The Death Catchers

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Prologue

  The Setting

  The Mood

  Foreshadowing

  The Protagonist

  Conflict

  Man (or, in This Case, Old Lady) vs Machine

  Transitions

  The Making of an Epiphany

  Fragments

  Translations

  Redundancy and Repetition

  The Archetype

  Oral Tradition

  Irony

  Alliteration

  Personification

  Aphorisms—Bizzy’s Best Pearls

  Brainstorming

  The Analysis

  The Antagonist

  Dialogue

  Cacophony

  Wordy

  Proofreading

  The Nemesis I Didn’t Know I Had

  Point of View

  Persuasion

  The Personification of a Secret

  Suspending Disbelief

  Revision

  Onomatopoeia

  Pathetic Fallacy

  The Climax

  A Metaphor Before Dying

  Legends, Old and New

  The Paradox

  The Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Imprint

  For Mom and Dad

  Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

  She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.

  —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  The Prologue

  Mrs. Vicky Tweedy

  Room 122, English Building

  Crabapple High School

  Crabapple, CA 91292

  Dear Mrs. Tweedy,

  I know that a letter may not be what you had in mind when you said I could save myself from flunking your class by writing a defense paper on the topic Why I Should Still Pass English Even Though I Did Not Turn in My Final Project. By the way, I honestly could’ve given you a big hug right on the spot if I didn’t think word would spread that weirdo Lizzy Mortimer had stepped one foot closer to crazy and bear-hugged her English teacher.

  I’ve got to admit, though, my heart sank when you said that, in my paper, I had to find a way to “adequately demonstrate my mastery of the literary devices and techniques” we’d learned about in class this semester. Sure, I can recite all the terms I’ve learned—allegories and alliteration and climax and characterization and conflict—and you get the picture. But whenever I try to write something that’s any good, it’s like I downshift into auto-horrible-cliché-pilot.

  My grandma Bizzy is always saying the same thing to me: “You have such a gift with words, Lizzy-Loo … a way of throwin’ ’em together like the most unexpectedly tasty word casserole.” When I began to puzzle over why my grandma thinks I’m a supergenius with words and a lot of my teachers think I’m an idiot with them, I realized something. I’m pretty sure I can talk with the best of them. Ask around. I only get really mixed up when I write words down.

  After Jodi’s letter worked so well, I decided to make my defense paper a letter. What I’m really doing is pretending I’m having a conversation with you, except I’m the only one doing any talking.

  I know you may not believe any of it. Two months ago, I sure wouldn’t have. I seriously thought about making up something that you’d be more likely to believe.

  But I’m so tired of lying to everyone about everything. Besides, it’s like Bizzy always says—sticking to the truth is the only guarantee that you’ll keep your story straight.

  The Setting

  Before I learned my best friend was going to die, I never understood why writers went on and on about setting. It didn’t make sense to me when Mom would go hog wild if a book was set someplace exotic like Turkey or Malawi or Canada. The way I figured it, people were what moved a story forward, you know? I realized the time and place where events occurred were important, but whenever I read a book, I usually skimmed the background stuff because it made my eyes droop. You can do a lot of things when your eyes are drooping, but concentrating on a book is not one of them.

  Of course, I was dead wrong about setting. Don’t get me wrong. I know people are really important to any story—especially mine, where most everybody turned out to be totally different than I thought they were. But I’m now sure none of this sinister stuff could’ve happened anywhere but Crabapple. So, though I’ll try not to bore you, Mrs. Tweedy, there are certain things about this town that aren’t at all what they seem.

  The official name on the welcome sign is Crabapple-by-the-Sea, but the town is just plain old Crabapple to everyone except the occasional tourist.

  Let’s be honest: Crabapple is an odd name for a town. What’s even odder, though, is that there are no crabs here at all and the only apples are the ones at Miss Mora’s Market. That doesn’t really seem like anything worth naming a town over, now does it?

  Crabapple is a little blotch of a village. When you fly over it in an airplane, that’s exactly what it looks like—a tiny hunk of civilization resting on towering, jagged cliffs above the Pacific. There’s one two-lane road leading in and out of town. Some say Crabapple sprang up as a coastal mining town between Oregon and San Francisco and later became a retreat for progressives and freethinkers in the 1920s. I used to think that explained why there were so many peculiar people living here. Of course I don’t mean you, Mrs. Tweedy—but peculiar doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  Take, for example, Crabapple’s monthly town “Round Table” meetings. On the first Monday evening of every month, the whole town crams into the Crabapple Community Center and votes on proclamations like, “Commuting by bicycle shall be encouraged whenever possible” (in fact, lots of people, including me, ride their bikes around town). I’ve never seen you at a meeting, Mrs. Tweedy—you probably have a life—but I’m sure you’re well aware that all house names must be approved by a majority of citizens at town meetings.

  Many of the houses in Crabapple are stone cottages that look like they’ve been here forever. They all have name placards out front. There are no street addresses at all. Some house names are historic, some are geographic, some descriptive, and others nobody’s quite sure about. It’s supposed to be quaint, but I find it confusing more than anything else (as does the postman, Mr. Westerberg, I’m sure). Our house is named Beside the Point because it’s on a cliff right next to a lookout over the whole Pacific. On the south side of us is The House of Six Gables (the Dandos planned on the traditional seven gables but ran out of money) and to the north, Periwinkle (repainted an eye-popping blue violet color every summer by the McGraw brothers).

  At a Round Table town meeting a few years ago, Bizzy almost got into a shoving match with the head of the Crabapple Historical Preservation Society, Mr. Primrose. The grouchiest man in Crabapple, Mr. Nettles, wanted to change the name of his house from Windbreaker to Breaking Wind, in recognition of his newfound habit of public flatulence. Mr. Primrose, outraged, argued “the name would bring shame and dishonor to each of Crabapple’s citizens.” My grandma Bizzy yelled out that Mr. Primrose should consider renaming his own home The Cranky Cottage. I didn’t think it was that funny, but it got a big laugh from the crowd. Things got heated and Bizzy and Mr. Primrose eventually had to be separated. Obviously, Mr. Primrose is one of Bizzy’s many detractors.

  I’m no expert on what’s normal, but I’ve watched enough television to know that most towns aren’t anything like Crabapple. Which is why I should’ve realized how strange (and terrifying) Crab
apple was long before I did.

  Even the weather here is unusual. Bizzy says that Crabapple doesn’t have air, it has fog. It’s true. Large, soggy cotton fingers of fog creep in from the Pacific at night, seize Crabapple, and don’t let go until midafternoon when the sun finally slaps them away from above.

  Anyway, Crabapple is really where everything in this story happens. Except, of course, if you want to get really technical, some of it happened a long, long time ago, in a place called the Isle of Avalon.

  But I really should tell you about the horror at the cemetery before I get into all that history stuff.

  The Mood

  Mrs. Tweedy, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re always trying to get your students to discuss the mood of the books we read. “What kind of mood or atmosphere is the author creating with the setting and figurative language?” you ask each time we begin a new book. Since I’m the author here (a scary thought, I know) and I’m no genius when it comes to figurative language, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you the mood of this story.

  Creepy.

  I don’t know how else to put it. Unless shocking counts as a mood. Because that might work, too. If I had to pinpoint exactly when things got creepy or shocking or whatever, I’d say it was the moment I laid eyes on Vivienne le Mort in the Crabapple Cemetery. Of course, I didn’t know she was Vivienne le Mort then—I thought she was your run-of-the-mill loon who had wandered off from the senior center on Mission Avenue.

  You’re probably wondering why I was at the Crabapple Cemetery in the first place. Well, I spend a lot of time there for one reason: Jodi Sanchez. You know Jodi Sanchez, Mrs. Tweedy. She’s my best friend, but you may not like her. She’s not exactly a teacher’s pet.

  Mom says she’s “mouthy.”

  Jodi is fourteen—a freshman just like me—but that’s where our similarities end. Unlike me, Jodi doesn’t seem to care what people think of her. Her wardrobe is filled with punk-rock staples like pencil-thin suspenders and skinny black jeans, though she claims she’s more “mod” than punk rock. Either way, she sticks out like a sore thumb in Crabapple, whereas I just try to blend in.

  As soon as she graduates, Jodi plans on forming a new-wave punk band. She says the band will be a cross between the Clash and Beyoncé, called the Destiny Strummers. Though she’s out there, Jodi is very thoughtful. For instance, when she talks about the Destiny Strummers’ first nationwide tour, she always mentions that she’s reserved a place for me and my flute in the band, even though everyone knows that a flute is the opposite of punk rock.

  Jodi’s vowed that she’ll never wear a backpack as long as she lives. Apparently, she thinks backpacks are too “institutional.” I’m not even sure what she means, but I have no doubt she’ll stick to her guns. Instead of a backpack, she has this large shoulder bag that looks as if it’s made from pieces of a burlap sack sewn together. A hand-drawn, black-and-white-checkered pattern covers the outside flap, along with all sorts of quotes and pictures Jodi sketched.

  Anyway, Jodi’s a constant reminder of how two people can be very different and still be best friends.

  If you knew Jodi as well as I do, you’d be able to guess that Crabapple Cemetery is her kind of place—she’s convinced the graveyard is filled with adventures waiting to be had and mysteries waiting to be solved. Personally, I think she likes feeling as if, at any moment, her life could turn into a horror film. Regardless, when we’re bored after school, her first suggestion is to head to the cemetery.

  One afternoon near the end of October, when the sun had just made its first cameo of the day, peeking beneath a bank of cumulus clouds on its way down to the horizon, Jodi and I decided to pay the cemetery a visit.

  I still wish we hadn’t.

  But it’s like Bizzy says—you can never outfox the past, so there’s no use thinking about it. After pushing open the wrought-iron gate, Jodi and I weaved our way through the row of white fir trees and collection of different-sized tombstones. Many of the headstones belonged to deceased relatives of current Crabapple residents. The long shadows of dusk seemed to be moving with us.

  Jodi was headed toward the stone cottage at the top of Cemetery Hill, the sloping knoll where the cemetery’s caretaker, Agatha Cantare, lives. Agatha supervises the cemetery, and from her cottage on top of Cemetery Hill she can see most of Crabapple.

  Before we reached the cottage, Jodi stopped next to the most ornate tombstone. It was known as the oldest grave in the cemetery and looked like a miniature pyramid, coming to a polished marble point. A name was engraved at the top in large cursive letters.

  Arthur Pendragon

  Jodi traced the writing below the engraved name with her finger.

  The Most Righteous Knight of Them All

  Rest in Peace

  687

  “Hey, Lizzy, what if Old Arthur really did die in the year 687?” Jodi asked, referring to the long-buried Crabapple resident by the nickname he’d acquired.

  “Crabapple’s been around a long time … but not that long,” I said, moving on to a tombstone, bathed in orange light, with the name Gawain Orkney carved on it. “I’m sure one of the Cantares forgot to add the one at the front of the year. Sixteen eighty seven seems more reasonable, no?” I sounded confident, but no one was exactly sure how old Crabapple was.

  Both Jodi and I knew the legend surrounding the dates on the older tombstones. The Cantare family had been caretakers of the graveyard for as long as Crabapple had existed. In fact, not far from Old Arthur’s headstone was the cemetery’s lone statue, depicting Ambrosius Cantare, the first of the Cantares. Apparently, Ambrosius was a bearded man in long robes and a cone-shaped hat. Now his stone figure is mostly hidden behind the bushes that have grown up around it. Ambrosius Cantare had been not only famously illiterate, the story went, but also incredibly careless with regard to engraving the headstones.

  The graveyard was littered with inaccuracies and mistakes—the oldest granite tombstones had dates that went as far back as the sixth century. After Ambrosius passed on, generations of Cantares came and went, but not one bothered to fix the dates on the older tombstones. Agatha is the latest in this long line of careless Cantare caretakers.

  She may also be the strangest.

  Agatha has two tangled gray braids and wears only white linen trousers and shirts. Most everyone in town, at one time or another, has seen Agatha talking to herself among the long grass and jagged tombstones. People assume she’s completely bonkers. There are rumors she belongs to a cult. I even heard Mr. Primrose whisper at a town meeting that she was a pagan, whatever that means.

  All of this, I suppose, is why Jodi’s so fascinated with her.

  That afternoon, I trailed behind Jodi, worrying that it was only a matter of time before we got caught snooping around Agatha’s cottage.

  The cemetery grew darker with each passing minute and I grew more frightened.

  “Her light’s on,” Jodi said, as the sun sank farther below the horizon. She crept up Cemetery Hill, moving from one gravestone to the next. “That means she’s home.”

  Jodi and I crawled up to the cabin, peeking above the windowsill. We had a partial view of Agatha’s living room. Agatha swayed back and forth in a rocking chair, watching a fire blaze, her feet on the brick hearth in front of her.

  “She’s just staring into space,” I whispered.

  “Shhh!” Jodi commanded.

  “Agatha is crazy, Jodi. This is a waste of time.”

  “Hold on one minute,” Jodi said softly. “She’s about to say something.”

  Sure enough, Agatha seemed to be talking to someone on the other side of the room. The half-closed drapes blocked our view.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the visit, Vivienne,” Agatha said, her voice soft and sweet, “but I’m afraid your presence here is a violation of the Great Truce.”

  “Why do you continue to stay in this drab village, Agatha, with petrified Merlin as your only companion?” a voice responded. “
You can live anywhere in the mortal world you choose.”

  “I have a lot of fond memories of this place,” Agatha said.

  “Doomsday is close, dear sister,” the voice responded. “The Last Descendant walks among mortals.”

  “What’s this?” Agatha asked. The slight tremor in her voice betrayed her calm appearance.

  A woman stepped into the middle of the room in plain view. At least six feet tall, wearing a long, black satin robe, she towered over Agatha. Her mouth was stuffed full of crooked yellow teeth. Her midnight frock and harsh facial features made her resemble a sinister judge who only ruled in favor of the guilty and the wicked.

  “I have had a vision that the Last Descendant is here in Crabapple.”

  “A vision? You should not be dabbling in arts for which you have no skill,” Agatha said. She held a pair of knitting needles, moving her hands in a precise rhythmic pattern in her lap. “Why are you here, Vivienne? Avalon is where you belong.”

  I wanted to leave immediately. But Jodi was still, seemingly transfixed by the unsettling scene.

  “You haven’t had any visions yourself? You haven’t seen a boy with the Mark of Arthur?” Vivienne asked.

  “I have very limited contact with mortals,” Agatha said. “And you know very well that since I journeyed here, I no longer have visions.”

  “We all had to make sacrifices,” Vivienne replied.

  “Indeed,” Agatha said. She continued to stare at her knitting, slowly rocking in her chair.

  “You must take solace in the fact that with each breath, Doomsday nears.”

  Agatha raised her hand, waving it dismissively at her sister before responding. “I have been hearing you prattle on century after century about Doomsday, and, yet, it has never come.”

  “Perhaps, dearest sister,” Vivienne said, her voice oozing sarcasm, “you have grown too comfortable here to listen to reason. But take note: the last Pendragon lives. In fulfillment of the final prophecy you made, after he is dead, I will finally be in control.” Vivienne’s voice approached a screech. “You would be well advised to join me before it is too late.”