Soil and Ceremony

by Julia Byrd

  Juno stepped up beside me. She waved to the people below, as cool as any queen greeting her subjects. “What witchcraft do you see, Mr. Greeley? Perhaps you refer to my endeavors on behalf of the health and wellbeing of local women.”

  I scanned the faces below and judged them to be growing restless with our stalemate. We needed to draw things to a conclusion.

  “Health and wellbeing,” he repeated, pale eyebrows drawn down in a glower. He was suspicious of becoming the target of a joke.

  “Indeed!” Juno said lightly. Her higher pitch cut through the night. “Much of my work is focused on the cultivation of nutritious foods for mothers and anyone suffering from pallor, shortness of breath, flaking skin, tiredness, headache, stomach upset—”

  “That’s true enough,” said a gruff voice. The crowd shifted and turned to identify the speaker. It was Mr. Johnston. An unexpected ally. “Hood served us one of her nutritious foods at his table tonight. No spells or witchcraft that I saw. It was just a bowl of leaves.”

  “But we are not trained witches,” Greeley objected. “How would you know if it was poison she tempted you with?”

  “Because it wasn’t very tempting,” said Johnston in his blunt way, and more people laughed.

  Greeley drew his shoulders back, preparing for another volley of arguments, but I preempted him.

  “My friends and neighbors,” I called out. I waited until everyone was looking at me, then smiled. If it was a little forced, they were too far away to see me falter. “I see no reason for conflict. You know my family.” I nodded towards Mother, all dignity and swooping silver hair. “We all know each other, and we should act like it. Everyone, please come in for refreshments and wine. Get yourselves out of this blowing weather. We have strawberry tarts made from fruit grown in our good, plain dirt.”

  Among the uninvited mob, no one moved. A few looked to Greeley for his reaction, but he was red-faced and indecisive. Branch stationed himself at the open front door.

  “Go on, then,” Everett muttered behind me. “Go on, you stubborn mules.”

  Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Johnston entered first, followed by the other dinner guests. The villagers lingered, pitchfork tines drooping and expressions turned wary. One man glanced back along the driveway as if considering the long walk home.

  “Well, Greeley?” asked one of the men. “You brought us all this way. Your girl looks safe enough to me. Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” he said loudly. “Sarah is mine. I will not be satisfied until she is back in her rightful place by my side.”

  “He talks about Sarah like she is a prized sheep,” Everett scoffed. His voice was pitched low enough that the man below would not overhear. “He wants to own her and control her breeding, not see her settled and independent.”

  “Yes,” said Juno. “Fatherhood is possession and control for him.”

  Something about that bothered me, but I didn’t have time to consider. The mob’s energy faded until they were no more than a knot of loitering villagers. They were still torn, however, between Greeley’s promise of violence and the temptation of a painless resolution—and desserts. Greeley himself seemed to be wavering, his shoulders hunched.

  “I am going down there,” I said. “We shall act as if everyone was invited and welcome. Understood? Make this all very neighborly.”

  “Understood,” Everett said. He plastered a huge smile on his face.

  Juno kept pace with me as I turned from the window and stepped off the stage, but she was less sure about the plan. “I’m terrible at pretending anything.”

  “I know,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I would not wish you otherwise. You may glower at Greeley all you like, just smile sweetly at the others.”

  We hurried down three flights of stairs to the main floor. In the crowded foyer, the dinner guests had intermixed with the invading mob quite naturally. Many of them were, after all, lifelong neighbors and acquaintances, albeit from differing levels of society. Mrs. Johnston chattered and teased two younger men, and Mrs. Hargreaves leaned on the elbow of a man who had been wielding a burning torch only half an hour prior. Slowly they filtered through the hall. I trusted Branch to seat them at the benches in the hot house.

  One man, a villager with a poorly healed break interrupting the bridge of his nose, planted himself in front of me. I stopped. Did he still hope to defy me? There was no room in the entrance hall for a fight. I turned my shoulder to angle past him, but he grabbed my arm. The man was nearly a head shorter than me. I narrowed my eyes and let my annoyance show. How dare he accost me in my own home? He removed his hand.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just wanted to mention…”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Don’t think Greeley had the right idea of things after all. Said Sarah was kidnapped, and such.”

  “She’s fine, I assure you.” I softened my voice and gave him a nod. “Dessert is being served through there.”

  The man did not yield. He twisted his hands together, plainly mulling over another comment. I forced myself to patience.

  “Mr. Hood was a good man. He helped me through a spot of trouble when I was young, and he never breathed a word about it. No questions, no sermonizing. Trusted me to know my own way forward.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. There had been many small loans listed in the Maida Estate account books, some repaid, others inked through without a reckoning. “My father had the best of—”

  “Not your father,” the man cut in. “Sorry, sir. No disrespect to him. But I meant the previous Mr. Hood. Your brother. He was a good man.”

  “Ah.” I fell silent. The remark would bear further consideration when I had the time and peace to do so. We rarely spoke of Joseph and rarer still of his many virtues. The man faded back into the group.

  When I shook off the unsettling exchange and turned to face the front door, I was beside Lucy and Mrs. Toth. The girl glared through the doorframe out toward Greeley. “I don’t like him. He’d better stay away.”

  I smiled at her fierce words. There was much in her that reminded me of Everett. “I agree wholeheartedly. But he’s Sarah’s father, so we’re trying to smooth things over.”

  “That man was at our house the last day I saw my cat.”

  “Your cat?” I repeated, surprised. “But I just saw your gray kitten the day before yesterday, when your mother trimmed my hair.”

  Lucy shook her head. Her own hair had been pinned into a chignon for the party, and it made her look older than her years. “That’s my new kitten. My old cat, Bluebell, disappeared. And she was going to have kittens.”

  Mrs. Toth set her hands atop Lucy’s shoulders. “I tried to tell you, Ben.”

  “You warned me about Sarah—”

  “Sarah didn’t leave home because her father was such an easy, understanding man. And that girl is still hiding things, even from herself. She doesn’t like to think about her mother.” Mrs. Toth’s face was unreadable.

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  She shook her head. “You haven’t asked the right questions. Get Greeley to talk to you.”

  Her implication rattled me. I tried not to make unfounded assumptions but found myself stretching for connections. We had all thought Greeley so pitiful, misguided but harmless until he showed up with a mob and a gun. Suddenly it was important to get him away from my house full of friends and family.

  “Mrs. Toth…I’m sorry I haven’t handled this better.”

  “Handle it now, my dear boy. And keep Everett out of it.”

  Greeley remained outside alone, still stubbornly mounted astride his cart horse. I went to stand before him and put a hand on the gelding’s bridle. A few of the torches had guttered, but most still burned. Firelight reflected off the musket gripped in Greeley’s right hand, its muzzle angled towards the ground.

  “Sarah has grown up, Greeley,” I said. “She is old enough to know her own mind and old enough to work. Mrs. Stephens is paying her fair wages.
Let the girl go.”

  Greeley stared into my face. I did not flinch from his hard eyes. Something in his expression was…disconnected. I wasn’t sure he heard me. He fidgeted in the saddle, and the horse tossed its head in irritation. I glanced over my shoulder as Sarah and Juno emerged to stand just outside the doorway.

  “Go on, then,” I urged, then tugged at the horse’s headstall. “Go home, Greeley.”

  The horse took one turning step, then another. Greeley did not resist, the reins loose in his left hand. I stepped back. He was leaving of his own free will. After he had gone, I could think about what Lucy’s missing cat might mean for missing children. Juno might find meaning in something I had overlooked. What had Sarah failed to tell us about her mother? What had I failed to ask?

  I didn’t notice when Everett came out of the house, but Greeley did. He turned his head sharply. I followed his line of sight over to Everett, who had stopped beside Sarah. With the casual intimacy the two had developed over the past few weeks, he slung an arm around her narrow shoulders, and she leaned into him.

  “What,” Greeley said. He sawed at the reins. The horse startled. “What is this?”

  Everett and Sarah sprang apart. Their expressions, guilty and abashed for no good reason, made my temper flare.

  “Nothing that happens on my property has anything to do with you,” I said. “Now go. That’s the last time I’ll say it.”

  Greeley ignored me. “With him?” he shouted. “Another Toth? How could you? How could you?

  Sarah cowered. Everett stepped up and positioned himself between Sarah and her father. I should have realized it earlier, but finally, the truth became unavoidable. Up close, I saw the difference in Greeley’s face that I had not seen from more distant vantage. In an instant, his eyes changed from flat to wide, wild, and utterly unfamiliar. By the tight line of her jaw, Juno saw it too. Greeley was unmoored. There was more to his anger than just seeing his daughter with a boy. We had underestimated him. His face suffused with blood, made horrible by the red torchlight, and his right hand tightened on the musket.

  I jumped forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle again. “Another Toth? What do you mean?”

  He leaned over the horse’s shoulder and spat on me. It was so unexpected that I did not dodge. Juno, somewhere behind me near the house, took in a gasping breath, a noise of shock. I swiped saliva from my cheek and temple.

  “You would ask me that, wouldn’t you?” Greeley jeered. He was damp and twitching under his coat. “You don’t know when to keep silent. You’d think a man who can hardly speak would make less of a habit of it. Instead, you’ve been asking questions and harboring witches. None of this would have come about if it weren’t for you, Hood.”

  “What do you mean by ‘another Toth’?” I repeated.

  “She wronged me, but she’s still mine. I don’t give up what’s mine.” He yanked savagely at the reins, but the bridle was still clenched in my hand. The poor cart horse snorted and stamped in distress. “I’m collecting Sarah and taking her home to the others.”

  “Greeley,” I said. A dreadful uncertainty washed through me and lodged in my throat. “What others?”

  “Come on, Sarah,” he said.

  “Who else?” I demanded.

  The musket barrel swung up over the horse’s neck and leveled at my face. “Stop asking me questions!” Greeley screeched.

  I stood motionless. Oddly enough, the long gun pointed at me was less terrifying than speaking to the assembled crowd had been. The immediate threat seemed to clarify my thoughts, forcing aside considerations of embarrassment and concern for the others. I focused on Greeley and his gun. Despite his mounted position, despite the weapon, he looked like a cornered animal.

  He believed he was defending himself. From what? There was hidden guilt there if I could uncover it.

  “And if I don’t, you’d shoot an unarmed man on his own property?” I lifted my eyebrows, mocking. “That’s not going to happen. I’ll tell you what we are going to do. Sarah’s not going with you, but I will. Take me instead. You are going to show me. Do you understand?”

  Something sparked in his fevered eyes. The idea caught his interest.

  I spoke again before he could think better of it. “Whatever it is, whatever is on your mind, you’ll feel much better after having shown someone. Just me. Big, dumb, Benjamin Hood. Are you listening, Greeley? Are you paying attention?”

  Slowly, I raised a hand and pushed the muzzle aside. Greeley twitched. Perspiration ran down both sides of his ruddy face despite the cooling breeze. His expression shifted to triumph. “Oh, I can show you,” he whispered. “I suppose you’d be the right man for the job, eh? You won’t like it, but I can show you. Perhaps you might even come to understand.”

  I swallowed hard. What would I be forced to witness? “Fine.”

  Swiftly, so Greeley could not object, I took three strides and wrapped Juno in my arms. The embrace was a welcome reassurance, but my true motivation was to whisper in her ear. “Watch over them while I’m gone,” I said through the dark curtain of her hair. “Keep them safe. I love you.”

  “Ben.” Her arms tightened around my ribs. “No, I want to—”

  “Leave the witch!” Greeley shouted, pointing the musket at us. “Back up.”

  I released Juno and stepped away. Her lips compressed into a thin line. After the gun drooped, I approached Greeley’s horse and swung up to ride pillion. With a shout and a shift of his knees, he urged the beast into a canter. I stared back at Maida House as we rode away, still aglow for a festive dinner party.

  Chapter 28: Wrong of Exhumation

  Greeley, hunched before me on the horse, was overheated and yet shivering, as if in the grips of a fever. I grasped the cantle rather than hold onto him. The wind at our backs hurried us along.

  I half-expected we would return to his house in the village, or perhaps his childhood home. So long as Greeley pointed himself away from Maida House, chock full of villagers and vulnerable dinner guests, I didn’t care about the route we took.

  The hour must have been nearly midnight. Even in the darkness, even peering around Greeley’s form, I knew when we turned off the road leading into the village.

  We weren’t going to his house. He was taking me into Maida Green.

  The cemetery’s implacable walls and wrought-iron gate came into view. Visible above the walls, the treetops danced in the breeze, making the burial ground come alive. To disrupt their graceful routine with Greeley’s noisy ranting seemed wholly unnecessary.

  “Why are we—” The answer came to me before I finished the question. I recalled a passing comment made by Sarah, and a dark granite headstone, the rock nearly black with a single vein of white quartz, with the name Anna Rose Greeley carved in careful letters. “Your wife. She’s buried here.”

  Greeley reined the horse to a walk, then pulled up just before the gate. The metal was still scored from his earlier attack on its lock. “Shut your stammering mouth. Go and open the gate.”

  I dismounted and pulled the thick brass key from my pocket, thinking furiously. Mrs. Greeley, Sarah’s mother, had been one of the earliest inhabitants of the cemetery. Her death must have been nearly eight years ago. Clearly, the loss still affected Greeley.

  The iron bars parted on silent hinges. Greeley rode in like a conquering barbarian arriving to sack a city. I closed the gate after him and relocked it. Without waiting for me, he rode along the main path towards the oldest section of the park.

  “I’m going for a lantern,” I called out.

  He ignored me. I jogged to my cottage. Inside, I had the disorienting sense of intruding into another man’s space, as if I might discover an untroubled sleeper in the narrow bed. The rafters felt too close to my head. Whose razor, whose chipped crockery on the table? All the simple possessions were mine, but I hardly belonged to them anymore.

  I collected the oil lantern and set it alight, then hesitated. If it came to a struggle, what could I use for a weap
on? My straight razor was sharp, but I blanched at the thought of slicing Greeley’s throat.

  Instead, I went out to the lean-to. One spear-bladed shovel had soaked enough of my sweat into its beechwood shaft that we were familiar companions. It would make a fine deterrent. I hefted it and hurried to catch up with Greeley.

  On the path I passed the cart horse, his reins trailing loose. The big gelding cropped at the dewy grass and paid me no mind.

  Greeley was crouched exactly where I had expected to find him, in the third aisle before his wife’s tombstone. I approached quietly and placed the lantern atop the stone. The musket had been propped against the neighboring grave marker, so I did the same with my shovel.

  As always, Maida House loomed on its nearby hill, but it no longer looked deserted. Smoke streamed from the chimneys, and several of the windows glowed with candlelight. The flames of the last few torches reflected against the façade. I positioned myself opposite the house to avoid drawing his attention to it. Maybe Greeley would forget all my people bottled up within.

  “Greeley,” I said. I was entirely out of my depth. In search of something to say, a platitude escaped my lips. “Your wife... She would have wanted her daughter to be happy.”

  He kept his face angled towards the tombstone. The oil lantern illuminated the date of Anna Rose Greeley’s death, the eighth anniversary of which would occur in the spring.

  “You don’t know what Anna would have wanted.”

  He was right. If I’d ever met the woman in life, I didn’t recall her. I scarcely remembered digging her grave. In those early days, when I was floundering in grief for my brother and worry over the estate’s debts, I had worked in the cemetery with single-minded fervor, collapsing each night in exhaustion and blisters.

  “What did you intend to show me? The grave?”

  He sank from his haunches to sit in the damp grass. “I cannot allow my Sarah to go away. It was bad enough when it was that Stephens witch who took her, but certainly not the Toth boy. It’s unthinkable that it should happen again.”