The Kingdom (24 page)

Twenty-Eight

A
ngus and I returned to the cemetery the next morning. The day was cloudless and so warm and peaceful I could hardly believe all that had transpired since I’d last been there. I now knew that Freya had been murdered, and she and her unborn baby were buried in the laurel bald.

But what could I do with the information? Going to the police was out of the question, and I wasn’t equipped to launch an investigation on my own. My interest in Freya and the hidden grave had already aroused suspicion, and I was being watched. From here on out, I had to be very, very careful. Until I could figure out how best to act on the ghost’s revelation, I had to continue the restoration as though I knew nothing. And as badly as I wanted to return to the hidden grave to look for clues, I didn’t dare go into the laurel bald alone. It was too remote. Too confusing.
There are places up there where you could hide and not be found for days. If ever.

As I made my way through the gravestones, I kept an eye on the mausoleum. With my back to the gate, I relied on Angus to alert me if something—animal, human or otherwise—came up the road or through the woods.

Armed with clippers and a machete, I attacked the overgrowth near the fence with a vengeance. Kudzu had crept in from the woods and had a choke hold on some of the monuments. The elongated stems curled around tree branches and entangled with briars, making the grove nearly impenetrable.

As I worked, squirrels foraged in the underbrush and birds twittered from the treetops. Despite everything that had happened, I began to relax. Like Papa, I loved working with my hands, and I found nothing more satisfying than uncovering overgrown headstones and markers.

But as I chopped deeply into the thicket, a feeling of claustrophobia overtook me. The vegetation was dense and insidious, and the harder I worked, the more entangled I became. Vines wrapped around my arms and legs and half-inch thorns stabbed through my jeans. As the flora closed in on me, the silence deepened. It was troubling, that quiet. I heard nothing in the underbrush now, and the birds had all flitted away. The only sound was my labored breathing and the swish of the machete.

A shadow passed over the sun, and as my head came up to track a lone hawk, I caught a whiff of something dead, something rotting.

I told myself an animal had crawled into the thicket and died. But suddenly I remembered the smell that had seeped through my open car window that day on the hill when I’d passed the old man in the overcoat. He’d had an animal carcass in the wagon, but I remembered thinking that the smell might have come from his own decaying flesh.

As I lifted a hand to my nose, a vine caught my arm and a thorn tore through my shirt. I pressed fingers to the scratch and brought away blood.

There was something strange about that thicket. Something unnatural. I tried to fight my way out, but vines snaked around my ankles. As I bent to free them, another twisted around my neck, and suddenly I was yanked off my feet. Before I could utter a sound, I was being dragged backward into the thicket as brambles ripped through my clothing and tangled in my hair.

I tore at the snare around my neck, tried to dig my heels into the ground to slow the momentum. Frantically, I clutched at the briars, oblivious now of the pricks. Inch by agonizing inch, I was being pulled into the heart of the copse… .

Angus was barking. The sound seemed a long way off. We were so deeply inside the thicket I could see nothing now but shadows. Nothing but darkness. The smell of rotting flesh grew stronger. I heard a rasping breath, and an image came to me of something not quite human towing me through the bushes… .

Oh, God, help me…someone help me, please….

Hands closed around my ankles. I felt a vicious tug and then another. Someone was pulling me back toward the edge of the thicket, and for a moment I was locked in a terrifying tug-of-war. The noose around my neck snapped, and I heard something that sounded like a squeal. Then silence. I lay still for a moment before I began to kick my way free.

“Stop thrashing, girl! You’ll tear your skin to ribbons.”

Tilly?

She was beside me, lifting my head. “Can you walk?”

“I think so…”

“Get up, then. Hurry!”

I felt it then, that awful wind. That dank chill that seeped down into my bones, down into my soul… .

“It’s coming,”
she whispered.

She handed me a machete, and together we whacked our way out of the brambles. Angus ran back and forth at the edge of the thicket, his bark as agitated as I’d ever heard it.

“Angus, run!” I screamed, and, taking Tilly’s hand, we tore after him, dead leaves swirling at our feet.

Fishing the remote from my pocket, I unlocked the SUV, and we all jumped inside. As I reached to start the engine, a crow landed on the hood and then another. The sky was suddenly black with them.

“What’s happening?” I asked fearfully.

“Don’t mind the birds, girl. Just go!”

I turned the ignition, pressed the accelerator and the car shot forward as the crows filled the cemetery, landing on headstones and monuments and swarming down upon that formidable circle of Asher angels.

* * *

We flew down the hill. Tilly rode up front with me, and Angus was in the back, head thrust over the console between us. I turned onto the main highway without slowing, and Tilly said, “Ease up, girl, before you get us all killed!”

I let up on the gas and flashed her a glance. “What was back there?”

Her gloved hands lay still in her lap. “I don’t know.”

“But you must have seen something.”

“You were all tangled up in them brambles. That’s what I saw.”

My voice rose in desperation. “Something was
there.
”

“Carry us to my house,” she said calmly. “You’ve got blood all over you.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You will care if infection sets in.”

“Tilly—”

“My house, girl. After I tend to them scratches, I’ll tell you what I know.”

* * *

She was silent the rest of the way to her home, and I was in so much pain I didn’t feel like talking. All I wanted to do was crawl into a tub of ice water to relieve my inflamed skin.

“Lie down here,” she said as she led me into a bedroom, and I stretched out on cool sheets.

“What about Angus?”

“I’ll put him out back.”

“He might run away. I’m worried about him going into the woods.”

“He won’t go into the woods.” She pressed me back into the pillows, and I closed my eyes.

She left the room for a few minutes, then came back smelling of fresh herbs. She placed a moist, cool cloth on my face, then gently peeled back my shirt and treated the scratches on my neck and arms.

“What are you putting on me?”

“An old remedy my mama taught me. You rest now, girl. Give that pokeweed time to draw the fire out.”

“But—”

“Shush. You rest and then we’ll talk.”

I closed my eyes. It was so cool and quiet in that little bedroom. I could hear Tilly puttering around in the house, and the birds were chirping outside the window. Such comforting sounds. So soothing. That terrible burn from the scratches began to subside, and I let myself float. I felt very safe here.

I must have fallen asleep almost at once. When I woke up, the noonday sun slanted through the window, and I lay there for a moment, still drowsy and drifting in that in-between space. Then I remembered where I was, and I sat up in bed. The cloth that Tilly had applied to my face was dry now, and I peeled it away. The flesh was still irritated, but much less inflamed. Her mother’s remedy had done the trick.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I sat on the edge as I buttoned my shirt and looked around. It was a sweet little room with blue willow plates decorating the pale walls and brightly colored birdhouses hanging from the ceiling. A patchwork quilt lay folded at the end of the bed, while homemade scatter rugs warmed the scarred wooden floor.

The room was pleasant…but oddly impersonal. No photographs adorned the nightstand, no lipsticks or perfumes cluttered the dressing table. And yet I somehow knew the room had been Freya’s. Where were all her belongings? I wondered. Her adolescent keepsakes? Then I remembered that she’d been dead for over twenty-five years. She would remain seventeen forever in the ghost world, but here time had marched on. Tilly had probably put away her things a long time ago.

A little porcelain sparrow sat alone on a shelf above the pine headboard. One of the wings was broken off, and I wondered why Tilly had kept it. Maybe it was symbolic of her work with injured birds. Or, more likely, it had been a gift from Freya, and now Tilly displayed it in a place of honor over her daughter’s empty bed.

Did she have any idea that Freya had been murdered? How could I possibly keep something like that from her? And yet what good would the truth do her now?

It was a terrible dilemma, and something twisted inside me as I stared at the bird. In some cultures, sparrows were believed to carry the souls of the dead, but I didn’t want to dwell on death at that moment, let alone murder, so I moved to the window to stare out. We were in the middle of the woods. I could smell the evergreens even through the glass and a whiff of spice now and then that lingered from Tilly’s remedy.

Turning from the window, I reluctantly left that little blue sanctuary and went in search of her.

She was out on the back porch working on a wounded mourning dove.

I glanced into the cage. “What happened to it?”

“Broken wing,” she said, and I thought of the little brown sparrow in that little blue bedroom.

“Is it going to be okay?”

“God willing.”

The injured wing had been fastened securely to the dove’s side with gauze, but the healthy wing lifted in agitation as those tiny black eyes tracked me. I kept my distance so as not to create undue stress.

“You look a good sight better,” Tilly said as she replenished the minuscule food tray in the cage.

“I feel better. Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along when you did. You seem to always be coming to my rescue.”

She said nothing to that, and to cover the awkward silence, I glanced around the cozy porch. I saw more bird cages at the far end, an old-fashioned porch swing and a comfortable rocker for keeping vigil. Outside, dozens of birdhouses were mounted on posts, and the treetops were alive with chatter and flitting bodies. I walked over to the screen to peer out. Angus saw me and came trotting up, whining to get in. “Tilly, why were those birds in the cemetery?”

“Let’s sit, girl,” she said as she moved to the other end of the porch. She took the rocker, and I sat down on the swing.