Soil and Ceremony

by Julia Byrd

  I ducked off the path and crept forward from among the headstones. She had come for some reason, and I wanted to watch her while unobserved myself. Why tell me she was coming if only to then steal inside? If she believed I would not mind the intrusion, she had overestimated the extent of the recent connection between us. Her lies and sneaking smothered any intimacy I may have briefly considered.

  Then, to my growing alarm, I understood her destination. Juno stopped in the infants’ corner. She shed her cloak and hat, baring her pale face and arms to the rain, and the lantern she balanced on top of a headstone. She faced the row of memorials. The last grave was open and empty, the one Everett had dug, and the one before it was still fresh.

  I waited, tense and crouched behind a stone, to see what she intended. Perhaps another plant would be stolen, and the only other witness was Maida House. Even the moon and stars were hidden by the rainstorm. I dashed my hair from my eyes with the back of one wrist.

  Juno clasped her hands before herself and tilted her face up to the sky. I could not make out her muffled words. Then she spread her arms and fingers wide, embracing the row of infant tombstones. I was reminded of our makeshift ceremony for the Viburnum tinus.

  She bent and rummaged in her sack for a moment, and when she arose, she held a glass canning jar, such as would be used for jams or pickling. The bottom inch held something dark and liquid. Was it wine? Juno pried open the lid, and I thought for a moment that she would drink.

  But instead, as I watched in increasing dread, she extended her arm. Graceful as a ballerina, she tilted the jar and poured a trickle of its contents onto the earth. Onto the first grave. The grass border between plots. Then the second. She stepped once, twice, the liquid falling in a thin stream and mixing with the rain.

  My mind froze when she crossed before the oil lantern. The anointing substance was lit by the flame in a brief flash, just long enough for me to identify a color. Red. Not like deep ruby wine. Blood red.

  I could watch in silence no longer. The ceremony took on an evil cast, and all my previous experiences with Juno Stephens darkened in my memory. The reverence offered to inanimate objects, the whisky she’d called a ‘potion,’ her ‘spell’ for my stammer. Even the herbs and grasses she grew hidden inside her home. It had all been a quirk, an eccentricity until she poured blood over the graves of infants. It was unholy. A wicked sacrilege.

  Being holy is only paying attention.

  “No!” I roared out my denial and burst from my hiding place. “Cease this desecration, witch!”

  She startled, whirled. The bloody vessel dropped from her wet hands. “Ben!” she gasped. “What are you—”

  “What are you?” I yelled. My anger was a clawing, coiling beast in my chest. “What foul deed is this? How dare you disturb the peace of these innocents?”

  She stepped towards me, palms up and outstretched. “You must understand that—”

  “I understand perfectly that you practice some dark art, but you won’t do it on this holy ground. Is it a coincidence that you emerged from the seclusion of mourning in the same month our village lost four babes?”

  “Is that what you think?” Juno recoiled. A thick lock clung to her cheek. “Yes, of course, it is! Ben, please, you must listen.”

  I stopped my ears to her plea, lest she enchant me again. Even so, my traitorous eyes strayed to her heaving chest, where the wet fabric of her dress hid little. I, too, was half-naked and dripping.

  “No, you must listen to me,” I said. “You bring more harm than you can understand. You may feel invincible in your dark ways, but Everett Toth and his family could pay the price for fears stirred in the village. I will not let that happen.”

  She seemed to shrink in on herself. “I helped you to free your voice, but I see that you cannot hear,” she said softly.

  “Get out. Now.”

  Juno retrieved her cloak and hat. As she passed by me, I folded my arms, shielding my chest and belly on instinct. She stopped and laid a hand on my forearm, turning her face up. I held my expression in stony stillness.

  “Ben,” she whispered. “I had hoped you might understand. I thought we were alike.”

  “We are nothing alike,” I growled. “Go, before I decide to haul you to the church for judgment.”

  “The church cannot judge me.”

  “God can, and He will.”

  Juno retracted her hand from my arm. “God doesn’t exist, Benjamin. I checked. I have lifted my face to the sun and moon and scoured my soul in search of a deity. I now know, and you would know if you really paid attention, that the heavens answer our cries only with silence. No one is judging us but ourselves. As you have shown, that is more than harsh enough.”

  I recoiled from her blatant heresy. “Get. Out.”

  She lowered her eyes, nodded once, and walked away. I followed a few paces behind to track her egress. Had she scaled the front gate? Was there a breach in the wall?

  But at the gate, Juno reached into her cloak again and extracted a heavy brass key. It was my gate key. The sight of it sent a sharp, shameful brand through my heart. I had been in her house, she had put her hands on me. I had thought—arrogant fool—she was attracted to me. In truth, she only wanted to steal my key to gain access for her wicked ceremonies. It burned my eyes and turned my stomach. “You are full of lies,” I hissed.

  The gates of Maida Green closed with the clamor of a cell door slamming. She was the heathen witch, yet I was the one locked inside with only the dead and my mortification for company.

  “Goodbye,” she said and tossed the key back through the iron bars.

  Chapter 7: Rite of Solitude

  I stewed over what to tell Everett the following morning. I had collected the glass jar Juno left behind, rinsed it of its foul dregs, and tossed it on the trash heap. No one should pickle beets in a vessel once used in a dark ritual. But I hesitated to explain it in those terms to Everett. Was Juno Stephens truly a witch? Despite hurling the word at her the night before, I had thought such stories were based in superstition and ignorance. Was I prepared to testify, to level charges against her?

  I reverted to old habits and said nothing. Perhaps my silence was due to some lingering sympathy for a woman whose wit and beauty I had appreciated, if only for a few days, or perhaps embarrassment at my unwitting involvement in her work. Had she laughed at me after stealing my gate key? Big, dumb Benjamin Hood fooled by a few smiles and flirtatious glances.

  Everett and I had little time to talk, anyway, because the latest infant funeral drew a large crowd to the cemetery. The rain had washed away any footprints or blood from the children’s section. As the two pallbearers lowered the small coffin into the grave, it swayed so lightly on its ropes that it may as well have been empty. I stayed well away from the mourners. When they were gone, we filled the grave and turned the sod over to cover the dirt.

  Later, I paged through my logbook and made myself a list of the four names and eight dates. None of the babes had lived more than a week, and the shortest life was only a day. I told myself I would pay a visit to the family on the top of the list, but the days slid by. I had no excuse for the delay other than my own discomfort.

  The whisky spell faded from my speech in proportion to my disillusionment with Juno Stephens. I fell into deeper and deeper silence. I said nothing to Everett about what she’d done that night. What I had really witnessed, after all? Was it another of her eccentric ceremonies, like giving thanks for a shrub? Odd but harmless, and likely not a concern for the church. People all over the countryside dowsed for water and tossed salt over their shoulders. They warned their children against felling hawthorns and nailed horseshoes over their doorways. Priests might frown but would hardly burn them all as witches. But whose blood had she spilled? Something had driven her to lie and steal.

  It was over a week later when I saw Juno—Mrs. Stephens, I sternly corrected myself—again in the village. I was walking to my mother’s house, and I came to an abrupt halt when she ap
peared in the street. A self-betrayal of desperate longing washed through me.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She was still beautiful, but some of the magic had gone out of her. She looked thinner, her eyes a little duller. I was no longer angry with her but with myself for falling prey to her tricks, and for failing to take a razor to my stubbled chin that morning.

  “You don’t wish to speak to me?”

  She gave a half-smile, and I stared for too long in silence.

  I straightened my spine. “I—”

  My gaze dropped to her neck, and I froze. Her black ribbon was gone, and in its place was a ring of purplish bruises. Distinct imprints of clutching fingers marred her flesh. It looked painful and fresh. For a frantic moment, I wondered if I had done it to her. Had I grabbed her by the neck that night? I had been so angry, and I had shouted terrible things. What if I’d sunk into some sort of black, mindless rage?

  No. No. I had never hurt anyone in my life, beyond bloodying Joseph’s nose a few times as boys. I had only shouted at her. I had only held Juno in her conservatory and smoothed my lips over that skin now marred by bruises.

  “Wh-who-wh-what—” I stammered terribly, all my questions piling out at once. She looked at me steadily, and I drew in a long breath. Exhaled. “Mrs. Stephens. What happened to your throat?”

  “Why is it your concern?”

  A fair question. It wasn’t any of my concern, and it wasn’t the time for a serious conversation. People eyed us where we stood facing one another in the street. Her voice was somewhat hoarse. I pulled up some of the shame and embarrassment she had caused in me, like threads in a tattered cloak, then drew my eyebrows together. “Quite right. You lied to me and stole from me, so I shouldn’t be surprised that somebody else also had reason to be angry with you.”

  “Reason enough to throttle me, Ben?” she threw back, and her dark eyes sparked back to life. “Is that what you suggest?”

  She had the nerve to be unhappy with me. I hadn’t done anything... well, she had some cause, maybe. I had called her names and made accusations. I had pulled her backside tight up against my hips and kissed her. She grasped her upper arms, the spark fading. She looked too young to be so tired.

  “Who did that to you?”

  Juno sighed, dropped her hands to bury them in her skirts. “It’s really none of your concern.”

  “If you’re in trouble—”

  “Good day, Mr. Hood,” she said, lifting her nose into the air. “Send my regards to Mr. Toth.” She brushed past me, leaving the lingering scent of sage on the air.

  It was better that she had interrupted me. What had I been about to offer? If you’re in trouble, come to me for help. A terrible idea. I could not trust her, and she didn’t like me. Anyway, I had made a similar offer to Everett and done nothing about it. Start with the task you’ve already shouldered. I took out the slip of paper with four names on it and stared at it. I would pay my first visit that evening.

  The resolution bolstered my mood, and I returned the slip to my pocket. But still, I didn’t care to see Juno in danger. Like a kicked dog returning to its master, my thoughts turned to her. I worried about cruel hands around her neck. Would she have worried over me in the reverse situation? I was nothing to her, almost a stranger.

  Later, back in my cottage, I found another scrap of paper and sat at my table with a quill pen and ink.

  Tell me you are not in danger. B. Hood.

  * * *

  I made the walk to Juno’s house after sundown, with no lantern, finding my way along the country lane by memory. Although her windows were dark, a faint thread of white smoke curled from the chimney. Lacking a black silk ribbon, I folded my note into quarters and wedged it among the plump leaves of the Crassula ovata by the front step. She would see it there.

  Then, finally, I turned my feet in the direction I’d been avoiding. The first family on my list was named Pfeiffer, and just over a month ago their infant son had passed. I had decided to start with the first death among the cluster because I could not imagine intruding on the fresh wound of the most recent loss. The Pfeiffer boy had been only three days old when he died. The Maida Green record book showed that the family lived in a cottage on the outskirts of the village.

  The hinge on the sagging gate squealed as I passed through, and a spotted goat grazed in a nearby pen. I should have thought to procure a bottle of brandy or a side of pork. A gift would have smoothed my introduction. If I’d had a wife, she would have paid a call on behalf of my household. No excuses. You told Everett not to worry.

  I resettled my coat and pulled off my hat, then knocked twice. From within, a child’s voice yelled something unintelligible.

  The door eased a few inches inward to reveal a sliver of a woman’s face. “Yes?” She sounded weary and pushed at a few wild hairs that floated across her brow.

  “Mrs. Pfeiffer?” I stuttered, of course, but I schooled my expression to pleasantness and hunched my shoulders so as not to loom over her.

  She squinted. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Ben Hood. Do you—” Do you know who I am? I almost said. But I could not ask her that. Already I was off to a bad start. “I work at Maida Green.”

  “The cemetery? We paid that bill, don’t tell me otherwise.”

  “No, no, it’s just that—may I come in?”

  The child called out again. “Mama? Mama? Mama!”

  “One moment, my love.” Mrs. Pfeiffer gave me another hard look. I smiled. She sighed, and the door opened.

  In the entryway, I slung my coat and hat atop others on a hook while Mrs. Pfeiffer hurriedly scooped a pile of darning off a chair. She gestured, and I sat. Everything about the cottage felt too small. I was an uninvited guest in a place not meant for me. A knee-high girl stared at me with round eyes. Her mother swept her up and deposited her somewhere in the back room, out of sight.

  “Mrs. Pfeiffer—” Damnation, the family couldn’t have had a worse surname for a stutterer. I cleared my throat. “Please accept my condolences for your recent bereavement.”

  “Ah.” She sank into the other chair like she hadn’t been off her feet all day. Her spine curled in on itself before she twitched and straightened, hands folding neatly. “Thank you.”

  “Such a terrible loss.”

  “Indeed.” The silence stretched for an extra beat. “Can I offer you tea, or—”

  “If I may ask—”

  We spoke atop one another, then lapsed into silence again. Mrs. Pfeiffer inclined her chin to indicate I should continue.

  I pushed a hand through my hair and leaned forwards. “If I may ask, what was the nature of your son’s death?”

  “The nature of it? Sad, I would call it. And frustrating. To carry a babe and then endure the pain of pushing him into this world, only to lose him—” She pulled in a sharp breath.

  “Were you ill during your…” Men didn’t have polite, conversational words for such things. “During your lying-in?”

  “Oh, no. Just the usual.”

  “Forgive me, but…what is usual?”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Mr. Hood, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “I’m not in the habit of discussing such matters with a stranger, let alone a man. If there’s nothing else, I must put Cora to bed.” She rose and glared down at me.

  I thought of Everett’s worried face, then splayed my hands palms-up on my knees. “Madam, please forgive my bluntness. I’m asking these questions not to stir up your grief or invade your privacy, but because several other babies died shortly after yours. In fact, the latest was just this week.”

  “And?”

  “And…with such a pattern of sad losses, I would like to ensure there is no illness in the area. Therefore, I am reviewing the circumstances.”

  “You? The gravedigger?” She snorted. “What, you don’t get paid by the shovelful? Or are you trying to organize your holiday schedule around the deaths of infants? I believe we’re finished here, Mr. Hood.”

  My
temper flared. I was only trying to help, and yet I faced scorn and sarcasm. I rolled to my feet without thinking. Her eyes widened, and she took a step backwards.

  “Who met the child during the brief span of his life? Did anyone handle him who was unwell?”

  She said nothing. From the other room, her daughter babbled to herself.

  “Your recollection might be able to prevent another woman from experiencing the same loss, Mrs. Pfeiffer. It could be important.”

  Her work-reddened fingers twisted together. “My mother was here for my lying-in. My husband and myself, of course. The vicar’s wife visited. My sister came and took Cora back to her house for those nights. A friend stayed the first night to look after me, and a few kind ladies brought a basket of bread and food for the house.”

  The network of women who coalesced around childbirth was a closed web to me. “A friend slept here? She handled your son?”

  Mrs. Pfeiffer nodded. “They all did. He was such a tiny thing; I don’t think he was ever laid alone for a moment of his life.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank God for that.”

  “Will you tell me their names?”

  “No one was sick, Mr. Hood.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Mrs. Wecker, Mrs. Toth, Mrs. Stephens, and Mrs. Hargreaves.”

  “Stephens,” I echoed. Juno had been here.

  “Don’t you go bothering them. They showed me kindness, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault my boy didn’t survive. It was God’s will. If you have children of your own, you’ll know their lives are so fragile in the earliest years.”

  I did know, but only because I had dug too many of their graves. She doesn’t know me. I’m the intruder here. I schooled my face back to pleasantness. “I’m sorry for taking up your time.” Outside, the gate hinge shrieked, and we both jerked our heads towards the door. “Thank you for your help. I’d best be going.”

  “Yes.”

  I grabbed my coat and hat as a man entered, presumably Pfeiffer. I bumbled my way through the briefest of introductions as Mrs. Pfeiffer bustled me out the door. Her husband was younger than I and understandably perplexed by my presence.