Ghosts of Graveyards Past (5 page)

This project was a little more challenging than most he received—a duplicate of a marker from a Savannah cemetery. The 1782 original had been damaged irreparably in an act of vandalism that left it more dust than stone, the criminals blasting it apart with a chainsaw that sent bits flying in every direction.

“Just
awful
,” the deceased woman's descendant had confided over the phone, her Southern accent infused with a drawl that belonged in a Tennessee Williams play. A member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, his newest customer was more conscious than most of the importance of preserving monuments for one's forebears.

She had mailed him the remnants of the stone, along with a series of photographs taken before it was hacked apart. “Those young men should be in jail,” she had told him forcefully. “Disrespecting the dead like that.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, hoping nothing resembling guilt had crept into his tone, the memory of a youthful indiscretion that rose every now and again to cause him discomfort despite the passage of time. In a way, carving this stone was like an act of penance for that long-ago mistake, as was every other project that entered his shop over the years.

He had scraped and chiseled so many stones since that fateful night that it seemed almost to wipe the transgression completely away. Each project was like a clean slate, enabling him to start anew, until the error faded to a shadow in the back of his mind.

Surely that was the sort of scar Father Brin had meant, the kind that stayed with one, but somehow lost the power to make one bleed. He tried to imagine a similar means of purging his grief for Colleen, but the two scenarios didn't compare.

Prayer and time—that was his only solution at the moment. Not a quick one, but slow, like sand flowing piece by piece through an hourglass.

Leaning over the stone, he studied the damage. A small bruise had appeared where his chisel bit too deep moments before. He would need to file it, removing the blemish far more easily than the one he dressed on his own hand.

He unwound the nearby canvas belt to study a selection of steel files, tools far older than himself that were well preserved by their meticulous former owner. The largest was diamond-tipped, and he began to pull it from the compartment, when a knock sounded on the door.

Was he expecting a delivery? He tried to remember ordering supplies from anywhere besides the local hardware store. There were no future commissions scheduled to arrive, no packets of photographs and gravestone rubbings to guide him in replicating an antique headstone.

Another rap sounded against the storm door that framed the heavier wooden one. It had an urgent sound, making him release the tool and cross the room to confront the visitor.

 



 

It was not a deliveryman, but a woman. Young, with a pale complexion and gold hair that curled past her shoulders. Her jeans and boots were crusted with mud, her gloved hands clutching a notebook that looked as if it had seen better days.

Before either of them spoke, her gaze fell to where his bandaged hand rested on the door knob. Blood had seeped through the fabric, leaving a dark, rust-colored stain. He automatically moved it out of sight. “May I help you?”

“I hope so.” Green eyes met his gaze with a force that left him unsettled. There was excitement buried in their depths and also a sense of eagerness that he found puzzling. “Are you”—she glanced quickly at the sign above the door—“Con Taggart? The stone carver,” she added, as if to be extra clear, eyes re-meeting his with another rush of concentration.

“Yes,” he said. So she was a customer, then. The notebook, he presumed, would contain sketches of whatever stone she was wanting commissioned or restored. It was strange she hadn't phoned first, considering the remote location. Most who drove back here needed a vehicle capable of off-road navigation, but he didn't even see a car in the drive.

“At last,” she said, as if starting in the middle of a conversation. A relieved laugh escaped. “I had to find you by accident. You should really find a better way of advertising such a rare skill, Mr. Taggart.”

He nodded, trying to follow this stream of logic. Before he could form a reply, though, she was talking again.

“I need your advice about something,” she said. “A book I'm researching that involves abandoned cemeteries. I've been documenting a site all morning and found some unusual engravings—” She broke off for a moment, ruffling the pages in the notebook. Only a breath's pause passed before she continued. “I took some rubbings from the stones, which were pretty rough, considering a storm seems to have ravaged the whole area in the past. Most of them were too fragile to copy, but I do have one here that is fairly detailed. Where is it now…”

A sense of confusion enveloped him, along with fatigue from the late night work sessions. Running a hand through his already mussed hair, he finally managed to break into the conversation. “I don't understand. What are you talking about?” It was so blunt that he almost winced the moment the words left his mouth.

The woman didn't seem offended, though. She continued to page through her notebook, finally holding it up to reveal a crayon copy of something that resembled a half-moon. Another shape was laid over it, the detail hard to discern in the coarse shading.

“I keep finding this design,” she explained. “And I hoped that you might be able to tell me something about it.” She glanced past him to the interior of the workshop. “Is it possible for me to come in for a minute?”

Con's face grew warm with the realization he was using the door like a shield, his foot propped against it in a defensive stance. It was as if he were trying to form a barrier between him and this person with her unexpected train of questions.

With a brief nod, he pulled the door open wide, letting her pass into the small shop. Dust and chalk layered the counters and floor along with bits of stone that chipped off during the sculpting sessions. He hadn't swept the place in days, and the area seemed as neglected as his own scruffy appearance.

The woman glanced around, taking in the general untidiness. Her gaze wandered over the pictures on his counters, the sketches of gravestone designs pinned to the cork board beside the window. The only semblance of order was in the tools that he kept hung from the wall or rolled inside canvas to prevent the edges from growing dull. He shoved aside a pile of tangled extension cords with his foot. “You'll have to overlook the mess,” he said in a voice somewhat gruff with apology. “Manly arts tend to generate a hazardous work environment.”

This statement elicited a small smile from the stranger, who glanced back at him.

He toyed with the bandage, twisting the frayed bits of fabric on the end. Why this was making him nervous, he couldn't explain. The isolation must be getting to him, the only reprieve from it having been yesterday's visit to Colleen's grave. That had been his only conversation for the week. A one-sided one, filled with allusions to events long past, which was the only means of keeping his old self alive. It kept that self from chipping away like the stones he glued and pieced back together on a weekly basis.
Not now
. The possibility of slipping into a darker mood threatened.

Across from him, the woman was leaning against the work bench to examine the rose-festooned cross. “Beautiful,” she said, looking up at him with genuine admiration. For the stone, of course, though part of him couldn't help the flush that scorched his face, his gaze cutting awkwardly to the side. “So Miss—”

“Jenna Cade,” she told him, spreading her notebook across the only cleared space on the work bench. “I'm a non-fiction writer—well, a history writer, to be specific. Sylvan Spring is part of my research for a manuscript.”

“Right,” he said, crossing to the bench. He braced his hands against it, wincing at the pressure against the injured one. She probably thought he was some kind of eccentric, holing himself up with his work, barely taking the time to shower, eat, or sleep. Lately, that wasn't far from the truth.

She tapped the notebook with its strange drawing. “I really need you to look at this and tell me what it might symbolize. I know that certain carvings have universal meanings—faith, salvation, resurrection. But I've never seen one like this before.”

There was a hopeful edge in the request as she angled the book in his direction. He leaned past her shoulder to study it, careful not to brush even the fabric of her coat. It surprised him that she didn't move away, as most people would when placed so close to a stranger. Instead, he felt her gaze scanning his face with an interest that caused him to glance away when he stepped back again.

“You're saying this was on a grave you found in the woods?” he asked, pretending to assess the possible significance of the symbol. In fact, he had no clue what the engraving might mean. It was unlikely to be religious, with the moon being a favorite sign among folklore and agriculture. Beyond that, he was helpless to form an opinion.

“Not just one grave,” she answered, flipping the notebook's pages.

More gravestone rubbings whizzed past, some with only dates and names from what he could glimpse.

“There's a burial ground with at least twenty-three stones a half mile south of here, with markers that are dated hundreds of years back.”

“A burial ground,” he repeated, his voice somewhat hollow. It was hard to believe, and his initial reaction told him to doubt it. His exploration of the woods had revealed nothing more than a handful of markers scattered throughout the abandoned homestead sites. But that was a far cry from twenty stones, or however many she had claimed to find.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because when a stone ruptures, it may look like more than one marker but actually—”

She cut him off with a shake of the head. “I've already matched several of the headstone pieces together. Believe me; this is a cemetery, not a few family graves.”

Con considered this for a moment, thinking how strange it would be if she was right. A forgotten cemetery within walking distance of his shop, its stones crushed beneath the debris of a powerful ice storm that tore through the landscape years before, knocking down trees all over town.

“You've never heard of it?” she asked, surprise in her tone as she attempted to catch his eye. “The man I spoke with in town—a caretaker at the cemetery—thought you would be an authority on the subject. He said you knew about the local gravesites.”

“Only the ones at the homesteads,” he explained. “I have an arrangement with some of the property owners. They let me use stone from the old foundations in some of my projects. I've seen family graves but never more than two or three at each place.”

“I see,” she murmured.

She looked disappointed, making guilt ripple through him. He felt the need to justify his ignorance. “I've only lived here—as in this part of town—for a few years. My, uh, wife and I…we moved here after she finished college.”

A subtle change flickered over her expression with the words. Her gaze went to the hand where his ring finger was currently hidden by the bandage. He knew it was empty beneath the fabric, a faint impression of where the band used to sit visible amidst his tanned skin. He cleared his throat, moving away from the subject he least wished to discuss. “I used to live in a neighborhood just past the town high school. My family moved there from Kansas City when I was fifteen.”

“So you're not fully a native,” she said. “I should have known—the accent's a little different.”

This seemed to count against him, making Con wonder what she expected to find. A local expert, probably, with all the answers to the town's long-lost graveyard.

“You worked with the former mason, though,” she said, brightening a little with this important piece of information. “Mr. Sawyer, right?”

“He taught me,” he admitted, wondering how that could matter. Unless she thought his instructor possessed some knowledge of this place that he had since passed down to his apprentice or left behind in old paperwork.

“I'm sorry,” he began, seeing the hope fade from her face again, “but there's nothing I can tell you about this cemetery. I've never heard of it, from Mr. Sawyer, or anyone else.” Handing her the notebook, he added, “As for the moon, it can symbolize different things—rebirth, cycles of life, victory even. Probably it's not a faith symbol, though. More of a cultural thing.”

She considered his words, staring at the image with a blank look. After a moment, she pulled a pencil from her knapsack and scribbled something in the corner of the headstone rubbing. Tearing it from the notebook, she held it out to him with quiet pleading in her green eyes. “My cell number—in case you think of anything.” Her hand brushed his bandage, urging him to take it, waiting until his fingers curved around it before she turned towards the door. Halfway there, she turned back and offered him a smile. “Thanks, by the way. For what you do, I mean. It's really nice to see someone keeping up the old traditions, putting the time and detail into these old monuments.”

He didn't know what to say, especially considering he'd practically dismissed her a moment ago. He managed a mumbled “Thanks,” before crossing the room to hold the door open. She walked down the path, her hair ruffled in the breeze.

How did she even find the cemetery? He wondered this, now that it was too late to ask. She was more of a stranger to this place than he was, yet somehow she uncovered a piece of history lost to it for who knows how many decades.

Alone again, he contemplated the gravestone rubbing. He had never duplicated this pattern in any of his restoration work. There were none like it in the old section of the town cemetery, either.

A crescent moon turned on its side. The symbol laid over it was harder to guess, though he felt it could be an arrow, bent or broken. Such a symbol was often used to represent something about mortality or danger.