Creepers

by Joanne Dahme

  Margaret’s emerald eyes seemed to eclipse her face. She looked at Mr. Geyer. Her lips moved as if to speak, but the words seemed lost to her. Mr. Geyer gently tilted her face toward his own, scrutinizing it as if she were a stranger.

  “I never guessed that Prudence was also the witch’s daughter,” he said in a whisper. He shook his head.

  Dad and Mom had moved to the toe of the excavation. Mom had placed one hand protectively against her belly, which was a nervous habit I recognized. Usually I like to joke with her about her fear of “spilling her guts,” but not today. Dad pulled his T-shirt up to wipe his face, a gesture that would usually inspire fury in Mom, but she only had eyes for the coffin in the ground. Dad dropped the crowbar and grabbed for Mom’s hand.

  “Does this mean that Prudence was never buried in the cemetery at all?” Mom asked, her face pinched with concern.

  Mr. Geyer shook his head and paused, as if mentally putting the pieces together. “No. Prudence was indeed buried in the cemetery.We found records to confirm it.That is why we’ve been searching. . . .” He trailed off and turned to look at Margaret. “Christian dug her up and buried her here, at the witch’s beckoning. The witch seemed to fear that the townspeople might desecrate her grave.”

  I thought of the scene I had witnessed from my window only a few hours ago. Prudence skipped about the yard, while the witch lurked in the trees behind her. The witch must have been reaching out to Prudence, not menacing her. The mother was begging her daughter to come to her, like a naughty kid.

  I looked back at Margaret. “You look like Prudence,” I mumbled. Margaret cocked her head at me and smiled as if to say, Hmmmm?

  And then Mr. Geyer stepped between us to address Mom and Dad. “If you don’t mind, Jen and Tom, when the time is appropriate, I would like to bury Prudence in the woods by her father.”

  “Do you know where he is buried?” my dad asked. “We’d be glad to assist with reuniting your family.” Mom glanced up to give him a quick smile.

  As Mr. Geyer hesitated, I heard my own voice pipe in.

  “I know where Christian is buried,” I announced slowly, because the revelation had only just dawned. All faces turned to me. “I saw the witch in the woods, placing ivy around a plot of ground. I can show you where this is.” I noticed the now shocked looks from Mom and Dad.

  “What do you mean you saw the witch, Courtney?” Dad asked, horrified.

  “Courtney, you are a blessing,” Mr. Geyer said warmly, as if he did not hear Dad. “I would be much obliged if you could lead us to this plot in the morning. Right now, we’ve all got to get some rest.”

  LATER THAT MORNING WE WERE UP AT DAWN, UNABLE to sleep after we had found Prudence’s grave. We were at our kitchen table when we saw Mr. Geyer and Margaret standing in our backyard.Wisps of fog clung like cobwebs to the tree branches and lay across the grass in clumps of dew. Margaret had her hair in braids and was wearing her white tennis sneakers. I worried how dirty they would get as we tromped through the woods to Christian’s grave. She must have seen us staring dumbly through the kitchen window because she gave me a shy little wave.

  Mr. Geyer did a sort of funny bow. He looked pleased as he stood there in one of his many checkered-shirts-and-baggy-shorts ensembles. His knees looked knobby from the distance. For a moment I thought I might cry. He suddenly looked so vulnerable.

  Dad broke the silence. “Is this legal what we’re doing?” he asked, leaning over his black cup of coffee. His face looked scrubbed, absent of the mixture of dirt and sweat that it bore last night. “I mean, we’re digging up a body and burying it in the woods. Are we supposed to call the police or something?”

  Before I could respond, Mom made some impatient noise. “Of course it’s legal.This is what they want.” Her lips pursed in trying to name them. “Prudence isn’t supposed to be in our basement anyway.” She shrugged.

  “Well, she’s not supposed to be in the woods either,” Dad replied. He glanced at Mr. Geyer and Margaret. “I feel like last night was a dream,” he said, his voice tinged with worry. “I mean,” he almost stammered, “are these people for real?”

  “Of course they’re for real!” I exploded, suddenly feeling a bit panicky, but for a moment I saw them through Dad’s eyes. A strange, nerdy guy and his beautiful, enchanting daughter, enveloped in the soft gray mist. They had moved to the fringe of the woods and lost their color to the fog. Their forms blurred into the tree mist. Mr. Geyer had his arm protectively around Margaret’s slight shoulders as they peered into the shadows that still clung to the trees. “They may be a little different,” I said fiercely, “but they’re my friends.”

  “Courtney’s right,Tom.” Mom’s eyes looked wet as she brushed her hair from her forehead. “They’re certainly not your typical neighbors, but I can sense the goodness in them.” She pushed her mug of coffee to the center of the table. “They’re fulfilling a family pledge made centuries ago. I have to admire them.” Her voice was filled with emotion.

  Dad looked ashamed. He stood up. “Okay, can I help it if I’m not as sensitive as you two? I’m not supposed to be, right? I’m a guy.” He shrugged and waited for our smiles. Mom drummed her fingers against the table.

  “All right. I know when I’m beaten.” He looked toward the Geyers and motioned that we would be just a minute. “Let’s go, you two.We have a coffin to bury.”

  I led the way, anxious to retrace the route that I had fled the other day. Margaret was right behind me but hardly made a sound, except when she politely whispered a warning to be careful as she held a branch to keep it from swatting my mother in the face. I could hear my mom and dad breathing heavily, as much of the hike required a fair amount of crouching and ducking to get through the trees that had long ago reclaimed the path. And although it was not yet seven o’clock, the rain that had pounded the woods last night seemed to cling to the air.The ground and leaves were wet, and breathing too much air made you feel as if you were drowning.When we reached the massive tree and clearing, we all staggered from the path, soaked by our sweat and the dew.

  Fog washed across the old tree roots, which bulged from the earth like tiny mountains. The bark of the huge tree was still black from the penetrating rain. And the ivy carved into its trunk looked as if it had been drawn with ink. I gazed at the plot of ground that the witch had bordered with her vine. Some of the plant had washed away from the plot and lay tangled in clumps like seaweed left behind by the tide. Yet a few strands remained bravely where the witch had placed them.

  “Look, Dad.” Margaret pointed beyond the tree, into a section of woods that was dark with growth. It was there that I had seen the witch disappear after laying her ivy bouquet.

  We heard the mewing of the cats before we saw them. Their chorus, composed of individual pleas for food and attention, grew stronger as they approached. Ten cats emerged from the wood’s scrubby undergrowth to circle the tree—tabbies, tigers, white, and black—all stared at us expectantly with their luminous eyes. They sat creating their own feline border around Christian’s plot and their tails swished nervously.

  “Our cats,” Mr. Geyer said calmly. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His lenses were steamed. “I wondered where they had gone.They look well fed and cared for,” he added with relief.

  “Your cats?” Dad echoed, his voice cracking. Dad’s T-shirt was soaked and the bags under his eyes were a sure sign that he would be cranky. Dad did not function well with little sleep. “Does that mean that this is the spot, then?”

  Margaret was squinting at the cats with suspicion. “Why didn’t they ever lead us here?” she asked. Her tone sounded hurt. “I took such good care of them. I talked to them all the time.They knew what we were looking for.”

  Mom laid her hand lightly on Margaret’s shoulder and playfully fingered her braid. Mom’s other hand was on Dad’s arm, fortifying his depleted spirit. “Cats have their own code, Margaret. They do things in their own time,” she explained. “But it looks to me that they a
re telling us that we have found Christian’s grave, just as Courtney promised.”

  Mr. Geyer clasped my shoulder affectionately. “Look there, girls, by that old, dwarfed fir tree that seems to be bowing under the weight of this tiny forest.”

  I looked at the tree whose roots straddled the clearing and the swath of woods. Against its wizened trunk leaned an old black shovel.The witch had finally grown impatient.

  It was four that afternoon when Mom poked her head into my room. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of shorts. Her hair was pulled back with barrettes that made her look like a little kid.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She smiled easily from the doorway. “How about you?”

  Propped against my pillow, I had a book in my hands—The Witch of Blackbird Pond—so I guess my answer was obvious. It was one of my favorites and I thought that the research could not hurt.

  “Mom, I don’t get it. I don’t understand how the witch created this magic ivy or how she could have been waiting here for all these centuries. How did she become a witch and learn how to do these things?” I sat up in bed and closed my book. I kept thinking about last night, when the witch appeared in the yard to reclaim Prudence.

  Mom shrugged and walked slowly to my bed, gently sitting on the edge. She pushed the hair off my forehead with her hand. “I don’t know, Courtney. There’s no easy answer.” She looked out the window. We both did. It was oddly gray and quiet. “We’d probably have to go back in time and experience the witch’s life to understand why and how she learned the things she did.”

  I was unsatisfied. “Why do you think she burned down the house after Christian buried Prudence in the basement?” I was sure that the witch had done it. She was the reason for everything strange that had happened.

  Mom cocked her head before she answered, as if she were thinking something through. “If the witch did set fire to the house, maybe it was because of what she knew people believed. I think she was trying to erase all evidence that Prudence or Christian had been there, to protect them.” Mom reached for my hand and rubbed it between her own, as if to make sure that I was flesh and blood.

  “Back in the time when witches were burned at the stake, people were accused of being witches simply for being different. And everyone was so afraid about surviving in this new land. Fear always feeds superstitions. Perhaps Prudence’s mother was simply an independent, special woman. From what you and the Geyers have told me, she sounded very spiritual, but her beliefs were grounded in God’s presence in the natural world, it seems.”

  I nodded and smiled. It was a nice answer, but it still did not explain many things. “But how come she didn’t die like they did?”

  She bit her lip while combing out my hair with her fingers. “Who said she didn’t die? Perhaps she just has a feisty spirit.” She looked into my eyes and smiled. “She obviously loved Christian and Prudence very much. To think what could be if all of us had the ability to make our love span a few centuries. I think that was, or is, the witch’s real power.”

  I smiled, not knowing what else to say. “I can’t sleep, either,” I finally replied.

  “I knew that.” Mom laughed. “That’s why I came by to see if you wanted to go for a walk.”

  “Can we?” I sat up straight. Trying to make yourself sleep can be really tiring. “How about Dad?” I asked.

  “Sleeping like a baby.” She smiled sarcastically. “All of that moaning about being in the midst of the unexplainable, and as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out.”

  Mom stood up and walked to the window. She bent to pick up my sneakers and swung them lightly by their laces.

  “Where are we going to walk?” I asked.

  She turned from the window. “Why, through the cemetery, of course. I need to start thinking about an angle for my next story.”

  WE BURIED PRUDENCE NEXT TO CHRISTIAN AND placed our own ivy border around both plots. As we did so, the cats were all over us, rubbing up against our legs and ducking under our arms as we kneeled on the soft ground to place our ivy wreaths. The orange cat kept sticking its tail under my nose and I tried to shoo it away.

  “Courtney, he’s thanking you! Don’t be so rude,” Margaret had scolded with a big smile on her face. I remember thinking how radiant she looked as she kind of glowed in a beam of sunlight that had penetrated the leaves of our tree. “And he’s my favorite. I want you to take special care of him.”

  I glanced up, not quite catching Margaret’s meaning. She turned away before I could see her eyes.

  When we had finished laying the ivy, Dad had asked about getting a metal plaque or stone marker, with an inscription that noted that Prudence and Christian were buried here.

  “That won’t be necessary,Tom,” Mr. Geyer said gently. Both of their shirts were soaked in sweat. “I’d rather that we not bring any undue attention to this site. Let’s concentrate our efforts on the preservation of the cemetery.”

  “Just what would you like us to do, Christian?” Mom asked, brushing her hands together. “I took a walk through the cemetery. In the quiet, it felt so sacred there, something I didn’t sense during our tour.”

  Mr. Geyer nodded solemnly. “Yes. I know what you mean. The spirits of the living are stronger than the spirits of the dead. Our little crowd was a rambunctious one, too,” he added with a smile. “Until the rain chased us all away.”

  “Is that bad?” I asked. I thought of the sentinel ivy, Mom’s phrase for it, that seemed to watch over the cemetery.

  Margaret slipped her arm around Mr. Geyer’s back as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mom and I stood before them, waiting expectantly for his answer. Dad was over by the tree, collecting our shovels. He banged two of them together to loosen the moist dirt that still clung to the metal.The sound was jarring. Mom threw Dad a “be quiet” look as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “No, no,” Mr. Geyer replied. His eyes were warm and earnest and, for a moment, looked moist behind his glasses. “No, Courtney. It’s very important that you bring the living to the cemetery. The living are the only ones who can protect the dead.” He removed his glasses and used his shirt to clean the lenses.

  Mom tilted her head, as if waiting for Mr. Geyer to continue. “Would you like us to help you with the tours?” Mom asked, unable to remain silent any longer. “And I would be more than happy to continue to write about the cemetery.The history is fascinating.”

  Mr. Geyer smiled gratefully.“That would be wonderful.” Then he turned to look directly at me. “Margaret and I are going to rely on you both more than you can imagine.”

  What did that mean? But before I could ask, Dad swaggered over to us with the shovels thrown over his shoulder like he did this work all the time.

  “Ready to head home?” Dad asked. “Looks like we all could use something cold to drink.”

  We all nodded silently. I guess it was at that moment that we sort of promised to remain forever mute about the burial plot in the woods.

  The following day was clear and beautiful, the sun casting the day in a warm, golden glow. It was already ten o’clock when I skipped out the front door to visit Margaret and Mr. Geyer. As I walked down the driveway, I turned to look at our house. It looked raw and clean as if the rain had given its walls a good scrubbing. Then I felt my jaw drop. Some of the ivy was gone. Until now, it had covered our house like a soft green curtain. Dad had joked that perhaps in the winter we would actually see our house beneath its muted leaves, but now the ivy seemed to have parted from the center of the walls like a curtain opening on a stage.

  I ran back to check the front and side gardens for the vines of ivy that curled and serpentined through my mother’s begonias and mums. The ivy was still there, but like the walls of the house, it seemed to creep back in retreat.The flowers in the center of the beds were suddenly unadorned by ivy.

  How could those millions of vines and leaves that only yesterday had clung to our house through that pelting rainstorm suddenly lose their grip?

  I
raced down our driveway and turned to run clumsily through the soggy, marshy swale alongside the road. I had to tell Margaret and Mr. Geyer about this latest development. Was this a good thing that the ivy was letting go? I was finally getting used to its stubborn presence.When we first moved here, the ivy had felt menacing, as if it were watching my every move. Now I deemed it more a nosy neighbor that kept its eye on everything because it cared.

  I ignored the cars that honked at me as they passed and I barely noticed the sweet smell of the saturated cornstalks. As I neared the path that lead to the Geyers’ stone cabin, I suddenly felt panicked.

  I slowed to a trot when I touched the path, for a new doubt gnawed at my stomach as I recalled the vague comments that Margaret had made about us helping with the cemetery tours and her cats. Why would she say such things?

  I felt my feet press softly into the carpet of pine needles that covered the dirt. I welcomed the sudden coolness of the woods. My ten-minute run had wet my bangs and the back of my shirt. I listened for their voices as I turned the tiny bend and saw their house. Its door was open slightly. Its windows shaded. The cat tins that were lined in a neat row along the front of the house were empty. I whimpered before I could stop myself. My heart felt like it was stuck in my throat.

  I must have stood in front of the door for at least five minutes before I worked up the nerve to push it open. While waiting, I called for Margaret and Mr. Geyer. My voice sounded much higher than normal to me. I listened to the noisy chatter of the birds that must have been perched wing to wing on the branches of the trees surrounding the house. Were they talking to me? “Go on in, go on in, go on in,” they seemed to be chirping.

  The house felt cool and lonely. I glanced to my right into the living room. All of the rental-house furniture was exactly as I had last seen it. The couch, the armchairs, and the coffee table were not far from the fireplace, but nothing seemed to bear the impression of the Geyers’ touch.