Footsteps of Angels (Marietta Book 2)

by M. L. Bullock

  Activity like I have never seen.

  A young girl followed the lantern man. I couldn’t see her face, only a worn cotton dress and an oversized bonnet. They disappeared back into the foliage while two Native American women emerged with baskets full of food in their hands. They saw me too but immediately vanished before my eyes. They were startled, clearly unhappy that I could see them, however I had no chance to speak with them. Would they even understand me? I wasn’t sure they would understand my language.

  Rachel’s camera snapped photo after photo. It was a bit distracting, so I walked the other way, more to the west while she went east. Carrie Jo hung out in the middle and gave me some space. I needed it so I could focus on my ghostly surroundings. I needed answers for what was going on here and who better to ask then the ghosts themselves? They’d seen everything for so long.

  They were witnesses to the good and the evil here at Marietta.

  A soldier dressed in Confederate garb stared at me, apparently surprised that I saw him. He stepped toward me and despite wanting to run as fast as I could in the other direction, I held my ground. Yeah, my fight or flight sense warred against my intention. The soldier’s worn boots, torn pants and ragged jacket were proof that he’d been in battle. Or something. Was he buried here too, hidden away in an unmarked grave?

  “Hello. My name is Ashland. What’s your name?”

  He opened his mouth but instead of answering me only an empty scream emerged. His eyes turned black, and his mouth opened wide. Too wide! It became a yawning cave of anger and a scream blasted from his dead lungs as he launched himself at me. Yeah, I could hear it now. The soldier blew through me as quickly as any stormy wind. As he surged through my body the end of his life played in mind.

  Private Hollis Murphy.

  Drowned in his fox hole.

  Shot and bleeding, left behind by his own brothers in arms. He couldn’t even be sure who shot him. A Yankee invader or one of his own? The battle had not been a good one. Mass confusion with blasts firing all around them until one struck him like an angry hornet.

  In the forehead but it did not kill him immediately.

  No. He drowned in muddy water, abandoned, and lost.

  When I could finally manage to speak, I addressed the angry spirit. Why he had presented himself in such a hostile while I couldn’t say but I finally managed to speak. “You are dead, Private Murphy. I’m sorry about what happened to you. It is time to move on, soldier. Your time here has ended.”

  The dead soldier didn’t reappear, and I felt him nowhere around me.

  Like many lost souls, all he needed was to relay his story to someone who would listen. After the restless dead shared what they needed to share, they usually left and presumably found their way to wherever it is they needed to go. Why it was like this? Why were some dead restless? Why didn’t they all move into the afterlife smoothly? I couldn’t say. Neither did I have any good theories on the subject. Not everyone that dies needs counseling. Not everyone that passes needs to tell their story, but I had met many that did.

  Private Murphy had been one of those.

  Carrie Jo was right beside me. We were both kneeling on the damp ground. I was trying to catch my breath, but CJ kept still and silent, obviously sensing that we were not alone.

  Over the past few years, I mastered the art of opening myself up to the dead. Not to use my body. Hell, no to that. But I did open myself to hearing and seeing and experiencing. It’s strange, how we protect ourselves without thinking about it. Or at least I had before. Not listening, ignoring the sounds of crying, the whispers. Wrapping myself mentally with a shroud of impenetrable steel that nothing could penetrate unless the ghost caught me off guard.

  Now I did the opposite. I still visualized the protection only now I pictured myself lowering those shields.

  Here I am, in a graveyard, lowering my shields. Welcoming the dead to come to me.

  And they saw me. They were all around me. Beneath me. What have I gotten myself into?

  This was simply too much—there were too many of them.

  As if she read my mind, my wife was there, her hand in mine. Her soft voice in my ear. “I’m right here, Ashland. Let’s do this one together.”

  How she got to me so quickly, how she knew I needed her I didn’t know but I was so glad to feel her beside me. She stepped close and the dead shifted in appearance. They were no longer angry, horrible things but people. People like me. Alive and walking normally. And then as if someone switched off a light switch, they didn’t appear to notice us at all.

  Ah, so that’s the difference between Carrie Jo and me. She sees the dead in her own way but like this and the dead don’t see her. They aren’t angry at her. They did not consider her an intruder into their realm. Not usually anyway. Things got a bit screwed up when she attempted to interact with a dead young woman at Seven Sisters once but that was all in the past.

  Here we were, the two of us. Rachel was gone, probably left behind in the present while Carrie Jo and I walked into the past.

  Yes, we were dream walking! That’s why things had changed. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief as my wife took over the task of navigating the spirit world.

  This indeed was a long time ago, before there was even a house or any structure at all. I saw the pioneer man again, the one in the black hat, the white shirt, and suspenders. But where was the little girl? I saw a wagon, and a lantern with a dull yellow light hung from the back. It was dark. This darkness was unlike any other I ever experienced. I could see no other lights, nothing to push back the darkness on the landscape. There were hardly any trees, no electrical lights, or residences.

  Just a man, his daughter and wife in the wilderness.

  He was working on a busted wagon wheel, softly swearing under his breath while his wife tried to comfort the whiny child. The image was beginning to fade but I wanted to see more.

  No, I had to see more.

  Carrie Jo must have been reading my mind. “Let me help you, Ashland. May I?”

  “Yes, Carrie Jo. Of course. I’ll follow your lead.”

  She squeezed my fingers and took a step ahead of me but did not let me go. We were fully stepping into the dream world and there was no turning back.

  No turning back at all.

  Chapter Six—Adam Crossley

  “Adam, we can’t stay here. You heard the man at the fort. This place is evil; we shouldn’t be here at all. You never listen to me, husband and look at what’s happened! What are we going to do?”

  The man spat on the ground which served to silence his fearful wife. “Not talk of evil, Jemima. I will not have that kind of talk around my daughter. We will stay here for the night and that’s that. We can’t abandon the wagon. What do you suggest? That we walk on foot? Back to the fort?”

  The woman hurried to him and spoke in a low whisper. “No! But it’s not safe here. Look around us. There is no protection, nothing but bones, Adam. The man at the fort warned us not to come this way! This place is…” She bit her lip but Adam knew what she wanted to say. Evil. Everything was evil in Jemima’s world. There was a devil around every corner. There was no more terrified woman in this wild country. Of that, he was sure.

  Adam rose from off the ground, the knees of his pants were wet with mud. “I know what the man said, Jemima but here we are with a busted wheel. Why do you have to be so damn superstitious?” He threw down his hammer as he towered over her. He would never hurt her but often used intimidation tactics to keep her in line. Jemima was one to believe that crows were a sign of death and that spilled salt meant certain catastrophe. The truth was Adam did not intend to come this way. Not at first but after reviewing the worn map, and according to his figuring, passing through this desolate place would cut half a day off their travels.

  “Don’t you swear at me, Adam Crossley! I will not be spoken to like that!” Jemima sniffed and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. Her bottom lip trembled and her voice broke. He suddenly felt softness
for her. Despite her superstitious ways and all her fears, he loved his wife. Loved her so much that he wanted to build her a better life. A life away from all those that would hate them because they were black. A life that would let them love and live safely.

  He touched her arm briefly to comfort her. He wasn’t one for public displays of affection. Adam didn’t know how to soothe her worries. No one had ever soothed his. He hadn’t grown up in a loving home. His mother had no warmth in her, none for Adam. Only for his sister. After Audrey died, she’d left him. Moved away and left him in the shack by himself. Until he married Jemima, he had nary a bit of softness in his life. He liked her softness but not the hysteria.

  “Go back to the wagon and stay with Kitty. I’ll have to find some way to repair this wheel in the morning when the light is better. I need a chuck, there’s no getting around it. I may have to walk back to the fort.” He sighed at the thought of walking all that way. No way could his family walk that far in any reasonable amount of time, and he didn’t dare leave their wagon full of belongings unattended. Adam decided not to mention that tonight though. That would only add fuel to the proverbial fire.

  “Sleeping in a graveyard? Have you gone mad, husband?” Her eyes were wide as she took in the stick arrangements. Trace scents of decomposition hit him occasionally. He knew this place wasn’t for the living but he could not tell her that.

  “Stop it, Jemima. We have no choice in the matter.”

  Strips of fabric fluttered in the late evening breeze. Pieces of cloaks, and tunics and furs. Strands of leather and feathers. No doubt this land had long ago been claimed by the natives. He hadn’t meant to linger here; he hadn’t meant it at all. Still, he shivered as he argued with her.

  I refuse to allow fear to prevent me from continuing this journey.

  Adam sighed as he ignored his own fear and trepidation. His wife’s fear was large enough for the both of them. Putting hers down made him feel braver.

  “They are dead. Dead Indians, Jemima. What do you think they’ll do to you?”

  She set her mouth, her already thin lips disappearing. Her dark skin and luminous brown eyes shone despite the lack of light. “I am not sleeping in a graveyard, Adam Crossley. No matter what you say. Neither will our daughter. We need to leave this place.”

  “Where will we go Jemima? The town is at least eight miles back.” She didn’t answer his question but began to cry.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Jemima. I will make the hike back as soon as the sun comes up. I’ll hire a wagon to carry me back. With any luck we will be back on the road before noon. Please, wife. It’s just for the night. Just for one night. If it makes you any happier, we can camp away from the wagon. Over there, in the clearing.”

  Jemima’s shoulders slumped. “We were supposed to be in Harmony Springs tonight. My cousin will be worried over us.” She pouted as she crossed her arms and poked at the grass with the toe of her boot. A sure sign that she agreed with her husband’s suggestions. She didn’t like it, but it made sense to her. She wouldn’t argue with him anymore. He quietly breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Yes, and when we see Oda tomorrow, she will be glad to see us. I know this is not what we planned. None of it, Jemima but this is our best option. Please, dear. Don’t be fearful. You and Kitty find sticks for a fire. We will set up camp in that direction.” Despite his uncomfortableness he hugged her, and she appeared to be appreciative of the comfort.

  Adam kissed her forehead. “Listen closely, you can hear the ocean. I imagine it is just beyond that row of trees there.” He was doing his best to remain calm and supportive, but he was worried as well. Not of the dead so much but of the living. Biloxi wasn’t really a town, more like a collection of scattered houses and a sparse main street. A gambling town. Nothing more than a stopover between New Orleans and Mobile. At least they had food and drink but sleeping outdoors with no defense? That was risky.

  It would be better to stay with the wagon--in the wagon--but Jemima would not agree to that. He knew his wife well enough to know that. Kitty and Jemima set about gathering sticks before it got too dark. They would sleep just beyond the burial ground, off the property completely.

  To be honest, Adam hadn’t intended to lead the wagon through this strange property. But he’d closed his weary eyes for a minute as he often did on long days in the wagon. The horses knew to move forward, to keep walking. They were good horses. Reliable animals.

  Until tonight.

  Brutus and Napoleon stomped and snorted; unhappy that they were presumably left behind. Yes, they were probably right. He shouldn’t leave them here. Adam would remove their harnesses and stake them near the camp.

  “Hush now, Napoleon. We aren’t going to leave you behind.” He patted the dappled gray and began unhooking the harness. As he struggled with the worn leather, he got an uneasy feeling as if he were being watched, and closely at that. Adam paused and glanced around him from beneath the lowered brim of his hat. He saw no one and there was nowhere to hide.

  Except that row of trees, a small swatch of forest between the burial ground and the ocean. Just beyond the clearing where they will be spending the night. About a hundred feet away, there was another tree line, but it was a cluster of young trees. Pines mostly.

  How could anyone be watching them? They hadn’t seen anyone on the way and there were no houses or shelters out in the wilderness. According to the man at the fort, there were no more natives living in this area. They all fled to the north, away from the whites who’d brought them smallpox.

  As he worked with his horses, he occasionally peered into the growing darkness, but he saw no one. He continued his work and led the horses out of the sacred ground solemnly. Yes, this had been a terrible mistake, shutting his eyes, not paying attention to the horses’ track. And then to make things worse he had a busted wheel. How it busted, he couldn’t say. He didn’t see a thing, not a rock or any kind of obstruction that might have caused a break. The wagon had little wear; the wheels were new. It was unexplainable.

  As he led the horses away, he glanced down again. No, there was nothing at all. Not even a bump in the road.

  Well, you probably struck something a way back. It just took a while to break the wheel. Yeah, that had to be it.

  Goodness! He was getting as jumpy as Jemima.

  His wife and daughter had gathered a conservative stick pile, but they’d need more before bed. Let them eat a meal and get settled first. Once they slept, he would scuttle around for more fuel. Adam planned on keeping his eyes open for as long as possible.

  It didn’t take long to get the fire going. Jemima and Kitty set about cooking a simple meal, the smell of bacon had his stomach rumbling. That and some fry bread and he’d sleep like a baby.

  Adam’s own mother had been Cherokee, his father black. He had a great respect for the native races here in America, but he did not know much about them. Only a few songs, a few prayers. Nothing much. Why should he feel so on edge?

  About the time the pots had been cleaned and the pallets made, the stars were twinkling above them, he heard a flute. Only four or five notes of a wooden flute. His grandfather used to play a similar instrument. It was the only music he knew. The sound so soft and gentle that he wondered if he heard it.

  Until he saw his wife’s face. No, when he witnessed Jemima’s fearful expression, he knew he had indeed heard music.

  “What was that, Daddy?” Kitty had already piled up on her blanket, her eyes closed but she wasn’t quite asleep yet. She whimpered to her father, but Jemima quickly settled her fears.

  “It’s alright, Kitty. The woods make strange sounds. Go to sleep now. Your Papa is watching over us. Lay down and count the stars, darling. Count until you’re sleepy.” Jemima tucked the smaller quilt up around Kitty’s neck and patted her softly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her husband reached under his pallet and pulled out his rifle. Kitty snuggled down as Jemima threw the last of the wood on the fire. It wasn�
�t freezing tonight but there was a chill in the air. Yes, he would have to get more wood to protect them from the cold and any wild animals. The couple did not speak but Jemima refused to sleep without him.

  For hours he sat next to his wife, until finally she settled down with her head in his lap. His rifle rested beside him. Kitty snored softly on her pallet. He would have to get up in a minute and gather that wood. Maybe then he would be able to sleep too.

  Adam yawned despite his need to protect his family. Well, he was only a man after all. A mortal man who needed to eat, sleep, and do other things. How long had it been since they’d made love? He missed those moments, which had become too infrequent in recent months.

  Adam rubbed his eyes and for a moment thought he caught movement. No, he was sleepy. That’s all. Staring into the darkness and imagining shadows moving would only serve to make tomorrow an incredibly tiring day. He needed his rest. At least a few hours.

  The flute music, that had been the power of his own imagination.

  What had that been? Reeds? They were close to the ocean. Come to think of it, reeds didn’t grow by the ocean, did they? Who knows, but he had seen or heard nothing disturbing since those few notes.

  “Jem, lay on the blanket. I have to get more wood.” He whispered softly and she did as he asked without arguing. Whippoorwills began to sing, not far away either. His mother never liked the sound of the whippoorwill. Mother believed the birds brought bad luck to women, especially unmarried women. He never understood her native ways and she’d not been eager to explain them to him. He wished now he’d insisted on learning more about his mother’s culture.

  Shivering against the sudden chill, he tucked his jacket up around his neck. He left the rifle on the blanket and walked toward the far tree line. He wouldn’t go far, just far enough to get what they needed. Strange that this clearing had been so neatly preserved, as if an invisible force that claimed it. That kept it.