Mom and Dad had read that there was a graveyard on Ireland’s Eye. The guidebook wasn’t very clear about where it was, just noted that it existed and that it was somewhere behind the church, not far off a path that led up over the very top of the hill to the other side of the island. If you descended on that side you came to another abandoned village, a much smaller one called Black Duck Cove. It sounded pretty creepy to me.
So did exploring a graveyard. It wasn’t exactly my first choice for our next adventure, but Mom was getting her dark sense of humour back and wanted us to have our picnic there later on, so off we went. We found a path marked by rocks and very unlike anything anyone would choose to walk along—it was grown over and difficult to follow. It led straight into the woods and was even less recognizable once we got in there. But we stuck to a line where just small bushes and little trees grew amongst the bigger ones, and assumed that this must be what we were looking for. Before long we were reaching the crest of the hill and walking on rough but fairly flat land, with the woods thick all around us. It was a strange feeling. We were in a place that could have been near our cottage back home, yet we were miles from civilization, on Ireland’s Eye.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, its rays playing off the leaves, creating a strange glowing light in the woods. Daydreaming, I stared off at things—an old stump here, a fallen tree there—and before long was lagging behind. A few minutes later I looked up to say something to Mom and Dad and realized that I couldn’t even see them…anywhere. Panicking, I began to run, searching for glimpses of their white T-shirts in front of me, listening for their voices. I saw something glint, a sudden metallic flash in the trees, but it wasn’t them. My breathing got heavier and my heart started to pound.
As I rushed about I wasn’t paying attention to the treacherous ground beneath me and seconds later my foot caught on something and I fell. Instantly I was face down in the woods. But the feeling against my cheek wasn’t like the warm dirt of the earth or the tickle of pine needles—it was cold, clammy, and very hard. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked at what I was lying on. It was an overturned tombstone.
“Aaaaahhhh!”
Mom and Dad came running towards me, dodging trees and jumping over dead stumps, until they stood above me. But by the time they arrived I was on my knees, looking very embarrassed.
“It’s nothing.”
“No, it isn’t, Dylan,” said Dad excitedly. “It’s not nothing at all. It’s the graveyard. You’ve found the graveyard!”
And so I had, though I would have appreciated Dad’s sympathy a little more than his glee. Mom smiled at me and gave me a hug. There was motherly comfort in it, which I eagerly accepted. Sometimes you just have to be a kid.
“Look,” said Dad, still excited and quickly taking in everything around him. “You must have tripped on the fence. It’s lying flat all along here…but look into the woods. It’s still standing in there. We must be right on the fence line. I bet we could follow the whole outline of the graveyard if we wanted to!”
It had been a white picket fence. That was obvious from the bits of paint that had survived. It was a very strange sight. The fence went off into the middle of the woods, and a few feet away a rusted gate lay twisted, mangled by everything that had grown through it and around it. In among the trees you could see tombstones, some standing, others lying flat. They were tall thin slabs, rounded off at the top like the arches of church doors, perfectly cut by the hands of craftsmen. In their day they must have been white, but now many looked grey and ancient. The woods hung over everything like a ceiling and seemed to surround the tombstones, pushing them down and crowding them out as they tried to stay upright; moss grew over their surfaces in the wet, salty air. Here and there a wooden cross stood, weather-beaten and rotting. On the stones the carved words were deeply cut and written with great, flowing letters. They were blackened by the years and looked ominous.
I stood there in the dimming light with my mouth wide open. This was the final resting spot for the citizens of Ireland’s Eye. There were corpses under the ground all around us. Talk about the willies!
Death was scary enough on its own, but imagine being left behind here in the cold ground out in the Atlantic Ocean, while everyone else deserted the place and went away to the mainland. And yet it seemed sort of peaceful too. Lying face down on the tombstone in the silence of these woods I had felt an instant of peace. That is, until I got up and actually read the inscription.
William Snow,
Beloved Son of Elijah and Ruth Snow,
dead this summer day in the year of our Lord 1899,
age thirteen years, seven months, and two days.
May God bless him and keep him,
may his soul live forever.
It had taken me exactly one second to calculate that I was thirteen years, seven months, and one day old on this summer day—one day younger than William Snow!
“Tomorrow,” I told myself, totally freaking out. “What the hell happens tomorrow?!”
Out loud I said something else: “Let’s get out of here.” My voice was shaky.
“But it’s a lovely graveyard,” said Mom, making a desperate attempt at humour.
“No, it’s not. It’s not lovely at all! And I don’t mean we should just get out of here, I mean the hell out of Ireland’s Eye!”
With that I ran from the cemetery, along the path and out of the woods, past the church, down the steep hill, and all the way to the wharf.
Five minutes later my parents found me there, sitting in near darkness, dangling my legs over the water and fighting back tears, staring out at the opening to the harbour.
“What’s the matter, Dylan? Tell me.” It was Mom. She sounded truly frightened for me. Dad bent over and put a hand on my shoulder.
I spilled my guts. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told them about the things I had seen. The face in the church steeple, the lighted cigarette, my name carved on the desk, the roll-down map that went up and down on its own, the man in the grass near the kayaks, and finally the tombstone, that horrible tombstone.
I guess they could have argued about my situation, Mom telling Dad that she had told him so. And Dad could have told both of us to quit being wimps and get with the program. But instead they helped me, together. Like I’ve said, they’re pretty annoying at times, and wrapped up in their own worlds, but they usually come through in the crunch.
“Dylan,” said Dad, “I think you’ve been imagining things and I think you’ve also attached a little too much significance to a couple of coincidences, but I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll leave. It’s too late to go today, but we’ll pack everything up tonight and be gone at the crack of dawn in the morning. There’s no sense in having you terrified. That isn’t much of a holiday.” Then he gave me a hug. Mom smiled at both of us and gave Dad a hug.
I started to calm down. The best of all possible plans would have been to leave today, since tomorrow, whether it be the crack of dawn or midnight, was still the day when I would be exactly the same age poor William Snow had been when he died. But I tried not to think about that. Dad was probably right again. I was likely imagining things and getting worked up about a few simple coincidences. By the time the sun was halfway up in the sky we would be gone from Ireland’s Eye.
I looked out at the entrance. It was still storming.