I paced the boneyard. The humidity stifled my breathing and mosquitos hung around my face and ears. What a joke! All this time, I had been so blind. Oh God. Did this mean I needed to walk away? I had to tell Carrie Jo. No, I better not do that. What a fool I’d been!
“I have to go, Nate. I have a grim to find. Talk to you later.” I did not give him a chance to object or to ask me anything else.
I hung up the phone and kicked a few rocks. This was not how I expected things to go. Not at all. Carrie Jo tried to warn me but I didn’t want to believe her. Maybe I was making too much of this. Maybe I misunderstood Nate completely. Had I over reacted?
God, please let that be true. I didn’t want to lose all this time I’d invested in the Brotherhood but if they were truly asking me to snitch on my friends, to tell secrets I’d be gone—and without regret.
After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself I got a handle of my fury and got down to business.
Nate had one thing right.
I had abilities. Even without the backing of the Brotherhood I could do this.
I would do this. I just needed a minute to sort this out.
I needed to think.
No. I needed Gran. I hoped she picked up the phone. She was the only one who would understand. She’d know what to do. Gran always saw the bigger picture. I continue to be blindsided by the people I trust.
And I was pretty sure I’d made a horrible mistake.
Chapter Nine—Ashland
Carrie Jo slept quietly beside me. She woke up once—just long enough to insist that I let her sleep alone. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me, Ashland. You worry too much, babe. I’m fine. I’m so exhausted I don’t think I could dream if I wanted to.”
“Fine,” I smiled down at her sleepy face and kissed her softly. “I don’t necessarily believe that, but I’ll get lost. Sleep, Carrie Jo.” I slid out of the bed and covered her up. She smiled once and closed her eyes. Her dark brown curls were scattered around the pillow, like a wild halo. I loved her curly hair. Her glistening green eyes. Her easy way of loving me and everyone she cared about. I was one lucky guy, and I knew it.
How was it that I felt as if I’d known her forever? Like we’d never been apart. Always friends. Always in love. Before Carrie Jo I never thought much about soul mates and the like but if such things existed, she was mine. I couldn’t imagine life without her. Yes, Carrie Jo was my soulmate. There was no other explanation for the connection and love I had for her.
Closing the creaking door as quietly as I could, I slipped out into the hallway and knew immediately what I would do. I had to go back and seek out Adam Crossley, the dead pioneer. Without Carrie Jo’s gift in operation—hers was certainly stronger than mine—I could operate without fear of drawing her in. Hopefully.
I didn’t see Rachel, not at first. She was on her cell phone walking around the front yard appearing frustrated by the way she stomped her feet and waved her free hand. I didn’t want to get involved in her personal life, but it was concerning. She still had connections to the Brotherhood, and I would never trust them. Not in a hundred years. Couldn’t say why exactly. It’s not like I’d been best friends with any of the previous Brotherhood members. I didn’t know anything truly nefarious but all the secrecy. I didn’t care for that too much. And they had too much of an interest in me and my wife. They wanted to study Carrie Jo and I, like we were two bugs in a jar. I would never go for that. I peeked out the window again. Rachel was sitting on a bench now, not paying attention to the house at all.
I took that as a sign. She mentioned she’d be setting up cameras out here earlier, so I decided to get a move on. I wouldn’t have long to be by myself and that’s exactly what I needed. Funny how that worked. CJ used to insist on dream walking solo and that always worried me. Now, I’m just as bad. I craved silence and solitude when working with ghosts. Many times, when were home at Seven Sisters, I would go outside at night, after everyone was asleep and walk the gardens. I didn’t always see ghosts out there, but on occasion they appeared. Most of the time, they needed someone to talk to so they could move on. Other spirits wouldn’t speak to me at all. They weren’t ready for living human intervention.
One night at Seven Sisters I encountered the ghosts of several black men. Sad, broken and understandably so. These men were longing for their families. It took some work, but I assured them that their families were not lost but waiting for them. Their loved ones were on the other side of the light door. That was the night I realized I had to do this. I had to work with the dead and help them find comfort. Those men, those haggard looking, hopeless dead slaves deserved peace. It was the least I could do, especially as an ancestor of the Beaumont family.
I made the trek to the boneyard. With some luck, I would encounter Adam Crossley again. The dead pioneer triggered activity, unhappy activity here. He had done the unthinkable, although to him, it had just been a case of survival.
I remember how Adam Crossley appeared when I first met him. A menacing expression on his face, his body tense, angry and protective of his family. He had not been open to talking then, until Carrie Jo stood with me. Her strength gave me strength. But I couldn’t rely on that forever. I needed to hone my abilities without putting my wife in harm’s way.
Yes, it was solitude that I needed.
I wanted to work my own mojo without anyone's help. Stand on my own two feet. It was important to me that I get a handle on this ability of mine. But what were the chances that I would encounter the pioneer again? There had to be countless untold bodies buried in the boneyard. There had to be. But I was going to give it a shot regardless. Adam presented himself at least once already. He might reappear if I spoke my intentions to him. I needed him to know that I wasn’t judging him. I needed his help. I needed to know what was happening here.
For Heather’s sake and anyone that stepped onto this property.
A feeling of excitement and apprehension crept over me. This was not a feeling I was used to. I was rarely apprehensive when approaching the dead but this place, this strange and confusing location did not put me at ease.
I could see the boneyard. I passed the tree line and was closing in on the clearing. Before crossing into the space, I stood still for a moment and settled my mind and spirit. I grounded myself with a few deep breaths remembering to focus not only with my natural eyes but with my spirit. It was difficult to describe to others how I was able to see the dead, but this was the best explanation I could come up with.
You had to look with both sets of eyes. How you activate that second set of eyes, how you tune in to your spiritual eyes? I had no idea. I was born like this. I was born to do this.
I stepped into the clearing, the thick grass made no sound as I stepped carefully and as respectfully as possible. I slowly surveyed my surroundings. It was completely quiet, and I felt a distinct sense of loneliness. Not fearfully so, but certainly alone. I heard no bird song. No leaves falling. I heard nothing at all. Not even insects which was very unusual for this time of year.
It was also a telling sign that I was not alone. Yeah, someone was watching me. I slowly tilted my head to get a good view of the woods around me. Then I took a good look back towards the trail that led from Marietta but there was no sign of Rachel. Where had she gone?
Good. She should be here soon enough so could not delay.
Calmly and in a somewhat quiet voice I spoke aloud. “I'm looking for the man I saw earlier. Adam Crossley. My name is Ashland. Are you still here? I saw what happened. I know what you did, Adam. I'm not here to condemn you, sir. I only want to help. Please, let me help you."
The wind did not stir, the trees did not move but the humidity sweltered up from the ground. How odd. Didn’t the humidity usually come from the atmosphere?
I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. How very strange.
I closed my eyes briefly reminding myself to breathe and when I opened them, I saw the dead man I’d come to see. Adam Crossley watched me. His eyes fi
xed on me, they burned into me, and there was no love or understanding there. It was as if he hated me. Hated me for knowing what I’d witnessed. How was I going to make him understand that I did not blame him for the evil that had been released here? Adam was about twenty feet away from me. He was wearing the same clothes as before. Nothing about him had changed but at least he did not present himself as some terrible gruesome corpse this time. He was a man, like me. The only difference between us was a few hundred years.
Go away! Leave us alone!
I had to keep trying. “Adam. My name is Ashland. I can help you, Adam. I know that you didn't mean any harm, but harm has been done. Let me help you make it right." I spoke with true sincerity and even extended my hand to him as a gesture of goodwill.
What happened next was completely unexpected and unwanted.
Like the soldier I'd seen earlier, Adam Crossley took off at full speed and ran toward me. Only he didn't blow through me. He stayed with me as I fell to the ground flat on my back. His body felt physical, like a living man. His dark eyes bore into mine, a low growl grumbled from his chest. Crossley’s hands were on mine, his legs on mine. I pushed against him, trying my best to push him away. Then his physical body vanished but the weight of the man lingered for a moment.
And then nothing.
Wait. No, that’s not right. Adam Crossley remained with me. I couldn’t see him, but I felt him. He hung on to my soul and I screamed at the shock of it.
You want to see? You want to know? I’ll show you…
*****
I poked at the fire to stoke it up a little higher. Fire kept away both man and beasts. Usually. The old rotten fabric I’d stolen from the burial ground burned quickly but the dry poles made excellent fuel. Excellent but they wouldn’t last all night. I’d have to get more. Then what would I do?
As I stirred the flames with a green branch I found earlier, I heard a man's voice, a low whisper barely discernable to my ears. I was so tired, plain worn out to the bone so it was no wonder I didn’t hear correctly. And it was completely possible that I was merely hearing things. As my grandpappy used to say, “Go to bed, son and quit sniffing for ghosts.” I never really knew what that meant except maybe quit looking for trouble. A tired mind is a man’s worst enemy. Yeah, that had to be it. I could sleep for a whole day, if given the chance. I rubbed at my eyes with the back of dirty hand, the smoke made my vision blurry for a few seconds.
But then I heard the voice again.
This was the worst scenario possible, Stuck out here alone out with no sign of civilization nearby. The kind of men we’d meet in these parts would most likely be criminals of one kind or another. Still squatting before the fire, I paused my prodding. I cocked my ear by turning my head to the left and then to the right, but I heard nothing else.
What in the world had I heard? A thought occurred to me. A dark and disturbing thought.
What if the voices I heard were Indians? Angry natives who saw what I’d done. I hadn’t meant any great disrespect, I only wanted to keep me and mine safe through the night. That couldn’t be it. There were no more natives along this stretch of Mississippi. How could it be possible since they’d all but died out? The man at the fort said the natives had cleared out long ago, the ones that survived the plague. Decades ago, as far as he knew. Maybe longer but then again, it was impossible to know.
Under normal circumstances, I would never desecrate anyone’s resting place but if it was between life and death, my family’s life and death, then I would do what I had to do.
My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a rock. A sharp one. It hurt, either from hunger or fear, I couldn’t be sure. Sitting as still as possible I whispered into the dark, “Hello?” I didn’t want to wake my family. Not until I could be sure that I wasn’t merely hearing things.
My surveillance offered up nothing, so I turned back to my task. I yawned, the warmth of the fire and the waiting pallet were tempting me. I again heard the voice. It happened again as if the whisperer watched and waited for me to turn away to become vulnerable. I didn’t like this at all.
For a moment or two I felt a splash of water hit my face. Could it be rain? I prayed against that possibility. I didn’t want to deal with the rain on top of everything else.
The only other place to find shelter would be inside or beneath the broken-down wagon. There was no way would I ask Jemima and Kitty to do that. Not if it rested in that musty graveyard. My stomach growled, the sparse meal had not satisfied me, but I would not complain.
This had been my idea.
My dream. We needed a new start. All of my mistakes, all my past sins had returned to me, and it was time to move. I had hidden nothing from my wife; she knew everything about me, yet I felt compelled to make this move. For all our sakes.
Jemima would forgive me, but I was quite certain I would never forgive myself. Never.
Subduing the man who intended to harvest my life. Seeing the life slip away in his eyes. Seeing that I lived, and he died. Killing a man, whether on purpose or by accident was something I would've never imagined these hands doing. Yes, I was capable of murder and now knew that that a murderous beast lived inside of me, and it could happen again. In fact, one kill had not been enough. I killed and killed again. All men. All deserving of death. Cruel men they were. But each time I killed the beast within me grew stronger. Jemima didn’t know what I had done but the law did. And they would catch up with this black man eventually. She did not know my horrible secrets and I never wanted her to find out.
What if Jemima knew how it made me feel? How the killing, although done in the name of self-protection, at least the first time, excited me. It made me feel things I’d never felt before. Strong, invincible, powerful. I hated himself for those feelings. That would count for something, surely. A kind of repentance.
And then again, I heard the whispering. The strange whispering. Unintelligible words spoken with an urgency that forced me to address it. Leaning over I tucked the cover up around my wife's and daughter’s shoulders. Jemima stirred briefly but did not waken, thankfully.
That's when I heard the first of the footsteps. Yes, one set, then another. There were two interlopers out here. I lifted a flaming stick and waved it in front of me hoping to get a clear view of the intruders as their feet pounded the ground. Oh yes. That sound I knew. The clear sounds of moccasin feet.
I knew that sound. I was familiar with the sounds of moccasins running on dry ground and in wet grass. It was a vastly different from the sound of boots or sandals. The footsteps raced back and forth horizontally just beyond the edge of their impromptu camp. Yes, those footsteps echoed from the burial ground. Yes! There must be someone else out here.
I broke the stick over my knee in a threatening manner. That dangerous angry beast within me threatened to rise as I stomped towards the sound. I’d just been in the burial ground moments ago and heard nothing. Saw no one. The darkness offered no clues as to who was watching me. Who was stalking me?
I could not be sure but in a threatening voice--not one so loud that it would wake my wife, I whispered fiercely. "Show yourself! I hear you, you bastard. I know you're there! I've got a gun!"
Yes, I did have a gun but for some reason it was not in my hands. My fury, my protective nature caused me to leave it behind. It was not like me to be vulnerable. Whoever ran in the darkness certainly did not mean him well. Again, I heard words, words of an unknown language that troubled me but this time the words were not distant. Rather the voices rang in my ears.
Yaz zan si otse! I see you Beast. Go from here!
I stepped across the boundary line and waved the fading flame before me. My hand flew to my ear to wave away the unwanted voice. What in the world was going on? How could the stranger get so close to me without being detected? How could he know my secret?
I did not understand that. A flurry of footsteps ran toward me again, the sound of many men, only this time they were coming from behind. As I spun about to finally meet the stran
gers I gasped as an invisible hand with sharp fingernails scratched my face. Swear words came unbidden to my mouth. I stabbed at the air around me with my stick but there was nothing and no one. Only the faint sounds of footsteps.
Yaz zan si otse, cof yaz!
More words this time. More words that were surely meant as a threat. A warning. I should leave but how could I? Running through the darkness with my young daughter and wife would be dangerous. My hand went to the place where I had been scratched. Sticky and wet, had to be blood. Yes, I could see that much from the dwindling flame.
Footsteps of Angels (Marietta Book 2) Page 8
