Over the Moon

by Natalie Lloyd

  Topher thought I made a fine choice in picking That Dog but we both decided she needed a bolder name, something that’d help her see herself in a new way. So I named her the toughest word I could think of: Bearclaw.

  I call her Bear for short.

  That day at the shelter, Bear leaped up into my arms as soon as I called out her name, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to see her true potential.

  “Good morning, my fearless little fuzz monster,” I whispered against her floppy ear.

  Bear nuzzled happily against my neck.

  “Is Granny Blue still sleeping?” I asked.

  “I don’t think she sleeps much anymore.” Topher stirred the big spoon through the Boneyard Brew. He nodded toward her office. The door was closed, but a glow of yellow light seeped out into the hallway. “Her light was still on when I went to bed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed awake all night.” Most of Blackbird Hollow was having a tough time making ends meet, and the cafe was no different.

  I cuddled Bear close, but stayed in the doorway. Granny’s rule is that Bear can’t go in the kitchen. She says some people are particular about dog fur in their biscuits.

  Topher opened a tiny jar full of dried lavender. He tap-tap-tapped out a teaspoon’s worth into a tiny, sugar-filled pestle. Flour dust already graced his cheekbones, neck, and hands, as if some angel had reached down out of the clouds to trace my brother’s features like, “See, now? This is what a perfect human looks like.” We are not anything alike in that aspect, my brother and me. It would make way more sense if Topher was supposed to have the Destiny Dream.

  But he wasn’t.

  The Destiny Dream would be happening to me. And soon, I hoped.

  “Emma?” Topher studied me carefully. “I can see something’s wrong. You might as well tell me.”

  My brother can read people like a story. He knows when a smile’s covering sadness and which sparkly-eyed look is a sure sign of a secret. He can hear a broken heart in the sound of someone’s voice. He’s especially good at reading me. The floors creaked under Topher’s sneakers as he came to stand in front of me, like he was putting himself between me and the world, as if whatever was breaking my heart would have to get past him to get to me.

  “It’s the Big Empty,” I whispered, cuddling Bear tight against the infernal ache in my chest. “I woke up thinking that I wanted to talk to Mama. And then I realized I couldn’t talk to her and …” I shrugged. “It aches, is all. Missing her is a terrible ache.”

  Topher reached out to hug me, but I spun around and headed for the back door.

  “I’m fine, Toph. No need to start the day all morbid and sad. Anyway, I’m off to see the long-ago dearly departed.”

  I made my way through the kitchen door and onto the back porch. The screen door slapped shut behind me, and I stared out over the dreamy-morning world. The dark night had already faded to a pretty, pale blue at the horizon. A cool wind prickled my skin and rustled the branches of the big oak in the center of the field. It was a life sound the wind made, a pretty rasp and then shhh … which was kind of strange considering all that lay before me. As far as I could see, the headstones and statues of Blackbird Hollow Cemetery peeked up from the mist.

  I plucked a white daisy from the grass, stuck it in my braid, and set out to walk among those graves, just the same as always. I only walk in the daylight, though. Everybody in town knows you never set foot in Blackbird Hollow Cemetery at night. Most people are too skitter-brained to go there during the day as well. But I’m not afraid.

  Not exactly.

  Okay, here’s the honest truth: Sometimes I do feel like something is following me around in the graveyard. At times, that feeling comforts me; it’s like I’m being watched over. But every now and then, I get a certain chill and feel more like I’m being flat-out watched.

  I was right about both things. But I didn’t know it yet.

  Bear jumped out of my arms so she could scamper ahead of me through the graveyard. I stopped at the first crooked stone rising up out of the mist, reached deep into my bag, and pulled out a cluster of dried-up flowers from the day before. I tucked them against the base of the stone.

  “Someone loved you, Adeline Carpetta,” I whispered.

  Most people think my backyard is haunted. I suppose that’s understandable, considering my backyard also happens to be one of the oldest cemeteries in the state of Tennessee. But it’s also quiet and sacred and full of shady trees, stone angels, and names. Old, beautiful names that sound like they dripped out of a storybook:

  Adeline Carpetta

  Captain Daniel Toliver, 1st Tennessee Infantry

  Wonder St. Clare

  Cillian McNeal

  Mama said if I ever felt lonesome in a graveyard, I should say the names on the stones aloud and declare the better truth of the situation, like this:

  “Someone loved you, Wonder St. Clare.”

  Granny Blue doesn’t believe in ghosts the way most people in town do. She says it’s memories that haunt people. “I can’t imagine the afterlife is so boring people have to keep pestering you from the Great Beyond,” she said. But whenever I walk through Blackbird Hollow Cemetery and I call out the names on the stones, I always feel … something. I know they aren’t here, those folks. But I believe they’re somewhere. And maybe what I feel is their happiness when they pull back the curtain and take a look at what’s happening back here on earth.

  Bear nudged her head underneath my palm. I leaned down, cupped her fuzzy face, and kissed her soft ear. That’s when I heard the flutter of friendly chatter. The old gates are the public entry point, and I was excited to see a good-size group waiting for me.

  A happy shiver settled over my shoulders as I stood and looked toward the noise. The fog was fading now, lifting up out of the cemetery in curls and wisps. Clusters of bright dandelions bloomed open—one at a time—in a perfectly curved path all the way to the gate.

  “Good morning!” I called out as I scampered down the hill. Bear yapped as she bounded along beside me.

  “Good morning, Emma Pearl!” yelled some of the folks standing at the gate.

  Once upon a time, the gates were probably beautiful. Nobody knows for sure, because now they’re covered by a thick fluff of coppery rust. Waxy vines of ivy wrap through the bars and up around the spires. Ivy grows everywhere in the cemetery. It dangles from the giant oak trees and creeps across the mossy tombstones. It’s tangled so thick around the fence that passersby can barely see inside. Sometimes I think the mountains and the woods might be in cahoots, using their ivy powers to hide Blackbird Hollow from the world. To keep it sacred, maybe.

  Or to keep it all secret.

  I cranked my gate key sideways in the lock, until I heard the satisfying click. The gates swung open slowly, emitting a long, low screeeeech.

  At least twenty people were waiting for me, mostly white-haired retired folks, all milling around talking to one another. The couple at the front of the line were my regulars: an old man with a long white beard, and an elderly lady on a sassy pink scooter.

  They’re also my relatives: Granny Blue’s brother, Periwinkle, and his wife, Greta.

  “Welcome to Blackbird Hollow Cemetery!” I called out as I pushed the gate open. “One of the oldest and most famous resting-places in the state!”

  The air filled with a clatter of applause. They always applaud, though I’m not sure why. Everybody there’d heard my speech plenty of times. But I like giving folks the full-tour experience. “This morning’s excursion is our famous Love Tour. Your journey through our town’s great and glorious romantic past will last approximately seven minutes.”

  I fished down into my tote bag and began passing out pairs of heart-shaped sunglasses to my guests.

  “Now, these are fancy, Emma!” said Uncle Periwinkle as he slid on the shades. He lifted his paper cup of Boneyard Brew in salute.

  “You’re lucky Topher was up early on Brew Duty,” I told him. “It’s never ready
before the sun rises.”

  “He must have known I’d need a fix.” Uncle Periwinkle grinned. His long white beard billowed in the breeze. Were it not for his faded jeans and raggedy jacket—or the big, sweet smile on his face—Uncle Periwinkle would look a bit ghostly himself. Most days, he pins a tiny flower over his heart. But today, he’d decided to get festive. He’d tucked a violet into his beard.

  Uncle Peri leaned down and said softly, “I don’t need heart-shaped spectacles to see something’s bothering you.” He patted my shoulder. “What’s that sad look in your eyes all about?”

  “Restless night.”

  “What?!” Aunt Greta screeched. She grabbed my arm and, to her credit, tried to whisper but mostly yelled, “Restless night? Emma, did you have your Destiny Dream?!”

  “Ha!” Uncle Peri clapped his hands. “I knew her mama was right! What have I always told you, Greta? I said, ‘See now, Emma’s going to have her Destiny Dream early!’”

  I reached out and gave them both a gentle shake. “You guys, shhh! I haven’t had the dream. Not yet. The Big Empty kept me up all night. That’s all I meant.”

  “Ah.” Periwinkle nodded. A grin tugged at his beard. “That happens around here when seasons change, you know. People remember the ones they love and miss.”

  Uncle Periwinkle fancies himself the town historian. For many years, he worked as the newspaper editor. According to Granny Blue, being a newspaper editor in a town this size is just a fancy way of saying he minded everybody’s business but his own.

  Aunt Greta grabbed my arm and yanked me close for a hard hug. She smelled like roses and hair spray. “You’ll have your Destiny Dream soon enough, sugar. Now why don’t you let me hold that wild dog while you give your tour?” Bear jumped up into Greta’s lap, thrilled for the invite. “Hmpfh!” Greta groaned as Bear licked her chin.

  I’d never seen Aunt Greta actually smile. She only ever pressed her mouth into a firm line and made a hmpfh noise when she was happy.

  Ever since she broke her hip last year, Aunt Greta’s been rambling all over town on a customized pink scooter. This morning was no exception. She wore a pink tracksuit to match her ride, and her white hair was tucked up into a rosy-colored baseball cap. She’d stitched her flower shop’s slogan onto the cap:

  GRETA’S MAGICAL GARDEN:

  GET YOUR FLOWERS—THEN GO AWAY

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming out this morning,” I said as I made my way down the line, passing a pair of sunglasses to Mr. Marcum and his wife. The Marcums had won Farmers of the Year going on twenty-seven years now. Last year, their ten-pound tomato made the front page of the Regional Farmers’ Almanac. In the world of competitive tomato farming, the Marcums are total rock stars.

  “We’re tickled to be here, Emma!” Mrs. Marcum hugged me tight before she donned her shades.

  I cleared my throat. “If everybody’s okay with it, we’ll start early this morning. Daisies are blooming on the rooftops. That means the rain’s coming.”

  That’s another fact about Blackbird Hollow, Tennessee, that some folks attribute to the supernatural: Flowers never stop blooming here. They bloom through the snow. They bloom up through cracks in concrete sidewalks. They bloom in bundles near the river, and in colorful bursts in yards and hillsides. And they’ve always bloomed especially thick here in the graveyard. You’d think this place was a proper garden, were it not for all the headstones.

  “HOLD UP!” shouted a young woman running across the street. “Wait for me, please!”

  “Who is that?” Aunt Greta huffed, spinning her scooter around so fast the dirt spun underneath her tires. “And what’s she getting so worked up about? This ain’t Noah’s Ark. It’s just a cemetery tour.”

  The stranger looked about Topher’s age. She was a tiny thing. But she had to be stronger than she looked, because the bulky backpack on her shoulders seemed twice her height. Even then, it didn’t slow her down a step. Her hair was dark, mostly, but one bright pink stripe fell across her face. She looked cool, like a punk-rock mountain fairy.

  “How much does this tour cost?” she asked as she came to stand beside me.

  “There’s no charge,” I said brightly. “But of course we’d be grateful for a donation.” I held up my tote bag so she could see the slogan embroidered on the side:

  MAKE BLACKBIRD HOLLOW CEMETERY BOO-TIFUL AGAIN.

  Aunt Greta made the bags for last month’s fund-raiser. She didn’t grin when I showed off her creation, of course. But her face flushed pink with pride.

  “We do ongoing fund-raisers to maintain this graveyard,” I said, passing the newcomer a pair of heart-shaped shades. Then I fished around in my tote again for the notebook. “May I have your name for our guest registry?”

  “I’m Waverly Valentine.”

  I thought her name sounded as pretty as the names on the headstones. I didn’t say that, though. Telling somebody their name would look good on a headstone might not be considered a compliment.

  Uncle Periwinkle stretched out his hand to give hers a shake. “You’ve been hiking the Appalachian Trail, I see. Welcome to Blackbird Hollow! Stopping just for a breather or staying a while?”

  Waverly glanced back toward the Wailing Woods. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I got here. The place sounds cool, though, with all the Civil War history—and stories about ghosts and treasure and …” She shivered. “I hadn’t planned on stopping but that amazing smell pulled me in. It even smells magical in this town …”

  “That’s the cafe!” I pointed to my home-sweet-home. “You should go for breakfast! After the tour, of course.” Few things in this life thrill me more than showing someone the graveyard for the first time. “Let’s commence!”

  A soft breeze settled around our shoulders as we walked into the cemetery. That same breeze made the world around us shiver a little bit. The slick green leaves of the tall trees rustled, and the long curtains of ivy dangling from the branches began to wave. When the ivy blows in the graveyard, it casts the prettiest lacelike shadows on the ground. They remind me of banners, rippling over the dearly departed in silent celebration. I pointed out the smaller stones at the front of the cemetery. And then we walked past some of my favorite memorials: the stone angel with moss-covered wings and the bronze soldier. The soldier is a monument to young men from the Hollow who died in war.

  Sometimes, Aunt Greta gives me a note to tuck in the soldier’s hand. I don’t read what they say. One of the men who died was Aunt Greta’s brother. I figure the letters are her way of remembering him.

  A tremble of thunder rolled above the silver clouds, sending warning shivers up my arms.

  “We might have to cut this tour short,” I said as I pushed my sunglasses back into my hair.

  “I have a question.” Waverly twisted her hands together. “Can you tell me about the Conductor? A guy I met on the trail mentioned him to me.”

  The breeze died down to nothing but still air.

  The restless trees hushed their whispering.

  Even the thunder faded away, gently as a rock song on the radio. I felt like the whole world was listening close to what I was about to say.

  “The Conductor is our most famous ghost,” I said. “If you walk through the graveyard at night, or very early in the morning, some people believe you hear the Conductor’s song.”

  Uncle Peri cleared his throat. He can’t help but jump in when history’s involved. “Most people think the Conductor is the ghost of a Civil War soldier who hid his loot somewhere in the hills.”

  Depending on the day, that thought can bring me comfort or make me tremble. By day, the graveyard is one of my favorite places to be. But sometimes I scare myself silly at night, when I lie in bed and think about the Conductor wandering among the stones, singing his lonesome song …

  “‘The Treasure of Blackbird Hollow’ is a wonderfully spooky story!” I told Waverly. “I typically save it for the Saints and Scoundrels Tour. People have tried to find the treasure for hundreds of years
.”

  The sky rumbled again.

  “Sadly, we have to end the tour when the weather gets rough,” I told Waverly and the rest of my guests with a shiver. “Bearclaw is afraid of thunder.”

  We scampered down the hill just as the rain began plop-plop-plopping, splotching the sidewalk all around us.

  “So,” Waverly asked, “have you heard the Conductor sing about the treasure?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Lots of people claim they’ve heard him, though. I think sometimes folks want to hear him so badly they probably think they do … even if it’s nothing more than the wind in the woods. I’d like to hear the Conductor’s song, though.”

  It was nice to think that a song could last forever.

  Uncle Peri cleared his throat. “I’ve heard the song.”

  “Peri.” The way Greta said his name sounded like a warning.

  “You’ve heard the Conductor?” I looked up into his bristly face. “You never told me that!”

  “Periwinkle,” Greta warned, louder this time. “Do not get carried away. You know Blue doesn’t like treasure talk.”

  Periwinkle cleared his throat. The sky swirled silver and gray behind him. A summer storm was brewing, the kind that looked too scary for a tour … but just right for storytelling. “It’d be impolite not to share the story with our guest, wouldn’t it? What if Miss Waverly never passes this way again? It’s like this: When I was twelve years old, I came out here at night with my friends. The legend says that the Conductor won’t show the treasure to somebody with bad intentions, now. He’ll just lead ’em down a wrong trail, into a cave so deep they’ll never get back out. I figured it was important for me to show the Conductor I was pure of heart …”

  “Pure of heart?” Greta said. “Ha!”

  Uncle Peri shrugged. “Pure-ish. So my friends and I—we walked out into the middle of the graveyard and I sang:

  I’m pure of heart,

  Not filled with hate,