by Rio Youers
From Trey Moffatt’s Journal.
July 29, 1933.
Eight years old. An angel. So small in my arms, her pale skin flickering in the lamplight.
Your children—your children’s children—shall know my name.
Forever cursed.
I found her, as I knew I would, in the mountain. Abraham’s Faith. That’s what the town is calling it. A stupefying name for something so unchristian, so close to hell. But it’s a mask. A falsehood. Just like the smiles the townspeople wear. It helps them forget.
I don’t think the mountain—Abraham’s Faith—will let us forget so easily.
The “search” (if that’s what you can call it; everybody knows where Annette was taken) moved west, into Oak Creek, giving me the opportunity I had been waiting for. I walked to the mountain and removed the rocks from the opening. With my heart crashing and my soul in ruins, I ventured inside, following a narrow tunnel until it opened into a damp cavern (more like a charnel house), and there I searched among the small bodies until I found the one I sought.
So light in my arms. So fragile. No sign of harm on her body. I wondered if one of the townspeople had taken her there, possessed by Leander Bird’s evil spirit, as Dennis Shirley had been when he burned down the church. Or maybe Leander himself had swooped birdlike from the mountain, his wings huge and black, like the flames that had leapt from his burning body, and grasped Annette in his wicked claw and carried her to his underworld. I don’t know. I never will.
I could not leave her there, though, in the mountain. With my grief as vast as the cavern I stood in, I wept and whispered prayers and took her from that terrible place. I lay her small body aside while I covered the opening, and then gathered her in my arms and carried her down the mountain. I sensed Leander Bird behind me, spitting black fire and laughing, but I never turned around. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing the tears in my eyes.
I buried Annette in a beautiful spot beside Old Friend Pond, beneath the shade of a willow. I dug the grave (mostly) with my bare hands, using rocks and pieces of wood when they started to bleed. I went deep, too. As deep as my pain. I lay Annette in the grave and then covered her, and I sat there and prayed and watched the sun press a ragged red hand on the water.
Kip said, Most things can be solved with a little thought, Oliver. And he’s right about that. However, when you have the pieces in front of you, and you see how they are supposed to go together, it all gets much easier.
For years now—beginning with Danielle Dewberry in 1992—I have been settling Leander Bird’s appetite for children, but never satisfying it. I have revelled in the mountain’s silence, only to have it clamour again, demented and determined.
This past week it has been louder than ever.
Trey Moffatt died of prostate cancer in 1946, survived by his wife Jane (she died in ’54) and his daughter Lucy. The proudest day of Trey’s life—according to another journal entry—was when he walked his daughter down the aisle in the summer of ’45. Lucy Moffatt married Point Hollow banker William Callum, and they had two children: Jonah Trey, born in 1948, and Sarah Marie, born in ’51. I knew what I was looking for, and found it right away. A Herald article from June of 1958 with the headline: POINT HOLLOW BOY STILL MISSING, PARENTS DESPAIR. The boy was ten-year-old Jonah Callum, who’d set out early one morning for a spot of fishing on Gray Rock River, never to be seen again. A description of what he’d been wearing was printed: a white cotton T-shirt, blue jeans, and Converse All Stars.
My old friend, J.C.
I know exactly where Jonah is. Swallowed, not by a whale, but by a mountain.
I deduced the following from what I found in Kip’s box, and from genealogy records found on the Internet. Again, when you have the pieces in front of you, it’s easy to see how they all slide together:
The Callums—twisted with grief, I’m sure—decided to leave Point Hollow. They went to Utica, where Lucy and Will grew old and died, and Sarah blossomed into a beautiful young woman. She went to college at Syracuse, and met her future husband, an Accounting Major named Peter Bridge. They got married in 1972, and shortly thereafter left Utica for beautiful, small-town America: Point Hollow, NY. Why—of all places—did they choose Point Hollow? Maybe Sarah wanted to live in the town she was born in. Or maybe she was called back. A feeling . . . something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Children? Kip had rasped. Or child. A specific child?
Peter and Sarah Bridge welcomed their first child, Matthew, into the world on April 2, 1974.
Your children—your children’s children—shall know my name.
And the mountain booms.
3:44 P.M. I’m out of time. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Bobby’s funeral, but I had to. Seeing his ornate casket, and imagining his lifeless body inside, helped ease the crease in my mind—not completely, but enough for me to focus. There were very few mourners. His mother, of course, dressed in black. Sheriff Tansy was there, looking solemn (although I’m sure his mind was filled with NASCAR results and winning poker hands). And Matthew Bridge, too. He stood beside Bobby’s mother, eyes down and grey-faced. He has changed, of course, in the twenty-six years since I last saw him, but I recognized the little boy inside. In many ways, he hasn’t changed at all.
So cold.
My soul roared and Abraham’s Faith shuddered furiously. I sensed it crumbling, falling in on itself, tumbling into an abyss with the rest of the world being sucked in behind. Reverend Parfrey eulogized and I waited for him to finish. The few townspeople shuffled away, and I approached Matthew from behind. Dressed in grey, I wanted to appear as large as Abraham’s Faith. I wanted to fill his vision and make him feel small. I pulled my shoulders square and loomed over him. The mountain reached through me—black, smoking hands—but I didn’t touch him, and I didn’t say his name. I just loomed and waited for him to turn around, and when he did his eyes clouded with confusion, vague recognition. My shadow consumed him.
“Hello, Matthew,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
Matthew woke early on Friday—the day of Bobby’s funeral, and his last day in Point Hollow. No doubt Sheriff Tansy would be rejoicing as Matthew’s taillights disappeared into the sunset, but that didn’t bother Matthew at all. He would be at his parents’ home in Bay Ridge by the end of the day, listening to the sirens and trains, and to the skateboarders in Owl’s Head Park. New York City had its problems—what big city didn’t?—but it had never made him feel like an outcast.
He got out of bed, shuffled to the window, and pulled open the curtains. Most hotel rooms he’d stayed in offered a view of adjacent hotel rooms. Maybe the parking lot, if he was lucky, or the Interstate. But he couldn’t fault this view: the open field behind the hotel grounds, climbing to an evergreen forest, and beyond this, Rising Pine—the peak that gave the elementary school its name. A breathtaking view at any time, but this morning it was particularly special. Mist shimmered on the field, reflecting light. It made the conifers appear more green, so full of life he could almost see them breathing. Rising Pine—the second-highest peak surrounding Point Hollow, and considerably more picturesque than the first—caught a belt of sunlight on its eastern face, as if the trees growing there were lit from within, like fibre optics, pink light pouring from every branch, every needle.
Matthew stood at the window for a long time, absorbing the view. Today would be tough—burying Bobby, drying Mrs. Alexander’s tears. But at least he had this glorious mental snapshot. Something he could take with him.
In that one moment—in a world so beautiful—he felt that nothing could go wrong.
———
The sun pushed high, bringing weary heat and light that was too clean. Pollen drifted, and distant points shifted in the haze, as if viewed through an irregular lens. The handles and corner plates on Bobby’s casket glimmered. His mother cried alone.
Th
ere had been a brief service at the church. The smell of wood and prayer. Sunlight lancing through the windows. Matthew had been asked to say something, which surprised him, given the twenty-six year gulf in his relationship with Bobby. He had agreed, partly because he couldn’t say no to Mrs. Alexander, but mostly because he kept imagining that empty chair in Bobby’s hospital room. And that’s what friends do, right? Bobby had said the night before he died. They’re there for each other. So Matthew had written a few words, and he stepped up to the lectern and spoke into the microphone:
“I moved away from Point Hollow twenty-six years ago. That’s a long time. And I admit, there were things I left behind . . . people and memories.”
He looked at the few townspeople scattered among the pews. Difficult to call them mourners, as only one of them—Bobby’s mother—appeared to be mourning. Vern Abbott sat with his head down and his fingers steepled. Sheriff Tansy was using all his concentration to keep from inserting his finger into his nose. There were a few faces from the Rack, including Jesse, the bartender, with his full-lobe ear plugs and plaited soul patch. Matthew was unable to determine if his heavy metal T-shirt (“Lamb of God” emblazoned across the front) was inappropriate or not.
“Returning, after such a long absence,” Matthew continued, and then stopped. He noticed another individual sitting in the back row. Dark hair, greying at the temples. Styled (not like Matthew’s whirly bird nest). A clean, handsome face. He wore an immaculate suit (again, not like Matthew’s) and his chest and shoulders were broad, swelling as he breathed.
I know you, Matthew thought. His heart was already drumming (he’d never been good at speaking in front of people), but now a mist of sweat formed on his brow. He felt a cold feather run from between his shoulder blades to the base of his spine. An old memory tried to stir but he forced it away, trying to concentrate on the words he had written.
“Returning to Point Hollow, I . . .”
The man’s eyes were fixed on Matthew. Drilling into him.
“I was . . .” He gasped and the sound carried around the church. Sheriff Tansy rolled his eyes and this urged him on. “Delighted . . . I was delighted, and blessed, to meet Bobby again, and although the time I spent with him was too short, he taught me that some things, some memories, can never be buried. He taught me that friendship can’t be broken by time, or by distance. It lives forever. The world has changed so much in twenty-six years, but I came back to Point Hollow and found something unchanged, and all the more beautiful because of it. I’m not talking about the picture-perfect streets or the breathtaking scenery. I’m talking about true friendship.”
Matthew looked up from his hastily scrawled notes. His gaze flicked over the grey-faced townspeople, settled on Bobby’s casket, and with a shaky breath he delivered his closing lines: “I know I hadn’t seen Bobby in twenty-six years, but he was a true friend, and I’m going to miss him. Catch you later, alligator.”
Stepping down from the lectern, he looked again at the man in the back row. He felt the same cold feather run the same cold course, and looked quickly away, toward the altar, where a huge crucifix watched over the congregation. Christ’s eyes were pale, full of suffering, and fixed on Matthew, almost accusingly, much like the man in the back row. Deus Misereatur had been inscribed on a placard above Christ’s head. Some mental archive informed Matthew that this meant, May God have Mercy.
The service moved from New Hope Anglican Church to Hope Springs Cemetery. As one of the pallbearers, Matthew helped wheel Bobby’s casket to his grave and heave it onto the lowering device (there was an ominous creaking sound as the straps took the weight). He stood beside Bobby’s mother as she wept and the sun blazed. Reverend Parfrey recited from the Book of Common Prayer. Matthew watched the haze shift, the pollen drift.
“In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?”
Sheriff Tansy stood on the other side of Bobby’s casket, in full uniform, and although he wore sunglasses, Matthew felt the uncomfortable weight of his eyes. His expression suggested he hadn’t forgotten Matthew saying he’d leave after the funeral. Matthew hadn’t forgotten, either. He’d already checked out of the hotel, his bag was packed and loaded in the rental’s trunk. Mrs. Alexander had arranged a small gathering at her house. He planned to attend for thirty minutes or so, then say his goodbyes and hit the road. God willing, he’d be waving goodbye to Point Hollow by four P.M.
“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth . . .”
Matthew looked away from Sheriff Tansy. His gaze drifted around the cemetery before settling on the wreath on Bobby’s casket. Red and white flowers, painfully bright in a world blanched by heat. Mrs. Alexander sobbed and Matthew put his arm around her, supporting her, as he’d been doing all week. The sense of purpose had strengthened him, and in a way brought him closer to Bobby. He knew the big guy would be looking down, beaming with pride. It more than made up for Sheriff Tansy’s cool expression, and the town’s insipid energy.
“We humbly beseech thee, O Father, to raise us from the death of sin unto the life of righteousness; that, when we shall depart this life, we shall rest in him . . .”
Matthew was dressed in a too-large suit he’d bought at a consignment store in town. It was a coarse, heavy material that smelled of mothballs. The pants were itchy and his upper body was greased with sweat. Needless to say, he was somewhat relieved when Reverend Parfrey closed the service, and he wasn’t alone; he watched men loosen their ties and women remove their hats, fanning themselves with the brims as they shuffled away at a pace they deemed respectful, but was still a touch too swift. He couldn’t blame them. He wanted to be with them, throwing off his jacket and leaping into the nearest air-conditioned room. But he waited for Mrs. Alexander while she spoke with Reverend Parfrey.
A shadow fell over him. He thought a cloud had drifted from nowhere and covered the sun. He turned, looking up, and stared directly into the eyes of the man who had been sitting in the back row of the church. Despite the heat, Matthew felt the coldness again.
So cold
Not a feather this time, but something deep, like water inside . . .
“Hello, Matthew.”
Like water inside a cave, Matthew thought. He shivered and took a step back, and the man pressed forward, as if he couldn’t get close enough. He held out his hand and Matthew looked at it for a moment, his own hand moving forward slowly. A hazy memory scratched at the back of his mind, like something trapped behind a door: water—so cold—flowing around his knees; the sun on his bare back; his small hand reaching out and grasping . . .
The man grabbed Matthew’s hand, shaking firmly, pulling him closer.
“I know you,” Matthew said vaguely. He twisted his hand free and took another step back, looking carefully at the man. The feeling inside him was familiar; he’d felt it in his dreams . . . the ones from which he woke up screaming.
“Oliver,” the man said. His eyes flashed. He inhaled and doubled in size. “Oliver Wray.”
Matthew nodded. He felt the memories trying to emerge from that buried place in his mind. Shine a light, he thought, and tried, but Oliver’s shadow consumed him, making everything dark.
“Do you remember me?” Oliver asked.
Sweat trickled into Matthew’s eyes. He blinked and wiped them. The heavy jacket suffocated him.
“Do you remember anything?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Matthew said. That cold feeling inside him spread. A waterfall now. Falling forever. “I’ve been gone a long time, I’ve forgotten—”
But there was something. It pressed against the shadowy places in his mind. A dull, icy pressure.
So cold.
“We should talk,” Oliver said. “Catch up.”
Matthew didn’t know what to sa
y. He tried to place Oliver—see how, or if, he was connected to his forgotten past. But the heat pressed against him like a slab, making thinking difficult. He did remember that Bobby didn’t like Oliver, so whether he was linked to repressed memories or not, Matthew wasn’t prepared to be buddy-buddy while his friend lay in a casket less than ten feet away.
“I have to go home,” he said.
“When do you leave?” There was a hint of urgency in Oliver’s voice.
Not soon enough, Matthew thought, and then Sheriff Tansy muscled between them, forcing Matthew back two or three steps. He leered and leaned close.
“Yes, Matthew,” he said. “When do you leave?”
“Very soon,” Matthew said, trying to pull his shoulders square. “I’ll extend my respects at Mrs. Alexander’s house, and be gone by four o’clock.” He lifted his glasses, knuckled sweat from his eye, and looked at Sheriff Tansy. “Just a few more hours, Sheriff, and I’ll be out of your hair for good.”
Sheriff Tansy smirked. “Music to my ears.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He nodded at both men, and stepped with relief from their shadows to join Mrs. Alexander, to whom Reverend Parfrey extolled God’s undying love. She nodded, drawing comfort from his words, her tear-shot eyes flicking all too often to the casket poised above the grave. Then Matthew took her hand and led her away. They meandered between clusters of stone angels and markers, and Matthew turned back only once. His mind had warmed with the memory of the whitetail in the clearing, and he was suddenly sure he would see one of the deer—a fawn, perhaps—beside Bobby’s casket. A whimsical thought, he soon realized; nothing there but the flowers, the trees beyond the cemetery, and Abraham’s Faith, poised and scarred, marking the horizon like grief.
———
The gathering was mainly attended by Mrs. Alexander’s elderly friends, who brought the general complaints of age along with their condolences. Vern Abbott showed up, as did Bobby’s old boss from the mill, but it was—much to Matthew’s disappointment—a poor showing. He wasn’t surprised, given what Bobby had told him, but it was nonetheless disheartening to see so few people. He’d always thought that small towns were supposed to be close-knit, and most of them probably were, but Point Hollow was different. In so many ways.
