Ghosts of Graveyards Past (4 page)

 

 

 

4

 

“You could've been killed! What if there were wolves out there? Or a coyote, at least.” Jenna's agent was using her ”mother” voice, or maybe it was more like an older sibling, considering only twelve years separated them. Whatever the case, there was a definite scolding in her tone as she learned of the nocturnal adventure.

“It was fine,” Jenna said. Her sore leg was propped on a pillow, and her mud-spattered clothes and boots had been exchanged for a camisole and pajama pants as she rested on the hotel's four poster bed—although part of her wished to be back in the woods, a flashlight in one hand as the other parted thick branches to find a gravestone hiding beneath. “I just lost track of time after I spotted the first grave. And get this—there are a dozen at least. Probably a lot more hidden beneath the storm damage, as well.”

“It's hard to make out anything from these pictures you e-mailed,” Joyce said. “Except that most of them have been smashed into about a hundred pieces.”

Her tone was skeptical, her expression easy for Jenna to picture after two-and-a-half manuscripts together. A trim, orderly figure in business clothes, Joyce Edel disliked surprises as a general rule, but especially those involving a client's manuscript. No doubt, she envisioned this discovery as interfering with the New Orleans site the editors were so keen on having featured.

“I know the markers are in rough shape,” Jenna began, a defensive note creeping into her voice, “but it's amazing that anything could survive those conditions. Especially something so fragile. Some of them could have a Civil War connection,” she added, thinking of the dates on the stones in the town.

“Un-huh,” Joyce murmured noncommittally. “The lighting is really dim in these pictures. Please tell me you won't go tramping through any more unfamiliar woods. Not at night, at least.”

“I won't,” Jenna promised. She had marked tonight's path with some rolls of flagging tape from among her knapsack's supplies. There would be no trouble locating it from the main trail next time.

“Any special engravings?” her agent prompted. “All I can see is what looks like an arched doorway.”

“I think it's a half moon, actually.” Jenna glanced at the picture gallery on her computer screen, double clicking to enlarge the image of stone that bore the name,
CHARLEY.

“Yeah, it's definitely a crescent, but it's inverted. And it's got another shape laced through it…” She trailed off, frowning. “There's a lot of rust covering it, but I can probably clean that off.” She expected such gravestones to be simple in their designs, given the time and condition from which they came. Yet this basic carving was equally interesting to her mind as she tried to fathom its meaning for Charley, whoever he may have been among the town's early citizens.

“I may have stumbled on a good interview source,” she told Joyce before they hung up for the night. “A mason who actually lives pretty close to the gravesites. Apparently, he keeps up the old method of carving stones by hand.”

“Interesting,” said Joyce, sounding as if she actually meant it this time. “Maybe he can tell you if there's a story behind the place. Something to make up for the lack of photographic material.”

Of course, there was a story worth telling behind every gravesite she investigated. The problem was finding someone who could remember it. In this case, the stone carver seemed the most likely candidate for the job, though she couldn't say why exactly.

If he did know something of the old burial ground, he must be indifferent to its fate. Why else would it still be abandoned when someone so qualified to salvage it lived but a half mile away?

She couldn't get the idea out of her head, even as she tried to sleep. Moonlight threw shadows on the floor in the form of long branches waving outside her window. As a girl, Jenna pretended such shapes were the bony fingers of a wandering spirit, reaching out in a desperate bid for human contact.

At this moment, a very different—and very real—image haunted her mind. The memory of a figure crouched before a stone engraved with an exquisite ivy pattern. The sculpted vine had seemed almost life-like as it crept across the stone's surface, the detail as vivid as the colorful bouquet of wildflowers clutched in the man's hand.

It was assuming too much to think the grave's occupant might be the cause of the man's weary expression. She knew almost nothing about him, after all, not even his name. Just an occupation listed on a battered sign she'd found in the wilderness.

 



 

Jenna clicked the recorder on, holding the device close to her mouth. Her breath formed small clouds in the morning air as she noted the layout of the burial ground.

“Twenty-three possible gravesites located so far. I've unearthed several half-stones with broken pieces still lodged in the earth. These could go several inches deep, so I'll need a spade and a metal probe for further investigation.”

She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, strolling among the rows to examine the recovered monuments. There was something here that puzzled her, something she hadn't seen at any of the other locations she'd unearthed across her travels. It was the kind of angle Joyce would appreciate, especially if she could find out the reason behind it.

She continued speaking into the recorder. “Seven of these markers bear identical half-moon engravings. There's another image laid over the crescent—something like a capital letter V, though it's hard to tell, given the amount of dirt and damage.” It was a strange design, unlike any she had seen among the common grave symbols that dominated most cemeteries. She supposed it must be a regional thing. “There are few dates given for birth or death,” she continued, “and no obvious connection between the stones that bear the symbol.”

Could they be slaves? It might explain why they had been buried in the north section of the yard, a part sometimes reserved for outcasts and so-called “inferior” citizens. The area seemed too poor to have so many servants, though. Plus, no slave would have been given the honor of a decorative memorial, unless they were unusually close to their master's family.

“Whatever the reason, these stones have been set apart—isolated.”

All except one, she learned. The only marker with the cryptic half-moon engraving to appear elsewhere in the yard, its carving had escaped her notice the first time. Nestled beneath the shade of an old sycamore, it kept company with two stones that bore entirely different carvings.

Crouching beside it, she let her gaze roam across its faded limestone surface. “Looks like her name was Mariah. It's hard to be sure,” she said, scrapping her fingernail along the letters that were caked with rust. “Last name appears to be Moore.” Surprisingly, there were only a few cracks in the stone's surface, making her certain it could be cleaned at some point to reveal the owner's full identity.

“Doesn't look as if there's a date anywhere,” she continued, moving on to other details. “It's a flat marker, placed beside two stones that stand upright. These monuments are…” She paused in a moment of surprise, her fingers reaching for the stones as she murmured, “Wow,” in a voice too low to reach the recorder.

She couldn't explain it. The stone with the moon carving had somehow ended up next to a pair of graves that were much newer in appearance, marble monuments that seemed extravagant compared to the slate and limestone of the other graves.

“This is weird,” she admitted, speaking into the machine again. “Every other marker I've examined in this yard bears characteristics that point to pre-1870. Meaning the cemetery probably fell out of use sometime after that. So why are these two stones—which are clearly from the 1890s, maybe early 1900s—buried here instead of in town?”

And why were they next to the stone with the moon carving? This was the part that puzzled her most, as if there had to be some reason for these three monuments to be together, just as there was for the tombs that were isolated in the back part of the yard.

It was a question she left hanging as she examined the newer markers. “A. D. Widlow,” Jenna read aloud from the first one. “There's a carving of a sword and shield at the stone's base. Could mean he's a veteran,” she added, thinking his birth date would have made him a young man at the time of the Civil War. Goosebumps raised on her skin when she touched the military style insignia, still visible beneath the grime.

The stone beside it bore a simple carving of a violet blossom. “Another Widlow grave, probably a spouse. Maybe a sibling. First name is Nell. “

But who was this Mariah Moore, then? A relative, perhaps, or a close friend. It struck her as odd, the possibly married couple and a woman who died years before, judging from the appearance of her headstone.

No inscription graced any of the tombs, making her sigh with frustration. The more personal she could make this the better, for both her readers and the poor souls forgotten among the wilderness. No doubt, there would be a mountain of paper sorting ahead, once the names and dates were catalogued and the photographs taken from every possible good angle.

She checked her watch, frowning at the time that remained between now and the historical society's opening hour. There was little else she could do here, until she had reported the cemetery to the local authorities and secured the tools she needed for further recovery. Overhead, leaves rustled, drawing her gaze upwards, where a cloud of smoke rose along the skyline.

“Time to seek professional advice,” she told the recorder, switching it off as she moved in the direction of the masonry shop.

 

 

 

 

5

 

The chisel slipped, leaving a gash on the stone carver's left hand. He grimaced, biting back the urge to swear. Cursing was never the best form of expression, but somehow it seemed worse when one was in the process of fashioning a large, cross-shaped stone.

Blood trickled down his hand, a few drops spattering the work table. He grabbed the least dingy rag from his supplies and carried it to the sink in the corner of the room. A quick splash of water to clean the wound and he was already wrapping the rag in place. It formed a makeshift bandage that was flexible enough to let him continue working, which was all he really cared about at this moment.

Colleen would never approve. Somehow, this was the first thought to enter his mind anytime he did something slipshod or semi-reckless. He would think of her gentle tsking sound, her dark, slender eyebrows raised in feigned scolding.

He would remember her smooth hands tracing his skin, gently dabbing the injury with crushed herbs to ward off infection. That spicy scent was like a perfume to him, its faint aura never leaving Colleen's fingers from her time spent working in the garden or the shop downtown.

Her lips, warm and soft, would press against the skin just above the bandage, dark eyes rising to meet his with a look that ghosted right through him. Always the same, always a need between them that never seemed to quench despite their time together.

Just like that, an ache swelled in his chest. The pain expanded, traveling up his throat to stop just short of a groan. How this was still possible after nearly two years never failed to depress him, or make him wonder at the intensity that accompanied these moments.

“Grief is like any deep wound,” Pastor Brin had assured him, in one of those rare times he'd actually stirred himself to seek spiritual counsel. “It scabs over and eventually leaves a scar. That scar may not hurt as much as the wound did, but it's always there, nonetheless.”

Resting his forehead against the cool porcelain sink, he let his breath come in deep huffs. It didn't help that he was on his second day in a row without a decent meal or any real rest. Just cups of coffee and the occasional doze on the couch before he was back to the grindstone, literally.

There was never much reason for him to leave this place, beyond the necessity of groceries and supplies for his work. But lately, he had found himself avoiding the outside world even more, aware that festival preparations had consumed the town, the superstitions of old rising to the surface like scum floating on a pond.

Mischief Night, All Hallows Eve, Halloween. It didn't matter what they called it, since there was darker history behind the event than children playing make-believe. The songs and stories the festival dredged up and the ghoulish decorations they used to fill the square were a little too sinister for his tastes, given the grim legend behind the town's celebration. A tribute to the dead, everyone claimed, though it felt more like an offering to whatever spirits had supposedly plagued their ancestors.

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a face that might have belonged to a phantom, if such things did exist. Tired, heavy eyes and rumpled hair, his jaw shaded with stubble. He nudged the tap on, splashing water over his face in an effort to erase the grim expression that seemed almost permanent at times.

Another work cloth served to pat his face dry. He left it crumpled on the nearest counter, where a series of framed photographs were busy collecting dust. A picture of his parents taken during his school days; an image of Colleen digging in the earth behind their farmhouse. The two of them on the porch swing, her dark braids nestled against his shoulder as she flashed the camera a girlish smile. His own face seemed serious beside hers, not quite trusting the lens with his shuttered blue gaze.

A bitter reminder that even then he was far from tranquil, his mood a see-saw between the scales of gray and normal, his natural reserve causing feelings to build beneath the surface. Colleen had called it his “brooding artist mode”—a name that made it sound more appealing than it actually was, at least to him.

Back at the work table, he ran his fingers over the chiseled slab of marble. The shape of rose petals had begun to take form in the corners of the cross. There would be another blossom in the center and a basket weave pattern to fill the spaces between.