by Joanne Dahme
We began to walk faster once we were in the woods, propelled by a mixture of excitement and shade.
“Do you have a mailing list of people who have attended your tours? Maybe we can alert them about the cemetery and invite them to our event.” Mr. Clark, my eighth-grade teacher, did that when he was fighting to save some land. People actually showed up, but were disappointed to find that the only show was Mr. Clark tied to that bulldozer.
Margaret looked down. “No, we’re pretty informal. Our tours are more word of mouth. People don’t really sign up.” She sounded almost embarrassed.
I was sure if Mr. Geyer told my mom that little tidbit, he would get an earful, but it was not Margaret’s fault if Mr. Geyer was not a businessman. I wanted to change the subject for Margaret, even though their little cabin was in view.
“Margaret, do you play soccer or volleyball? I plan to go out for the teams. Maybe we can do it together.”
Margaret gave me an odd smile. “I don’t get involved much at school, Courtney. I’m not really that popular.”
“So what?” I answered, surprised and angry for her. “You and I are friends now. And I don’t know anyone. We can learn the ropes together.”
She stopped as we reached the front door to inspect the row of cat food tins. Most were empty. “That’s real nice of you, Courtney, but I have a feeling that whatever happens to the cemetery will kind of decide where I’ll be in a few weeks.” She looked toward the thick thatch of trees as if searching for her cats. She sounded far away.
“What do you mean?” I asked, truly concerned, but she acted as if she did not hear me as she took a key from her shorts’ back pocket and opened the front door.
“Okay, we’ve got our work cut out for us. Let me grab us both a drink and we can start sorting photos on the dining room table.” Margaret was suddenly all business. I had seen that gleam in her eyes before, when we were in my basement, looking at the ivy.
Was Margaret trying to say that they might move away? I’ll bring this up later, I promised myself. Friends were allowed to ask those sorts of questions.
I pulled out a chair and slid it close to the dining room table, which was already covered by neat piles of black-and-white photographs. Before I reached for them, I took a quick glance around the house to see if anything had changed since my last visit. The way Margaret was talking, I almost expected to see the Geyers’ bags packed and lined up by the door, but there was no luggage announcing an imminent departure. Nothing had changed. The rooms were still mountain-cabin dark and the living room’s armchairs and couch were all still angled as they were yesterday.Why did I expect something different? We don’t normally move around our furniture.Why would Margaret and Mr. Geyer? But something about them made me feel that nothing should be taken for granted.
I could hear Margaret in the kitchen emptying the ice tray. I started to reach for one of the piles of photographs when I noticed the black-covered book on top of a pile of papers to my right. My stomach did a little flip as I slowly reached for it. My fingers tingled as I lifted it and placed it gently in front of me. I opened it, treating the cover and the yellowed papers between it as fragile as butterfly wings. It smelled like dust as I squinted at the scratchy writing that blackened the pages.The script seemed foreign at first with its alien characters, but if I concentrated I could begin to make out the words. I nearly cried out when I recognized Prudence’s name.
“Courtney, I’m sorry, but you can’t look at that.” I hadn’t heard Margaret enter from the kitchen. She smiled apologetically as she picked up the book and placed it back on the pile of papers. “Dad is really fussy about anyone handling Christian’s journal. I’m not even allowed to look at it unless Dad is in the room.”
“I’m sorry, Margaret. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I could almost see my mother looking over Margaret’s shoulder, mortified by my lack of manners.
“Courtney, it’s no big deal. Really. It’s my fault. I’m the one who’s been reading the journal pages to you.” Margaret sat down and slid the glass of ice water to me. The cubes floated like a slowly spinning nebula. “It’s just that Dad gets really nervous about its age.That’s not the original binding,” she noted, nodding toward the book. “But the pages are authentic and they’re obviously falling apart a little more every time the book is opened.”
“Can’t your dad take them to somebody who knows how to protect old books?” I asked, appalled at the idea of Christian’s life crumbling beneath Mr. Geyer’s fingers.
Margaret almost rolled her eyes. “Maybe when he is finished with the transcribing. In the meantime, he won’t let that journal out of this house.”
I understood. I probably would not want to let it go, either. We spread out the collection of tombstone photos. There must have been at least one hundred of them, and Margaret and I were to choose the ones with the most interesting art and names. These would make for a really depressing photo album, I thought, except for maybe on Halloween.
At least two hours had passed while we whittled our selection down to twenty photos to cover the two posters. We had tombstones with hourglasses, skulls, bats, angels, suns, and moons—but no ivy. We chose stones that belonged to little children—one stone had four different babies’ names crammed onto it, each one dying one year after another. Stones that belonged to mothers who died young or young men drowned at sea. We tried to pick the tombstones that would bring tears to your eyes as you imagined the lives of these people. It suddenly struck me that cemeteries were jam-packed with life.
“I never looked at cemeteries that way,” Margaret replied pensively. I had not realized that I said it aloud. She looked up, her green eyes clear, despite the images of death splayed beneath her hands. Her appreciative smile softened the determination that usually sharpened her features. “I think we’ve picked the best photos. Could you get the poster boards, Courtney? They’re in the living room, by the front door window.”
“Sure,” I replied. “We’re going to stop this development, Margaret,” I announced as I stood. This afternoon, I could be fighting for Margaret—fighting to keep her in Murmur.
I was forcing myself to be hopeful about our media event. It had to work. Besides, we had lots of real fascinating information to share, and with Mr. Geyer telling the story in that dramatic way of his, people would be hooked. I looked out the window as I grabbed the boards, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the many feral cats that the Geyers kept well fed, but what I saw running toward the line of trees was not a cat but a woman.
I was speechless as I watched her dart across the yard toward the woods. She may have been standing outside this very window until I approached.
The woman was not dressed for a steamy August day. She was wearing a long black skirt and blouse with long sleeves. A black cloak flapped erratically with her steps. Her long black hair was loose and fell below her shoulders. I thought of Christian’s journal and of the witch whose hair was black as a crow’s wing.
“Margaret,” I squeaked. I couldn’t seem to raise my voice.
“Courtney, what is it?” Margaret replied. Her voice sounded far away.
The woman seemed to hear me. She stopped, turned, and looked at me or at the house. She seemed unafraid. As a matter of fact, she raised her chin in the air just as Margaret does when she feels challenged. Even from my post at the window, I could see that the woman was young, with incredibly pale skin, like Margaret’s, and the same piercing green eyes. She was beautiful.
She nodded and was gone.
“Margaret!” I screamed. My volume was back. “Did you see her? She’s running into the woods!” I wasn’t thinking. I just grabbed the doorknob, flung open the front door, and sprinted to the end of the dirt path. I swear I saw the flap of a cape.
“Courtney!” Margaret yelled from the door.“Please don’t chase her. Please come back!” I did not realize it then.There was fear in Margaret’s voice, but I was unable stop myself.
It was much darker in the woods, I realized, a
s I felt the sting of the pebbles kicked up in my wake. My heart was beating so hard that I could have been running the hundred-yard dash. Strips of sunlight would momentarily blind me as I squinted down the length of the path to find her. I ignored the overgrown weeds that slapped against my legs and face.
“Courtney.” I heard Margaret’s cry far behind me as I stopped to get my breath and bearings. The path forked. Both dirt paths looked identical. I could not find any sign of the woman.
Then I heard a horse’s whinny toward the left.
“Wait!” I yelled as I charged the path. “Wait?” I berated myself. Like someone running away from me was going to stop because I yelled at them?
This path had a globe of light at its end, as if it led to a clearing or meadow. I reached it in seconds and staggered against the blinding sun. I used both hands to shield my eyes and I searched for her. I heard another whinny to my right, on the fringe of the meadow. I looked just in time to see her effortlessly mount a large black horse. She flicked its reins and galloped toward a path that was invisible to me. She rode toward the east—toward the cemetery and my house.
I WAS UNABLE TO FALL ASLEEP LAST NIGHT. I COULD NOT get the witch out of my mind. She had to be Christian Geyer’s witch. I was sure of it. Who or what else could she possibly be?
I felt bad I ran yesterday, without so much as a good-bye to Margaret, but after seeing the witch ride off on her black horse toward the cemetery I had to get home. It was almost as if she were leading me there. She had looked right at me and sort of cocked her head the way I had seen dog owners pose after they tossed a stick.
Margaret had looked upset when I passed their house. She was still standing in the doorway, where I had left her, when I ran off to pursue the witch. Her eyes were wide as she held one hand to her mouth. She did not say anything or try to stop me, but I swore I could still hear her voice cut through me as if she were yelling my name. I hit the drainage swale alongside the road without looking back.
Of course, when I burst through our front door, my mom was full of questions. She was still in that state of nervous excitement that possesses her when she conducts an interview. Her yellow interview tablet was still in her hand, as if I was to be her next subject. She was standing near the kitchen table where she and Mr. Geyer had talked over iced tea. I thought of the look on his face, when I nearly knocked him into the dirt as I passed him on the road during my mad charge home. He did not look surprised. He looked worried, but he did not say a word to me.
We were at the kitchen table now, both of us with a mug of coffee in our hands, despite the heat.The air conditioner humming mindlessly in the background made it feasible. My mother hated that I already loved the stuff because she was the one who let me have my first “tastes.”
Now she was going over the same twenty questions she had launched at me last night.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the ivy in the basement?” she started incredulously.
“I guess I forgot,” I had said meekly last night, but with real annoyance this morning. Funny what the sun will do for you.
She leaned a little closer to me, a lock of her blond hair sweeping across an eyebrow. She pursed her lips in doubt.
“Courtney, did you know that Margaret missed a lot of school last year because she was out sick?” Mom asked.
I felt a terrible twinge of guilt. Out sick? Margaret was pale but never looked sick to me. “Well, she sort of told me that she wasn’t very popular at school. Maybe it was because she missed so much time. . . .” I trailed off. I felt that I was betraying her confidence. I took another gulp of coffee to avoid the discussion.
Mom sighed and pulled her yellow tablet toward her. She glanced at the neat script that expertly filled every line. So unlike the crazed handwriting of Christian Geyer.
“They seem very nice, Courtney,” she started cautiously. “But there is something very strange about them. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” She paused to give me a chance to intervene, but I stared out the window, at the shiny bellies of the ivy leaves that flickered against the glass with the breeze.
“In some ways, he seems very old,” she continued. “His mannerisms, a slip of a phrase, even the way he dresses. He looks as if he’s stepped right out of the nineteen fifties, so I guess I expect him to be . . . much older than he appears.”
Suddenly I exploded. “Oh please, Mom! You’re so critical!” I did not know why she was making me feel angry. I had thought the same things about Mr. Geyer, but I was upset. I did not want her saying those things.
She was sitting back in her chair. “Courtney! What’s the matter with you? Ever since you came home last night you’ve barely said two words. Out with it!”
I tried to put on my calm face, the face that would say to her: Why are you screaming at me?
“Courtney,” she almost growled in response.
I wanted to tell her, but I could not. I saw the witch and was afraid because I did not know what it meant for me to see her. I did not dare go into the basement until I talked to Mr. Geyer and Margaret. I realized now that I needed to make them explain to me what was going on.
The microwave dinged and we both jumped. She had been defrosting some bagels.
“Courtney, is it the cemetery that is bothering you? Would you prefer that I don’t cover this story?” She reached across the table now to grab my hand, just to make sure that I was paying attention. “Your dad and I talked last night, after I showed him the ivy carvings in the basement. He thinks we’re both getting carried away with our cemetery crusade, especially if it starts making us believe in ghosts and old town legends.”
Had Dad seen me at my window last night, squinting at the cemetery as if I could see the witch dancing around Prudence’s grave? I did expect to see the witch doing something in the cemetery, maybe throwing some more of her potions on the tombstones or carving her own ivy in the bark of a tree. I stayed by the window most of the night watching for her.
“No!” I protested. “I want you to work on the cemetery article and Mr. Geyer’s interview. I want to work with the Geyers, too, to save . . .” To save what? my own thoughts interrupted me. To save Margaret from moving again? To save Christian and Prudence from the witch? To save the cemetery from development? Yes. All of those things.
She leaned closer to me, peering at my face. “Courtney, if all this excitement is scaring you in some way. . . .” She glanced at the basement door. “You know, when Mr. Geyer showed me that ivy down there, it gave me goose bumps. Not because I was scared, but because I sensed I was in the presence of something odd and myster ious,” she finished. “Your dad thought it was amazing, too, but I think he was more in awe of the craftsmanship. He kept running his fingers over the vines, wondering just how they were done.”
The idea of Dad’s hands touching the ivy made me pause. Would Christian, or the ivy, mind? Mom and Dad were both fine. Maybe the carvings were really just that—carvings done by a heartbroken Christian not knowing what else to do with his pain.
Talking to Mom did make me feel better. There were no answers, but I did not feel so alone.
“Mom, I want to save the cemetery. I’m not going to get weird about anything, really.” Would saying this make it come true?
She smiled, a smile full of conspiracy. “Are you sure that this cemetery event Mr. Geyer is planning isn’t bothering you?” When I nodded, she did the same. “Okay, but you must promise me that if your . . . or my . . . imagination gets us creeped out for some reason, you will tell me immediately. Agreed?”
“Yes, I promise,” I replied, pushing the witch from my memory for the moment. It would not last long.
After Mom went upstairs to change, she circled back to the kitchen and plopped her briefcase onto the kitchen counter.With great ceremony, she placed her printed copy and disk in a folder.
“Okay, Courtney,” she said briskly. “Let’s hope this article does what we want it to do—nudge people to care about the cemetery or, at the very least, make
them feel a little curious.”
I nodded agreeably. “Why can’t you e-mail the article to the editor?” I was not in a hurry to see Mom leave.
“The editor wants to review it with me. Computers and Internet systems aren’t the most reliable with local weekly newspapers. The paper comes out on Friday and noon today is the submission deadline.” She gave me a wistful smile. “I shouldn’t be long,” she promised, kissing me on the cheek. But in a moment she was back, holding a large brown envelope in her hand. “It’s from the Geyers. Addressed to you.”
It took every effort in my body to keep me from jumping up and snatching it. I thought of Margaret and the sympathy in her eyes as she placed Christian’s journal just beyond my reach.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll finish my breakfast first.”
She smiled as if she was glad that I was unruffled by the delivery, but as soon as I heard the front door close and the Jeep’s ignition turn, I jumped up and grabbed the envelope. I was careful about opening it, not wanting to tear anything. A little note on white loose-leaf paper was clipped to the top.
Courtney,
Hi. Hope you are not mad. Dad said I could share these pages from Christian’s journal with you. He said it would help explain.
Dad and I plan to go into town tomorrow to post some flyers about Saturday. If you want to help, meet us at the cemetery entrance at nine o’clock.
I will understand if you do not want to.
Margaret
“Of course I will be there,” I said out loud as I lay Margaret’s note carefully aside. There were only three excerpts from Christian’s journal, I noticed, a bit disappointed. I recognized Margaret’s neat script as I pictured her copying these pages painstakingly from Christian’s journal by candlelight. Candlelight? Maybe my imagination was getting the best of me.
