by Todd Shryock
Eventually, some slap-happy Jack from downtown would pitch a fastball proposal for condos or a burger joint on the spot, and beg the ghouls to move the cemetery, ranting about how urban renewal would be better than letting the dead take up valuable real estate. I shuddered at the thought of my emerald gem, the little greenery I saw each day, being gobbled up by the souls of the damned, the politicians.
The bus rumbled forward again, and as it made the turn into the shopping center lane, the one that would take me to my apartment back behind it, I saw the gate to the cemetery, the only entrance to the entire lot. A large sign clearly visible from the road stood solitary watch warding off intruders:
No Visitation After 6 P.M.
Yes, I thought. This was a bad area, and everyone knew that monsters came out at night. They were in gangs, carried guns and knives, and they robbed, raped and worse. They ruled the night. We knew the rules and abided by them. The foolish or unlucky would get picked off. Only the strong and smart survived around here. But when you didn't have the money to buy the protection of the suburbs and you had to pay your own way to the university, there were risks to be taken. The university police picket line was a good mile away, and this was the Sarengeti: You were either hunter or hunted.
I scrambled from the bus and hurriedly made my way to my apartment door, turning the several locks to gain entrance as the last light faded from the late summer sky. I tossed aside my books, meaning to get them later, and took the last beer out of the refrigerator. The hot August night sucked all of the breathable air out of the apartment, and no matter the number of windows I opened on my small second floor abode, the temperature was always unbearable. I turned on the ancient console TV, though at least it was color, and watched a fuzzy newscast about the day's unspeakable acts. Several of the victims had been taken to a hospital just down the road from the cemetery where they were pronounced dead.
The cemetery, I thought. I wonder what it would be like to lie out under the big oak trees and stare up at the night sky, trying to identify constellations that I had long since forgotten. Of course none of this was really possible, for the glow of the city lights obliterated any evidence of there even being a night sky. But, as the alcohol started to blur my thinking, thanks to a largely empty stomach, it was possible. Those iron posts would keep out even the lights of the city as it stood silent vigil. Sirens roared by outside, smattering the black air with flashes of red and noise, but were quickly gone, the driver probably more fearful of having to get out in this neighborhood than the potential for hitting something.
The last days of the summer quarter passed slowly. The heat putting everything into a perpetual slow motion. Machines didn't work right and everything perspired, even the roads, in an attempt to keep cool. The air was thick, like it was when I took a hot shower in my small cubicle of a bathroom, and was a struggle just to find enough oxygen between the water to go on.
The bus ride was little relief, for even though it was air conditioned, even the powerful diesel motor could not overpower the stifling waves of swelter, and was about as effective as the driver blowing his garlic breath on all of us. The hot box rumbled forward, and for a slight moment, I thought I felt a bit of cool air coming from the vent above me, though it did smell slightly of garlic. I looked up to see the driver looking in his mirror, his cherubic black face in a wide smile. He went back to driving and I went back to perspiring.
From time to time, I would see a small work crew laboring the grounds of the cemetery, cutting, trimming, repairing. They never appeared hot as they worked beneath the giant oaks, and their swings of the tools always came easy. They were a part of the peacefulness of the cemetery, or at least it seemed that way to me. I saw them nearly everyday now, and the days I didn't, I wondered where they were, or if perhaps they were working the back of the lot which sloped out of sight of the urban decay.
They were always working within the friendly confines of the iron fence. The small strip of grass between the bars of the fence and the road was always mowed short, but it seemed more of a permanent feature of the grass more than anyone's personal attention. As the summer's siege of heat continued, the grass stayed green, perhaps buoyed by waterings while I was attending class. I became fascinated with the crew and their work. How they could keep the plush grounds looking so good against such a mighty foe as August was an impressive feat. Of all the times I have passed by, I have never seen any of the crew's faces, not one. They always seemed to have their back to the road, content in their clipping of the grass and shrubs. Maybe they were shielding their faces from the scalding sun, or even trying to avoid looking at the vulgarity of urban blight that lurked between the bars of the fence.
I am not sure why I have this fascination with the graveyard. It's almost as if I know someone buried there, but I know I do not. A part of me yearns to walk on that plush grass, a reminder of the rural area from which I had once lived, where the smells of nature overwhelmed those of the little traffic. There, the heat of the sun was absorbed and deflected by the leaves of the tree-covered hills. Here, it was only magnified by the blacktop roads that ran outward from the city like some lava flow of an unholy volcano.
A part of me yearns to return to the cemetery, to the familiar ground, even though I have never stepped inside the gate, never. But it calls to me, luring me away from the eye-watering stench of human existence. The roads flow by, taking with them the hapless victims of society on their way home to eke out another night in the suburbs. But the greenery of the graveyard is a timeless wonder. It's soft serenity calls out to my sense of sanity. It is an island amongst stormy seas, sheltering sailors who run afoul of metropolitan gales.
The middle of August is slowly strangling us all. The small patches of grass between apartment buildings has turned the yellow-brown reminiscent of wheat ready for harvest. The parking lot shimmers under the undulating waves of heat, appearing as some illusion like an oasis appears to one lost in the desert, but there is no water there, only yellow stripes and stinging metal vehicles. I sit in my apartment, my back sweating and sticking to the heavily worn chair that survived the ire of someone's garage sale, only to be claimed for my living room furnishings. I sit in the chair unmoving. A glass of ice water is within easy reach, but the ice has long since mutated into water droplets on the side of the glass, and even they run down the container, looking for an escape from the heat.
I stare blankly at the TV set, it's empty screen a testament to only three channels and the pointless daytime programming. My breathing is labored, for the air is filled with moisture. August has created the world's biggest sauna, and there is no solace, except for those privileged few living deep in the suburbs. Even the old clock hanging on the wall is slowed by the unbearable humidity. It has been more than two hours, yet it's tiny hands have moved nary a minute. I have found a timeless existence, with little hope of escape, and no sense of future.
Before I realize it, I am moving for the door, making sure the large chain of keys are in my pocket so I can return to my apartment when the sun has left for the day, and the temperature has dropped to more reasonable levels. I find myself plodding down the white sidewalk, it's glow blinding to the eyes from the sun's reflections, heading toward the shopping center. The sweat pours from my brow, running down into my shirt. I see a pretty girl standing on the corner, waiting for the hot bus to come by. At first I am ashamed that I am so covered in sweat, but then the little voice in the back of my head reminds me that she wouldn't be interested in me anyway, and I continue on. She continues to stare away from me, even though it would be normal to look at a person approaching that close. Her blonde hair shines in the light, her smooth rounded face is a soft spot in the harsh heat. But I move on.
The traffic zips down the roads in front of me, destinations too important to care about the lives of the others around them, leaving only a stench of fumes and fuel as a clue to their passing. A city bus rumbles by, it's diesel fumes spewing out into the air and oil dripping from its inn
ards, as if it were marking its territory. I run to the median, dodging a few more metal vehicles as they race by, the shine from their steely hoods giving them the appearance of stars flashing in brilliance.
I reach the gate. The fumes disperse, and a waft of cool, clean air drifts from inside the cemetery. I walk through the gate and into the calmness and serenity of the greenery. The noisy traffic is far distant now, just a slight hum somewhere in my subconscious. A large oak rustles slightly in the breeze.
A breeze! I can feel the sweat evaporating from my neck and soaked shirt. It suddenly feels so cool, and the oppressive humidity has lifted. I find my way to a large oak, the impenetrable shade beneath it beckoning me to it. I lean my back against it, stretching out my tired legs before it. The ancient tree drains the fatigue from my body, soothing the heat-strained muscles and blocking the memories of my existence from my mind. A blue-jay chirps above me. It is the first time I have seen anything but a robin since I left the countryside. The robin is a city bird, while the blue-jay is a native of the country. The urban jungle is not its native land, and it, like many others, would prefer extinction over living in such a hell.
I awake some hours later, my body refreshed and my skin cleansed of the salty sweat that once covered it. The day has waned, and I realize I must make my way back to the relative safety of the apartment before I am caught out after dark, when the monsters come out. I rise and stretch, reaching my hand out to touch the ancient oak as I do so, as if to communicate to it my gratitude for its shelter. But I already know it understands.
The moment I step through the gate, I feel the return of the oppression, though it is not as strong, for the sun is heading for distant lands to the west, and even August must somewhat rest at night. The apartment somehow seems emptier than it was earlier, though I can't quite place why. It used to be a comforting home, but now it seems shallow, as if the soul had been stolen from it while I was away.
Many days pass as I spend my afternoons in the cemetery, a reprieve from the siege of summer. It is now the dead time between summer quarter and the start of fall quarter. Most of the students have not returned, and even those who attended summer classes have mostly left for a short break. But not I. There is always work to do so the next class can be paid for. I am close to finishing, though sometimes I wonder of what use it will all be for. I have not found that sense of purpose that I so desire.
It is Friday. The heat has finally stopped my clock, and I start to wonder if it will perhaps start running backwards. The water evaporates from my glass, abandoning me to thirst, before I can raise it to my dry lips. I think of all the people across the city who plan to go out that night. Then I think of my empty schedule. There is no money to be had for such frivolous things as good times, for it is needed for tuition, I remind myself. If I had money I would just buy some beer and drink until I forgot about tuition, this neighborhood and this hell-spawned heat.
The day is late, but I head to the cemetery anyway. The solid oak tree has been my silent companion for many days and gives me a sense of comfort. I feel that it understands my needs and wants, and protects me from the evils of the city. Its gnarled branches zig and zag above my head in a maze of leaves, always moving in the breeze to block out the latest attempt by the sun to get to me.
The bark soothes my skin as I lean back against it, and my troubles disappear into the wind, hopefully blown back over the fence and out into traffic. My eyes close and the darkness of sleep overtakes me.
*****
I clip steadily at the grass around the tombstone. I don't know how many times I've clipped the weedy grass that keeps trying to come up, but it is stubborn. When that is finished, I pull the dandelions out, trying to remove as many of the roots as possible. The graveyard is still a beautiful place. It seems like forever that I have been here. But it is peaceful work and there are no worries, no hassles from the demands of society, only the constant work to keep the cemetery the sparkling jewel amongst a sea of filth. I walk over to the old oak tree, patting my hand on its solid trunk, the whine of traffic of a different age somewhere behind me.
Later, I find myself working with some others to prune some hedges separating some rows of stone markers. I take out a particularly browned branch and wonder if the city isn't somehow starting to take over the place, and if the besieging urban jungle is finally breaking through. I try to think back to where I was before this, but it escapes me now, and I seem to feel as if it is of no importance.
I look up at one of the other workers and he looks back at me. His face is rotted and grey from several decades of being exposed to the elements. One eye is eaten away and the other stares deep into my heart. He looks at me and laughs, or at least what I think is laughter. His chest heaves and a sort of grunting sound emits in short bursts from his rotted lungs. He then picks up his clippers and returns to pruning.
The August sun has long since past. I no longer feel the heat. I no longer feel the strain. There is only that dead time in between classes now.
####
A Stone's Throw
"We've got trouble," gasped the young druid as he put his hands on his knees, sucking air.
"What are you talking about?" asked a young woman clothed in greens and browns.
The messenger puffed a few more times, then stood upright, realizing he was being addressed by his superior. "There's some sort of plague or dark magic."
Chrysala stared at the messenger, who couldn't be a day past fifteen. "What is your evidence?"
The boy took a deep breath to relax, then answered:"There are black swathes through the countryside. It's as if a ball of fire rolled through, burning everything it touched."
"Did you follow these black trails?"
The boy shook his head. "There was only one trail. I didn't follow it because I thought it might be from a dragon. Whatever it is, I figured it was best if I reported to you."
Chrysala smiled. Her young student was so new to his studies that anything above an angry mother bird would require reinforcements. "You did well in coming here." She watched as the boy smiled. He had run all the way from the south, which was a good five miles away. A more experienced druid would have simply used earth magic to transform himself into a bird and quickly covered the distance.
"Chrysala," came a voice from behind the druid. "Our scouts have reported the Druid Superior's caravan is less than a day's travel away. She will likely arrive before nightfall."
Chrysala frowned. Now was not the time to have some marauding beast tearing up the landscape she was charged with maintaining. The Druid Superior might not consider her for promotion if the damage was too severe.
"Shall I investigate these black trails?" asked Marm, another of Chrysala's underlings who had gathered on the hilltop to plan the Superior's reception.
Chrysala looked around. All the faces were young. Too young. She had not reached her thirtieth summer yet, but the others were even younger and did not have her ability of the earth magic. Whatever was burning up the countryside was more than they could deal with.
"No, I will handle it myself."
"But what of the Superior? She could be here any minute."
"The scouts said she will not arrive until nightfall. Continue the preparation as planned."
"That's only if she stays with the caravan. What if..."
Chrysala raised her hand to cut off any further objections. "The Superior will not leave the safety of the caravan." What she really thought was the Superior would not leave the comfort of the caravan. The Superior was a very powerful woman, both magically and politically, but she was enjoying the privileges of power after years in the bush. "Prepare the reception as planned. If I am not back before she arrives, explain that I was called away on urgent business and will return as quickly as possible."
"But that could hurt our evaluation," said, Alkra, a brown-haired girl from the eastern region.
"Don't you think an unknown beast rampaging about our charge would hurt our evaluation as wel
l? And don't you think the Druid Superior would look unfavorably on why we were here celebrating rather than investigating?" The comments came across harsher than she had meant, and the girl's eyes welled with tears that ran down her freckled face.
"You are correct."
Chrysala felt bad for the girl, but the children--the recruits--needed to learn to think objectively. Consider all possible scenarios before acting.
"Tark, isn't it?" Chrysala said to the young messenger. The boy eagerly nodded. "Where are these trails you spoke of?"
"Near the large oak grove along Finch Run," the boy answered.
Chrysala shuddered. Not only was there some strange beast about, but it was near what the Druids considered sacred ground. This was not going to be a good evaluation. "Do you think they would be visible from the air?"
"They are rather wide, so I guess so," said the boy, afraid to give a definite answer.
Chrysala nodded. "You have done well, Tark. Now stay here and help the others prepare for the arrival of the Druid Superior."
She stepped away from the dozen druid students and bent down to pick up a handful of earth in her left hand. She drew forth a dried leaf of the sacred mistletoe from her pocket, and concentrated on the form of an eagle.
The students watched as her form blurred and ebbed, shrinking towards the ground. When the magic stopped, a large eagle stood on the hillside. Before the students could even exclaim their wonderment, the bird flapped its large wings and launched itself into the air.
