4
“You could’ve been killed! What if there were wolves out there? Or a coyote, at least.” Jenna’s agent was using her ”mother” voice, or maybe it was more like an older sibling, considering only twelve years separated them. Whatever the case, there was a definite scolding in her tone as she learned of the nocturnal adventure.
“It was fine,” Jenna said. Her sore leg was propped on a pillow, and her mud-spattered clothes and boots had been exchanged for a camisole and pajama pants as she rested on the hotel’s four poster bed—although part of her wished to be back in the woods, a flashlight in one hand as the other parted thick branches to find a gravestone hiding beneath. “I just lost track of time after I spotted the first grave. And get this—there are a dozen at least. Probably a lot more hidden beneath the storm damage, as well.”
“It’s hard to make out anything from these pictures you e-mailed,” Joyce said. “Except that most of them have been smashed into about a hundred pieces.”
Her tone was skeptical, her expression easy for Jenna to picture after two-and-a-half manuscripts together. A trim, orderly figure in business clothes, Joyce Edel disliked surprises as a general rule, but especially those involving a client’s manuscript. No doubt, she envisioned this discovery as interfering with the New Orleans site the editors were so keen on having featured.
“I know the markers are in rough shape,” Jenna began, a defensive note creeping into her voice, “but it’s amazing that anything could survive those conditions. Especially something so fragile. Some of them could have a Civil War connection,” she added, thinking of the dates on the stones in the town.
“Un-huh,” Joyce murmured noncommittally. “The lighting is really dim in these pictures. Please tell me you won’t go tramping through any more unfamiliar woods. Not at night, at least.”
“I won’t,” Jenna promised. She had marked tonight’s path with some rolls of flagging tape from among her knapsack’s supplies. There would be no trouble locating it from the main trail next time.
“Any special engravings?” her agent prompted. “All I can see is what looks like an arched doorway.”
“I think it’s a half moon, actually.” Jenna glanced at the picture gallery on her computer screen, double clicking to enlarge the image of stone that bore the name, CHARLEY.
“Yeah, it’s definitely a crescent, but it’s inverted. And it’s got another shape laced through it…” She trailed off, frowning. “There’s a lot of rust covering it, but I can probably clean that off.” She expected such gravestones to be simple in their designs, given the time and condition from which they came. Yet this basic carving was equally interesting to her mind as she tried to fathom its meaning for Charley, whoever he may have been among the town’s early citizens.
“I may have stumbled on a good interview source,” she told Joyce before they hung up for the night. “A mason who actually lives pretty close to the gravesites. Apparently, he keeps up the old method of carving stones by hand.”
“Interesting,” said Joyce, sounding as if she actually meant it this time. “Maybe he can tell you if there’s a story behind the place. Something to make up for the lack of photographic material.”
Of course, there was a story worth telling behind every gravesite she investigated. The problem was finding someone who could remember it. In this case, the stone carver seemed the most likely candidate for the job, though she couldn’t say why exactly.
If he did know something of the old burial ground, he must be indifferent to its fate. Why else would it still be abandoned when someone so qualified to salvage it lived but a half mile away?
She couldn’t get the idea out of her head, even as she tried to sleep. Moonlight threw shadows on the floor in the form of long branches waving outside her window. As a girl, Jenna pretended such shapes were the bony fingers of a wandering spirit, reaching out in a desperate bid for human contact.
At this moment, a very different—and very real—image haunted her mind. The memory of a figure crouched before a stone engraved with an exquisite ivy pattern. The sculpted vine had seemed almost life-like as it crept across the stone’s surface, the detail as vivid as the colorful bouquet of wildflowers clutched in the man’s hand.
It was assuming too much to think the grave’s occupant might be the cause of the man’s weary expression. She knew almost nothing about him, after all, not even his name. Just an occupation listed on a battered sign she’d found in the wilderness.
Jenna clicked the recorder on, holding the device close to her mouth. Her breath formed small clouds in the morning air as she noted the layout of the burial ground.
“Twenty-three possible gravesites located so far. I’ve unearthed several half-stones with broken pieces still lodged in the earth. These could go several inches deep, so I’ll need a spade and a metal probe for further investigation.”
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, strolling among the rows to examine the recovered monuments. There was something here that puzzled her, something she hadn’t seen at any of the other locations she’d unearthed across her travels. It was the kind of angle Joyce would appreciate, especially if she could find out the reason behind it.
She continued speaking into the recorder. “Seven of these markers bear identical half-moon engravings. There’s another image laid over the crescent—something like a capital letter V, though it’s hard to tell, given the amount of dirt and damage.” It was a strange design, unlike any she had seen among the common grave symbols that dominated most cemeteries. She supposed it must be a regional thing. “There are few dates given for birth or death,” she continued, “and no obvious connection between the stones that bear the symbol.”
Could they be slaves? It might explain why they had been buried in the north section of the yard, a part sometimes reserved for outcasts and so-called “inferior” citizens. The area seemed too poor to have so many servants, though. Plus, no slave would have been given the honor of a decorative memorial, unless they were unusually close to their master’s family.
“Whatever the reason, these stones have been set apart—isolated.”
All except one, she learned. The only marker with the cryptic half-moon engraving to appear elsewhere in the yard, its carving had escaped her notice the first time. Nestled beneath the shade of an old sycamore, it kept company with two stones that bore entirely different carvings.
Crouching beside it, she let her gaze roam across its faded limestone surface. “Looks like her name was Mariah. It’s hard to be sure,” she said, scrapping her fingernail along the letters that were caked with rust. “Last name appears to be Moore.” Surprisingly, there were only a few cracks in the stone’s surface, making her certain it could be cleaned at some point to reveal the owner’s full identity.
“Doesn’t look as if there’s a date anywhere,” she continued, moving on to other details. “It’s a flat marker, placed beside two stones that stand upright. These monuments are…” She paused in a moment of surprise, her fingers reaching for the stones as she murmured, “Wow,” in a voice too low to reach the recorder.
She couldn’t explain it. The stone with the moon carving had somehow ended up next to a pair of graves that were much newer in appearance, marble monuments that seemed extravagant compared to the slate and limestone of the other graves.
“This is weird,” she admitted, speaking into the machine again. “Every other marker I’ve examined in this yard bears characteristics that point to pre-1870. Meaning the cemetery probably fell out of use sometime after that. So why are these two stones—which are clearly from the 1890s, maybe early 1900s—buried here instead of in town?”
And why were they next to the stone with the moon carving? This was the part that puzzled her most, as if there had to be some reason for these three monuments to be together, just as there was for the tombs that were isolated in the back part of the yard.
It was a question she left hanging as she examined the newer markers. “A. D. Widlow,” Jenna read aloud from the first one. “There’s a carving of a sword and shield at the stone’s base. Could mean he’s a veteran,” she added, thinking his birth date would have made him a young man at the time of the Civil War. Goosebumps raised on her skin when she touched the military style insignia, still visible beneath the grime.
The stone beside it bore a simple carving of a violet blossom. “Another Widlow grave, probably a spouse. Maybe a sibling. First name is Nell. “
But who was this Mariah Moore, then? A relative, perhaps, or a close friend. It struck her as odd, the possibly married couple and a woman who died years before, judging from the appearance of her headstone.
No inscription graced any of the tombs, making her sigh with frustration. The more personal she could make this the better, for both her readers and the poor souls forgotten among the wilderness. No doubt, there would be a mountain of paper sorting ahead, once the names and dates were catalogued and the photographs taken from every possible good angle.
She checked her watch, frowning at the time that remained between now and the historical society’s opening hour. There was little else she could do here, until she had reported the cemetery to the local authorities and secured the tools she needed for further recovery. Overhead, leaves rustled, drawing her gaze upwards, where a cloud of smoke rose along the skyline.
“Time to seek professional advice,” she told the recorder, switching it off as she moved in the direction of the masonry shop.