power.”
I smiled, not knowing what else to say. “I can't sleep, either,” I finally replied.
“I knew that.” Mom laughed. “That's why I came by to see if you wanted to go for a walk.”
“Can we?” I sat up straight. Trying to make yourself sleep can be really tiring. “How about Dad?” I asked.
“Sleeping like a baby.” She smiled sarcastically. “All of that moaning about being in the midst of the unexplainable, and as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out.”
Mom stood up and walked to the window. She bent to pick up my sneakers and swung them lightly by their laces.
“Where are we going to walk?” I asked.
She turned from the window. “Why, through the cemetery, of course. I need to start thinking about an angle for my next story.”
WE BURIED PRUDENCE NEXT TO CHRISTIAN AND placed our own ivy border around both plots. As we did so, the cats were all over us, rubbing up against our legs and ducking under our arms as we kneeled on the soft ground to place our ivy wreaths. The orange cat kept sticking its tail under my nose and I tried to shoo it away.
“Courtney, he's thanking you! Don't be so rude,” Margaret had scolded with a big smile on her face. I remember thinking how radiant she looked as she kind of glowed in a beam of sunlight that had penetrated the leaves of our tree. “And he's my favorite. I want you to take special care of him.”
I glanced up, not quite catching Margaret's meaning. She turned away before I could see her eyes.
When we had finished laying the ivy, Dad had asked about getting a metal plaque or stone marker, with an
inscription that noted that Prudence and Christian were buried here.
inscription that noted that Prudence and Christian were buried here.
“That won't be necessary,Tom,” Mr. Geyer said gently. Both of their shirts were soaked in sweat. “I'd rather that we not bring any undue attention to this site. Let's concentrate our efforts on the preservation of the cemetery.”
“Just what would you like us to do, Christian?” Mom asked, brushing her hands together. “I took a walk through the cemetery. In the quiet, it felt so sacred there, something I didn't sense during our tour.”
Mr. Geyer nodded solemnly. “Yes. I know what you mean. The spirits of the living are stronger than the spirits of the dead. Our little crowd was a rambunctious one, too,” he added with a smile. “Until the rain chased us all away.”
“Is that bad?” I asked. I thought of the sentinel ivy, Mom's phrase for it, that seemed to watch over the cemetery.
Margaret slipped her arm around Mr. Geyer's back as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mom and I stood before them, waiting expectantly for his answer. Dad was over by the tree, collecting our shovels. He banged two of them together to loosen the moist dirt that still clung to the metal.The sound was jarring. Mom threw Dad a “be quiet” look as he shrugged his shoulders.
“No, no,” Mr. Geyer replied. His eyes were warm and earnest and, for a moment, looked moist behind his glasses.
“No, Courtney. It's very important that you bring the living to the cemetery. The living are the only ones who can protect the dead.” He removed his glasses and used his shirt to clean the lenses.
“No, Courtney. It's very important that you bring the living to the cemetery. The living are the only ones who can protect the dead.” He removed his glasses and used his shirt to clean the lenses.
Mom tilted her head, as if waiting for Mr. Geyer to continue. “Would you like us to help you with the tours?” Mom asked, unable to remain silent any longer. “And I would be more than happy to continue to write about the cemetery.The history is fascinating.”
Mr. Geyer smiled gratefully.“That would be wonderful.” Then he turned to look directly at me. “Margaret and I are going to rely on you both more than you can imagine.”
What did that mean? But before I could ask, Dad swaggered over to us with the shovels thrown over his shoulder like he did this work all the time.
“Ready to head home?” Dad asked. “Looks like we all could use something cold to drink.”
We all nodded silently. I guess it was at that moment that we sort of promised to remain forever mute about the burial plot in the woods.
The following day was clear and beautiful, the sun casting
the day in a warm, golden glow. It was already ten o'clock when I skipped out the front door to visit Margaret and Mr. Geyer. As I walked down the driveway, I turned to look at our house. It looked raw and clean as if the rain had given its walls a good scrubbing. Then I felt my jaw drop. Some of the ivy was gone. Until now, it had covered our house like a soft green curtain. Dad had joked that perhaps in the winter we would actually see our house beneath its muted leaves, but now the ivy seemed to have parted from the center of the walls like a curtain opening on a stage.
the day in a warm, golden glow. It was already ten o'clock when I skipped out the front door to visit Margaret and Mr. Geyer. As I walked down the driveway, I turned to look at our house. It looked raw and clean as if the rain had given its walls a good scrubbing. Then I felt my jaw drop. Some of the ivy was gone. Until now, it had covered our house like a soft green curtain. Dad had joked that perhaps in the winter we would actually see our house beneath its muted leaves, but now the ivy seemed to have parted from the center of the walls like a curtain opening on a stage.
I ran back to check the front and side gardens for the vines of ivy that curled and serpentined through my mother's begonias and mums. The ivy was still there, but like the walls of the house, it seemed to creep back in retreat.The flowers in the center of the beds were suddenly unadorned by ivy.
How could those millions of vines and leaves that only yesterday had clung to our house through that pelting rainstorm suddenly lose their grip?
I raced down our driveway and turned to run clumsily through the soggy, marshy swale alongside the road. I had to tell Margaret and Mr. Geyer about this latest development. Was this a good thing that the ivy was letting go? I was finally getting used to its stubborn presence.When we first moved here, the ivy had felt menacing, as if it were
watching my every move. Now I deemed it more a nosy neighbor that kept its eye on everything because it cared.
watching my every move. Now I deemed it more a nosy neighbor that kept its eye on everything because it cared.
I ignored the cars that honked at me as they passed and I barely noticed the sweet smell of the saturated cornstalks. As I neared the path that lead to the Geyers' stone cabin, I suddenly felt panicked.
I slowed to a trot when I touched the path, for a new doubt gnawed at my stomach as I recalled the vague comments that Margaret had made about us helping with the cemetery tours and her cats.
Why would she say such things?
Why would she say such things?
I felt my feet press softly into the carpet of pine needles that covered the dirt. I welcomed the sudden coolness of the woods. My ten-minute run had wet my bangs and the back of my shirt. I listened for their voices as I turned the tiny bend and saw their house. Its door was open slightly. Its windows shaded. The cat tins that were lined in a neat row along the front of the house were empty. I whimpered before I could stop myself. My heart felt like it was stuck in my throat.
I must have stood in front of the door for at least five minutes before I worked up the nerve to push it open. While waiting, I called for Margaret and Mr. Geyer. My voice sounded much higher than normal to me. I listened to the noisy chatter of the birds that must have been perched wing to wing on the branches of the trees
surrounding the house. Were they talking to me? “Go on in, go on in, go on in,” they seemed to be chirping.
surrounding the house. Were they talking to me? “Go on in, go on in, go on in,” they seemed to be chirping.
The house felt cool and lonely. I glanced to my right into the living room. All of the rental-house furniture was exactly as I had last seen it. The couch, the armchairs, and the coffee table were not far from the fireplace, but nothing seemed to bear the impression of the Geyers' touch.
The dining room was in front of me. The plain pine table that had previously been smothered with stacks of papers, photos, and clippings was bare except for a letter-size white envelope placed precisely in its center beside Christian's journal.
I crept like a burglar toward them, until I could plainly read my name written in Margaret's sweeping script. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Margaret,” I pleaded as I plucked the envelope from the table and opened it as if my touch might cause it to disintegrate.
Â
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Dear Courtney,
I'm so glad I met you. Dad says that you saved us because the witch trusted you to be the living person to bring us all together. I am sad that I cannot be with you anymore, at least for the near future. It's weird, Courtney. A strange sensation came over me when we
buried them side by side. I experienced this flashing of memories that I did not think were mine. “Am I Prudence?” I asked Dad. He smiled and shook his head. But he did say that we are bound to her by more than blood, that the living ivy connects us across these hundreds of years. In that sense, he agreed, we are one. As I write this, Dad tells me to hurry, as we must leave, but I insisted that I tell you more.
buried them side by side. I experienced this flashing of memories that I did not think were mine. “Am I Prudence?” I asked Dad. He smiled and shook his head. But he did say that we are bound to her by more than blood, that the living ivy connects us across these hundreds of years. In that sense, he agreed, we are one. As I write this, Dad tells me to hurry, as we must leave, but I insisted that I tell you more.
You knew, Courtney. You knew that we could not go far from the cemetery or your house. You know when we read the excerpt from Christian's journal? Remember “And the spirits that come after you will fade, will shimmer into dust, should they leave this site.” There was so much that I did not understand. But Dad kept bringing me back to the ivy. “What did the witch say to Christian?” he asked. That the ivy was the symbol of Christian's love for Prudence. Christian chose the ivy first, when he carved it on Prudence's tombstone. The ivy is an unbreakable bond between them.
It was the witch, Dad told me, not Christian, who believed in the power of the spirit to live long after the body is eaten by worms. Remember what she said to
Christian? “Our spirits are made of our love, our hate, our desireâthey make up our elements.” When Christian spread the ashes of the ivy around his bed as the witch told him to do, it was as if the ivy and his blood were fused. Christian diedâbut the ivy lived on.
Christian? “Our spirits are made of our love, our hate, our desireâthey make up our elements.” When Christian spread the ashes of the ivy around his bed as the witch told him to do, it was as if the ivy and his blood were fused. Christian diedâbut the ivy lived on.
Dad believed that Christian did not want to tell the witch that he had moved Prudence from the old cemetery by the gravestone he had carved. It was only because of you that we learned the truth. In the meantime, the ivy grew stronger, and it learned to work with the elements to fulfill its quest. It made us from the life forces it knew. We became its children, and it taught us the covenant the witch made, to reunite them, so we all can be reunited.
But Courtney, I am happy, too, because Dad promises that I will see you again. And that you will recognize me. For now, the cats will be our bond. Care for them for me. Our mission is done.
Forever Your Friend,
Margaret
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“It's not fair,” I sobbed. “I didn't get to say good-bye!” I yelled at the house, angry tears blurring the words in the
letter. I stood by the table with the letter in my hand and began to bawl; all of the feelingsâgood, bad, and scaryâthat had built up inside me since I had met the Geyers only a few weeks ago welled to the surface. Finally I stopped, embarrassed, even though I knew no one was around. I sniffled and wiped my eyes and squinted into the filtered sunlight that threaded through the trees.
Think,
I told myself.
letter. I stood by the table with the letter in my hand and began to bawl; all of the feelingsâgood, bad, and scaryâthat had built up inside me since I had met the Geyers only a few weeks ago welled to the surface. Finally I stopped, embarrassed, even though I knew no one was around. I sniffled and wiped my eyes and squinted into the filtered sunlight that threaded through the trees.
Think,
I told myself.
Margaret was telling me that the witch had empowered the ivy to protect the spirits of Christian and Prudence and to do whatever it needed to do to bring them together. Perhaps over time it grew so strong and determined that it somehow created, with the help of the witch, Margaret and Mr. Geyer. It tried to guide them to their whereabouts, and when they failed, the ivyâand the witchâdecided to use me.
I remembered Margaret's frustration at not being able to see the witch. If she and Mr. Geyer were a part of her, as they were a part of the ivy, then of course they would not be able to see her, as it would be like seeing oneself.When we were in town, it was Margaret and Mr. Geyer that people could not see because when they traveled a distance from the cemetery or the woodsâfrom the ivy itselfâthey lost some of their power.The ivy was telling them, and me, that the trail to Christian and Prudence had grown cold. For whatever reason, I was the living connection that could see them all.
I looked at Christian's journal. My hand trembled as I reached for it. I expected it to crumble as I turned it over so that I could open it to the last page. I would read it all, but right now, I was looking for an answer. I opened the cover and the air smelled like attic dust. My eyes stung as I read the last entry.
Â
“I no longer wish to live,” I told her.
She nodded and touched my cheek.
Her fingers were so cold.
“When you are ready, I will burn this place,” she said.
She looked at the ivy I had carved into
the walls, the floors, the furniture.
In my delirium , I had taken her at her word.
“We should leave no evidence of your spirits,”
she said, grabbing my hand.
“But first you must move Prudence to the woods.
I must bury you side by side.
You will be together forever.”
I nodded.
I had no strength for discourse.
She nodded and touched my cheek.
Her fingers were so cold.
“When you are ready, I will burn this place,” she said.
She looked at the ivy I had carved into
the walls, the floors, the furniture.
In my delirium , I had taken her at her word.
“We should leave no evidence of your spirits,”
she said, grabbing my hand.
“But first you must move Prudence to the woods.
I must bury you side by side.
You will be together forever.”
I nodded.
I had no strength for discourse.
Â
I did not tell her that Prudence was fine.
I would not allow her to be buried
in the woods like a wild animal.
I would touch fire to this place.
I would not leave my final fate
in the hands of a witch.
I would die like my Prudence.
I would not allow her to be buried
in the woods like a wild animal.
I would touch fire to this place.
I would not leave my final fate
in the hands of a witch.
I would die like my Prudence.
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