Other Voices, Other Tombs Read online

  So, I suppose it was only natural that when he died, I reckoned it was not the dogs who took him. Despite Pa’s insistence, I knew that Jefferson was a victim of that foul earthen spirit.

  “There’s ham in the fridge,” Pa said, spooning Ivy some soup and then dabbing her lips with a napkin. “And don’t forget yer greens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The smell of dried husks and crabapples tainted the air. I glanced at the wall across from me to see that Pa’d hung the harvest wreath in preparation for tomorrow night’s festival. Bright red winterberries from last year twined the thick bouquet of limbs, herbs, and vegetables. While he’d not fully embraced the customs of the Stafford elders, such adornments were becoming more common on our property. It was a religion that Mum had vehemently disavowed. But now that she’d passed, there was no hedge against its embrace.

  Pa was a decent cook, but his collard greens were a poor second to Ivy’s. Whereas I used to get a heap of Ivy’s fixings, Pa’s only just got me by. I would never tell him of my dissatisfaction, of course. Such impertinence would warrant the switch. At best, I’d be sized up for a lecture on gratitude or the good earth’s yield.

  While I prepared a plate, I looked up and caught Ivy staring at me. My stepmum’s eyes were most always empty, like black buttons on a rag doll. Ever since she’d fallen ill and could no longer look after herself, she had no mind to matter. It’d flown off like a bobwhite quail, taking her soul with it. If she wasn’t staring into space, she was crying and mumbling on about death and the one who wields it. But, at the moment, there was something else in her eyes, something I’d not seen since last harvest.

  I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. She fixed me with her gaze. Her jaundiced, red-rimmed eyes were pleading with me, it seemed, screaming out a warning that her slackened jaw could not utter.

  “What’s she doin’?” Pa laid down the napkin. “Ivy, calm yerself.”

  She raised her arm, and her trembling bony fingers uncurled.

  “She’s pointin’ at somethin’,” I said, turning around. But there was nothing there, only the countertop and the kitchen cabinets. “Ivy, what you pointin’ at?”

  My heart about leapt out my shirt when she started mumbling, making terrible guttural sounds. She was trying to answer me!

  The spoon clattered to the table. Pa took her hand and drew it into her lap. “Settle down now, hon. Settle down. It’s all right.”

  Despite his efforts to settle her, my stepmum’s gaze housed a terror that made my bones shudder.

  Pa needed little energy to restrain her. Within moments she looked away, her eyes once again empty, and she slumped back into her chair.

  “She ain’t doin’ well.” Pa patted her arm and resumed the nightly feeding. “I gotta get Doc to come on by.”

  I nodded. But something else seemed at work here, something more than just my stepmum’s agitation. Her drawn, terrified countenance was now fixed in my brain. However, I dare not engage her and seek to query about the object of her fear. Had she been pointing towards the orchard? No. It was something close by, something near. Then again, perhaps it was just the terrible panic of a dying woman.

  I concentrated on my meal, forcing my eyes to look only there, for I knew Pa was watching me.

  Which only stoked my sense of need for further inquiry.

  #

  The moon shown through the lace curtains creating shadowy fingers across Jefferson’s empty bed. He’d died within a year of Mum. Their deaths had evoked rumors. Some said we were cursed, under a bane of darkness. But with our farm bringing in the richest crops for three straight seasons, others began to whisper that we’d made a pact with the devil. Now with Ivy fallen ill, I couldn’t help but wonder if the rumors were true. But why? What evil had we done to invoke such judgment?

  I pulled the covers back and sat up in bed. An owl screeched in the distance. Likely it was Ol’ Gander, who nested in the Porter’s loft. His cries disappeared in the lonely night. I’d lain awake until I heard Pa close the door of his room and I was sure he was asleep. I went to my door and looked back at Jefferson’s bed.

  He’d been the brave one of the family, a real-life Huck Finn, unafraid to challenge rules and take risks. He’d tangled with the Dobbin twins whenever they went to pushing me around. And when Pa forbade us to enter the orchard ever again, it was Jefferson who challenged him. “I can handle a shotgun, Pa,” he’d implored. But after Mum passed, he’d begun to suspect it was something more than just feral dogs Pa feared.

  I missed my brother and, in a strange way, felt like I was indebted to him.

  I put my ear to the door. It was quiet. So, I crept out of my room and down the hallway, treading as lightly as possible lest the floorboards reveal my passage.

  The only light was that of the moon. Tomorrow it would be full and mark the autumnal equinox, the Harvest Moon. Its brilliant luster shone on the dusty piano in the parlor and, as I turned into the kitchen, pooled on the oaken dinner table, bathing the room in its eerie glow. I peered at the chair that Ivy had sat in earlier that evening and traced the arc of her gesture with my eyes.

  Walking softly to the kitchen countertop, I surveyed its surface. Several jars of canned tomatoes and relish were stacked near some dried dishes and a towel. What could she have been pointing at? Next to the sink were the cabinets. I opened one, but it simply contained dishes. I opened the other and scanned its contents. Herbs and spices occupied the lower shelves, while medicine and tonics the upper. Yet I discerned nothing unusual. I sifted through the contents, moving items around, standing on my tiptoes to see the upper shelves. But what was I looking for anyway? I closed the door and shook my head. As much as I’d been pondering nefarious goings-on, I had to conclude that Ivy’s unusual panic was simply a figment of her condition.

  I turned around and stared in thought. My gaze drifted up to the Harvest Wreath, which momentarily startled me. In the shadows it appeared almost like a face. An earthen entity of leaves and fruit smiling down upon the lunar lit room. Like the effigy of the green man that would be erected in the town square by the Stafford elders tomorrow night, the wreath now bore an uncanny resemblance to that pagan thing. The longer I stared, the more the smell of the herbs seemed to inspire a dreamy intoxication.

  A shadow passed outside the kitchen window. My heart about leapt into my throat. Pa kept a shotgun behind the hutch in case of emergencies and I found myself moving there. But when a second shadow passed, I froze. For this one was approaching the screen door.

  Terror seized me. My impulse was to run and waken Pa. Yet the figure who approached did not attempt to enter, or even knock. Instead, a soft thud sounded on the porch and a flame flickered. What was happening? What was going on out there? I was torn between fleeing and spying out a view of this strange visitation, when I heard a bedroom door open and heavy footfall approaching from the hallway. It was Pa!

  Had I been in a more composed state of mind, I may not have done what I was about to do. Surely, I could have lied about waking up for a drink of water. Or just hearing strange voices. Instead, I scrambled under the kitchen table and huddled into the shadows.

  Pa walked past me. He had his boots on. This puzzled me. Had he heard the sound? Did he know someone was outside?

  He paused at the door. I was trembling something fierce, fearful that my terror would reveal my cowering self. Nevertheless, Pa did not stoop down to spy me out. Instead, he unlocked the door.

  Cricket song infused the night air. A chill breeze crept along the floor. I sat huddled in the shadows with my knees pulled up into my chest. Yet I maintained enough of an angle to see past the chair legs and Pa’s boots to glimpse the porch. Indeed, a candlelight flickered there—a lantern perhaps—revealing an obscure object comprised of cloth and straw. Pa reached down to retrieve it and, as he did, I saw that it was a harvest doll made of stitched burlap. Unlike the typical doll, however, its eyes were but vacant holes.

  Much like the eyeless face of my d
ead brother laying in the orchard.

  What was this madness? Was this mockery or part of some other malign scheme?

  Anger mingled with my fear. If only I was as brave as Jefferson. Had I been, I may have leapt forth and demanded an explanation of those strange, secretive goings on. Not only did I feel betrayed by my father, but this kind of pagan tomfoolery was the very thing Mum had prayed so fervently against. Instead, I remained poised, drawing the faintest of breaths. However, this turned to my favor for Pa stepped outside, closing the screen door softly behind him. I listened as his footfall could be heard descending the porch steps. As I contemplated moving—if not fleeing to my bedroom, peering outside to spy out our visitors—voices sounded in the night. But try as I might, I could not ascertain the content of their conversation.

  Whoever the strangers were, Pa returned momentarily. He closed and locked the door. But instead of returning to his bed, as I thought he might, he flicked on the light. I drew my knees up so tight I thought I might stifle my own breath. While I could only see the lower half of his body from my vantage, I could tell he was contemplating something. Had I betrayed my presence? No. He went to the kitchen counter. I distinctly heard a cupboard door creek open and something set upon a shelf. The door was closed, and Pa went to the sink, where he washed his hands. After this, the light was switched off and he returned down the hall, where his bedroom door quietly clicked shut.

  I exhaled heavily, unsure if I’d even breathed the last few minutes. I dare not move. Not yet. So I remained there, hidden under the kitchen table, listening for any sign of the mysterious visitor and mulling over the hideous eyeless harvest doll.

  I soon lurched awake. I had fallen asleep. Had there been a sound? I listened, but there was nothing. The moon-glow was nearly gone, leaving the kitchen dark. I crawled out from under the table, doing my best to make little noise. But before I returned to my room, I crept to the kitchen counter and opened the cupboard with the medicine.

  Being that the moonlight was almost gone, the contents of the cabinet were nearly unrecognizable. I moved closer, stood on my toes, and studied the shelves.

  Indeed, a canning jar had been placed on the top shelf. I was sure it had not been there before. It bore a handwritten label. I glanced over my shoulder, then reached up and took the jar. Turning it towards a shaft of fading moonlight, I could make out black berries settled in the murky liquid. Yet they were not immediately recognizable to me. I rotated the jar studying its contents. However, I could not discern of what nature this concoction might be. Then I peered at the handwritten script, puzzling over the phrase thereon, which read,

  for the Crone.

  Returning the jar to its spot, I crept back into my room. I peered out of my window, but the east grove was not visible from there. The light of the setting moon cast misshapen shadows about the lawn. I went to my bed and lay in thought, wondering what dread alliance my father had contrived.

  #

  I did not wake so much as I grew aware of my surroundings. The events of last night hovered over my thoughts like a swampy specter fading in the hazy sun. Indeed, the morning outside was grey. I immediately prepared for school. But intentions other than schoolwork were what drove me that day.

  Pa stood at the stove, frying eggs. He’d propped up Ivy at the table, a pillow tucked behind her lest she slough off the chair. Her head lolled to one side.

  “Leavin’ early?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Gotta test ta study for.”

  He caught me looking at Ivy, and added, “She ain’t doing so good. Not sure yer step-mum has much longer, Owen. Ya best say yer goodbyes.”

  I hoped she would engage my eyes like she had last night, but her malaise was too great. Drool trailed from her mouth and her lips moved wordlessly. A bowl of porridge sat before her, nearly finished. Droppings of the meal mottled her bib.

  For the Crone.

  I was thinking about Jefferson as I set my book bag on the table and went to the cupboard. Pa watched as I opened it and scanned the medicines on the upper shelves.

  “Watcha lookin’ fer?” he said.

  “Cough drops.” I rubbed my throat, in what was surely exaggerated fashion.

  “I’ll find ya some.” He took hold of the door and moved me aside. “Go sit down and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  But I had seen what I needed. Indeed, the jarred elixir with the black berries that had occupied the upper shelf had been moved. And its contents were half drained.

  I had a mind to query then and there. What was this potion? Was he treating Ivy with it? If so, why? Surely medicine need not be delivered secretly in the cover of night. And why use the disrespectful term of crone to describe her?

  “Gotta get to school,” I said, snatching my book bag off the table. “Thanks anyway.”

  I kissed Ivy on the forehead and hurried out of the house.

  “What about them lozenges?” Pa called from the porch.

  “I’ll be all right.” I waved as I turned the corner of the house.

  On my way past the garden, I slowed and allowed my eyes to roam. The south-facing plots consisted mainly of herbs. Trellises made of willow switches rose here and there. A shovel stood propped against the sundial. At its base stretched a large section of mulch or compost. I cast my gaze past the garden to the orchard. The gloom had settled like a cloak between the rows of fruit trees now glistening with dew.

  Whatever had befallen our family, be it witchery or of human craft, I intended to educate myself as to its source.

  I followed the road to Stafford before joining the path through Sutter’s Well and hurried to school. Along the way, I encountered harvest dolls, like the one on our porch last night, propped on fence posts and barrels. These, however, displayed eyes formed from dried berries and nuts. All of them would be burned in the bonfire at town’s center this evening.

  Our school library always opened early, thanks to Mrs. Cubbedge, the librarian. The large, friendly woman was about as genuine a soul as one could find in Stafford. But it was her knowledge of the city’s history and customs that now drew me into her approximation.

  “Mornin’, Owen,” she said, her rosy cheeks a testament to the joy she embodied. “In early, I see.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I shrugged off my book bag and set it on one of the many long wooden tables. I approached her desk.

  “At this hour, you got the run of the place,” she said, sharpening a pencil. “‘Cept for Walter, of course. No one ever beats him.” She chuckled as she motioned towards the boy, sitting in the furthest corner of the room, his head of mussed brown hair practically buried in a book.

  Walter Berry looked up at the mention of his name. I waved, but he didn’t respond to the gesture. Instead, he returned his attention to his reading fare. Poor Walter was the subject of constant ridicule, most of it turning on him being son to the town drunk and local gravedigger. Often that ridicule involved some variation of replacing the name Berry with bury, and commenting harshly on his appearance. Walter was one of the hairiest boys in school. I could only wish to have the mustache of Walter Berry. However, his unkempt appearance made him look more wolf than boy.

  “What can I help ya with, Owen?” Mrs. Cubbedge said, cranking the handle on the sharpener and then blowing the shavings off the sharpened pencil.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but hesitated. Venturing further, I knew, would begin a chain of events I was not be prepared to endure. Still, the tortured expression of my stepmum haunted my imagination. I could not quell now in the face of discovery. I had to do something!

  The librarian wrinkled her brow. “What’s wrong, son. Ya look troubled.”

  Jefferson would not have cowered under the threat of evil. And if I was intending to honor his courage, then neither should I.

  “The festival,” I blurted.

  “The harvest festival?” Mrs. Cubbedge glanced at Walter. “Tonight?”

  I nodded. “I need to know… I mean…” I swallowed and also glanced
at the gravedigger’s son. Lowering my voice, I said, “I think that somethin’ bad… that my father…”

  I exhaled and hung my head. Such a coward! No wonder the darkness had swept in behind Mum’s passing. There was no one to hold it back!

  When I looked up, a shadow had passed over the woman’s features, eclipsing the joy that usually resided there. “I think I know what yer tryin’ ta say, Owen.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Follow me.”

  Mrs. Cubbedge swept out from behind her desk and waved me after her.

  I said she was a large woman and following behind her only confirmed that. However, the wake of her perfume was quite pleasant, which I was loathed to admit. I’d always enjoyed the musty smell of the books and it seemed that the further into the place she led me, the mustier that smell became. Our school library is by no means large, but the amount of books crammed into such limited space made one feel terribly claustrophobic. But in a good way. If someone must be surrounded, it might as well be with books.

  We followed an aisle that emptied into the historical section. There, she retrieved a large volume and placed it on a nearby table. She spread her palm atop the book and looked over her glasses at me. Her voice was hushed.

  “What I’m about ta tell you, Owen, is somethin’ that has troubled many residents of our fine city. It’s fortuitous that you’re here to query about this, but I cannot guarantee that the information I’m about to tell you will not complicate your life greatly.”

  She stared at me. Waiting.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nodded.

  She continued peering at me, her cheeks temporarily drained of their color. Then she nodded. “All right then.”

  Opening the book caused a bank of dust to waft into the air. Brushing it aside, Mrs. Cubbedge leafed through what appeared to be a scrapbook. Yellowed newspaper clippings and fading photos filled the pages.

  “It was my mother’s,” she said. “God rest ‘er soul. She died ‘fore the worst of it, but still lived to see the beginnin’ of the end.”