He slammed the blade of the shovel into the earth and turned, but something stopped him. He turned back, closed his eyes, and saw the image of the equal armed cross he wore about his neck. It surrounded the grave. He took the spade in hand again and cut the arms of the cross carefully into the soil, extending them to either side of the grave. The shadows had grown very deep by the time he stopped, satisfied with his efforts.
He dragged his mother's limp body to the grave and knelt by her side. He lifted her easily, ignored the queasy sensation in his stomach, and knelt again to lay her gently into the earth. He wished he had more time. There were words he should speak. He also wished he'd brought the small leather bag from the box on her fireplace mantel, because he knew her rituals as well as those of her father. He knew how to call to the archangels, and he knew that, whether or not there was actually any power in such actions, his mother had believed that there was.
He stood and clutched a handful of loose earth in his right hand. He tossed a pinch of it to the North. He whispered the names, but somehow the words gained strength as they were released. He heard them and would have sworn they echoed off the peaks, each in turn.
He circled the grave slowly, and each time he turned a new direction, he tossed another pinch of earth into the grave in the proper direction. When he had finished, he knelt at the head of the grave and bowed his head. He spoke a single word.
"Charon."
The last of the dirt trickled between his fingers and down into the grave, dusting his mother's pale, bloodless face. Abraham reached into the grave, leaning down so close his chest brushed the earth. With two fingers he closed his mother's eyes gently, then he stood, and with even, rhythmic scoops, shoveled the soil back into the grave. When he was done he patted the top of the grave carefully. There were stones piled beside the shed, and he went to them, gathering them up one at a time and carrying them to the grave. He placed them as he had tossed the soil, and he repeated the names, a little louder this time. He also placed stones along the lengths of the arms of the cross he'd dug. When he was done, the grave was marked, top to bottom and side to side, with strings of stone.
He stood and stared for a long moment. He willed his mind blank, and then he concentrated on her face. He remembered words he'd heard her speak. He remembered the smell of her and the warmth of her arms. He remembered long nights reading by the fire as she rocked and sewed, and late nights filled with the magic of her stories. Images of his father wove in and out of the memories, blended, and took root.
Abraham turned back to the cottage. The trees seemed to have backed away from the stone walls. The sun had passed beyond the tree line, but it glowed in the uppermost branches and lent an eerie half-light to the clearing. Shadows filled the corners and leaked from the trees, but they held no particular malice, only a lack of light.
Abe leaned the shovel and the spade against the wall beside the door, opened it, and stepped into the old cottage. In the distance a bird cried, and he flashed on his dream, the church windows glowing and voices chanting, those eyes, searching and malevolent. He shook it from his thoughts and closed the door behind him.
THIRTEEN
Abraham knew that, as he'd been alone in burying his mother, he would have no help in what he did from here on out. He circled the small cottage slowly, took in all the chips and chinks the years had doled out and filed them away in his mind. He thought briefly of the house on the beach, and of Katrina. His life away from the mountain had seemed very simple. Now, with the daunting task ahead of him of clearing a way back to the church through that thicket, patching the walls and roof of the cottage, and lugging what he needed up the mountain from his mother's place, the cottage and the life he associated with it hovered in the distance like a great spider's web of complexity.
Water, phone and electric bills. Taxes and rent, budgeted groceries and cable television. Each of these things, taken by itself, would not be a challenge, but as a group the drag on time, energy, and spirit were staggering.
Abe's arms ached from the scratches and gouges of the thorns, and his new jeans were a torn, ragged mess, stained with blood and sweat. A small cloud of gnats had gathered to dine on his blood, and he batted at them to absolutely no affect.
The walls were solid, as he had known they would be. There were places where the mortar was working its way out between stones, but he could replace that easily enough. Without effort his memory conjured the formula his father had taught him so long ago—how much sand, how much mud from what part of the creek bed would mix to for just the right consistency. Abraham smiled at the ease and comfort the thoughts brought in their wake. The door had not opened easily. Weather had sprung the wood of the frame slightly, and the planks that made up the door itself had swollen and curled slightly at the ends. It still sealed, but before too many days he knew it would have to be taken down and straightened, any recalcitrant wood being replaced. He noted all of this, but only on some level below the conscious. There was one more thing he had to check on before he started to work.
He stepped deeper into the cottage and coughed as clouds of dust rose to sting his eyes and tickle his throat. He staggered to the near wall, found the inner shutter and swung it open. This did nothing for the dust, or the air, but it did allow the hint of light into the place. When the moon rose fully, it would be brighter. It was hot inside, but not as hot as he had expected. The trees and vines surrounding the cottage provided some relief, and the building itself had been dug from the bedrock of the mountain. The stone floor was a good two feet below ground level.
As a boy, he'd paid little attention to the long lectures his father had given him on the history of this place, or its construction, but he found that despite his earlier inattention, the facts surfaced when he needed them. There was a curved base on the up-mountain side of the cottage that ran around the two sides and off into two channels dug to carry rainwater away and down, should there be any flooding from the mountain's peak. A similar curving clay apparatus ran around the sides of the stone roof to catch rainwater. If it had still existed, a barrel would have sat beneath the spout and by now, with the storms of the past few days, would be brimming with water that needed only to be boiled, filtered, and bottled before drinking. Of course, in this cottage, on this mountain, that had never been enough. The water would be collected, filtered, boiled—and blessed.
Abraham opened another shutter, closed his eyes and mouth against the new onslaught of dust, and found that there was enough light with two open windows and the open door to see the interior clearly. He stood very still and let the moonlight pour over his shoulder as the dust settled. He would need to open the rest of the windows and air the place out before he could attack the dust with a broom, but there was time for all of that.
The air cleared and he saw that nothing had changed. He didn't know why this was a thing he might have doubted, since no one but his mother and himself was likely to have crossed the threshold of the old cottage since his father's death, but seeing everything in its place had a calming effect. Like the path that led around the church, its stones set deep in the Earth, and the walls of the cottage, extending two feet into solid stone, the impression was of age and strength.
There was a squat fireplace, fronted by a small grate for cooking. To the right of this was a table that doubled as a desk, and farther along that wall stood a narrow cot. On the opposite side of the hearth were several small shelves and a taller cabinet that would hold a few articles of clothing on hangers, with drawers beneath. It was all very simple, yet somehow elegant, even in its thick coat of dust and neglect.
It wasn't the furniture he sought, however, or the inventory of windows and wood that needed repair. Stepping as lightly as possible to keep from raising another cloud, Abraham moved to the center of the room. There was a sparkle of light on the floor here, and he glanced up.
Set into the ceiling, molded into a hole that had been cut into the stone and fixed in place with the same mortar that held the walls in
place, a huge cluster of crystals, cut from the center of a single geode caught the early rays of the moon and sent them flickering along the walls and off through the shadows. Abraham caught his breath and held it. That one simple thing—so beautiful, and so natural, not formed by the hand of men, but borrowed from the Earth and shared with the moon, brought the tears back to Abe's eyes. The moon was still low in the sky, but it caught the tips of the uppermost crystals, bending and refracting through the natural lens. The light had a silver blue hue, as though deep water had been tapped and run inside the cottage walls through glass pipes.
Abraham tugged his gaze from the spectacle on the ceiling and glanced at the floor. Moving slowly and working carefully, he brushed away the dust in the very center with the toe of his boot, and then worked out along a straight line. There were patterns carved into the stone, centered by a raised, circular cover with two handles. From the circle's outer edge, lines shot arrow straight at the walls, cutting the room into fourths, then eights, like the points of a compass.
The same cross symbol that was carved so carefully into the wood of his mother's front door adorned the circular space in the middle of the floor. Abraham didn't touch it—not yet—but he examined it carefully. There was no sign that it had been tampered with, or disturbed. The dust was as thick at the edges of that compartment as anywhere else, and without the secret of its opening, it would have taken sledge hammers and chisels to get through. Again, he sensed permanence and strength, and this time it flowed up from beneath, the mountain recharging his energy from its own vast supplies, seeping back into his blood through the soles of his feet.
For a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over the moon. Abraham thought about the space beneath that circular door, and shivered. He could imagine the smooth, dark coils of a serpent, trapped but alive, ready to strike at anyone foolish enough to open that portal. He almost faltered. He had begun to raise his foot from the floor to take a step backward, when the moonlight burst free of the clouds and shot a bright silver beam of light through the lens on the cottage roof. It bent and shone directly onto the carved cross, deepening the black lines in contrast to the brilliant, sparkling light. Abraham closed his eyes, but the image of the cross was burned across his sight. It strobed gently in his mind and his heart rate and breathing slowed.
He'd need to hurry and gather wood before it got any darker. The memory of the very real snake in the hedge came back and again, he shivered. It wouldn't do to remember all of the magic of the mountain if he neglected to remember its dangers, as well. Not all of those dangers were human, or even walked in that guise.
His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he grimaced. This would not be an easy night. He had chosen to come with a single canteen of water and no food. He had not counted on the loss of blood in the hedges, or the emotional turmoil he had already faced weakening him. The fast was necessary, but he wondered if he should have waited.
The sky had darkened very quickly. Abraham stood in that darkness with his arms full of firewood and kindling. He was a few feet from the door of the cottage, and he turned to face the side of the mountain. He sensed things moving below. The air tingled, and he would have sworn that in that vast silence he felt the pulse of blood through every creature in the forest and the touch of their breath on his cheeks. He closed his momentarily useless eyes and reached out with his other senses.
He tried to picture the layout of the mountain, the homes he remembered, the road trailing down to Greene's store, the placement of the other church. He felt a chill as this thought crossed his mind. In that utter blackness he was suddenly aware of a darker spot, a blemish in the harmony of the silence. Within that darker cloud was motion, writhing, twining motion, and as if on cue, the voices of crickets cut through his reverie, their insistent whir too much like the voice of a serpent.
Abraham nearly dropped the wood, and he took a full step back before he opened his eyes to the moonlit night. The hissing sound died away to the harmless backdrop that it was, and he turned to the door and the hearth with his wood. He had a small flashlight, but he was conserving the batteries. He used it sparingly as he arranged the fire. He stacked the logs as his father had taught him so long ago, and tucked the kindling and bark up beneath. He lit the tinder and watched it crackle and snap as the flames licked their way up through the slightly larger twigs and reached hungrily for the logs.
He knew he'd need more wood before the night was done, but for the moment it was good to have the cottage brought back to flickering life by the dancing flame's light.
With the long night ahead of him, he took stock of his surroundings with a more critical eye. He managed to loosen the mechanisms that held the glass-framed windows tight and latched them open to let in the cool night air. Once this was done, he took the old broom that leaned in one corner and set to work. He started high and cleared the horizontal surfaces. He had to take the mattress outside to knock the dust from it. Miraculously, neither rodents nor insects had infested it, and the cottage had remained dry, so there was no mildew.
Despite the cottage's diminutive size, it took more than an hour for Abraham to be satisfied. He was thorough, sliding the broom into any crack or crevasse large enough to allow it. He worked the piles of dust and dirt toward the door, and then brushed them out into the night. The fire crackled and danced, and when he'd completed his circuit with the broom, he made himself a torch from one of the longer branches and a bit of his torn shirt. With this for light, he managed to gather another armload of wood. He repeated this three times, making certain he had enough to fight off all the hours of darkness and the chill of the night air, then he sat on the bed with his legs crossed and leaned back against the stone wall. He was exhausted, but his mind raced, and he knew sleep was not going to be quick in coming, if it visited at all.
He thought about Katrina, and for the first time since he'd written the note and left it on the table, the ache returned to his heart. She'd never understand. She would have understood if he'd explained it in person. He might even have convinced her to stay behind while he came to the mountain to straighten things out. He wasn't as certain about his own strength. He might not have tried hard enough to prevent her. In the isolated silence of the cottage, he missed her more than he'd ever missed anything in his life.
He thought of the food, blankets, and belongings he'd left behind in his mother's home. It had seemed foolish, at the time, to lug any of it up here without checking first. He'd intended to make the climb, then return to the cottage below and come up with a plan. He hadn't counted on the hedge, or the serpents. He hadn't counted on finding his mother dead on the mountain. He hadn't counted on the deep-rooted sense of accomplishment that cleaning out the old place and lighting a simple fire had brought him. He sipped his water, not wanting to waste it, and sat very still, watching the fire.
He knew that he should be mourning his mother's death, but it hadn't hit him. It had been so long since he'd seen her that there was a rift, deep inside, he would have to cross if he wanted closure. He had a list of things in his mind he'd wanted to say to her, questions he wanted to ask. It was too late for all of that now. It was too late for his mother, and his father, but maybe it wasn't too late for the mountain. Sometimes all that's left to the sons and daughters of the world is to make certain their actions validate the lives and loves of their parents.
He glanced around the room slowly. There was a comfort in this old place, despite its solitude and long neglect. The warped door effectively shut out the night, and the open windows let in just enough of a breeze to keep the fire from overheating the room, and to make it dance.
Abraham thought briefly of removing his shirt and checking the extent of the cuts and scratches, but thought better of it. He had very little water with him, not enough to drink and to cleanse his wounds. Once he got started he'd have to do it right, and he also had no material, other than the torn shirt and jeans themselves, with which to make bandages. Best to let it alone until morning.
&nbs
p; He had come up the mountain without fanfare, but he knew that when he came back the following day it would have to be different. He would have to walk in the open, and without wavering. Everyone who could see him should see him, and those who did not see must hear it from those who did. There was no morning news on the mountain, but there were plenty of voices, and it wouldn't take long to spread all the way up to the peaks, and down to San Valencez, that Abraham Carlson had returned.
There were rituals. He couldn't just come here, as he had this day, if he wanted them to follow. If he wanted to see them trickle in, one by one, to his father's church, he would have to give them what they expected. What they believed he had denied them so many years before.
There had been no one to preach in the stone chapel since Jonathan Carlson died. Abraham had been young at the time, and his dreams of a world beyond the mountain were strong. His mother told him, quietly, what his duty was to the people, and to the mountain, and their God. They shunned her, called her evil behind her back, or named her witch, and still she had defended them.
Abraham had been outraged at the time, and was outraged still. If it were just about the others, his own family and the other folk on the mountain, he would not have come back at all—or if he had come back, it would only have been to get his mother out. That was before she sent him the note.
He wasn't sure why it made a difference. His family had all but disowned him when he chose to remain with his mother after his father's death, and that disownment had been complete when he turned his back on them all and took off down the mountain to the world beyond. He remembered them—their names and faces, the stories of their ancestors—the stories of the mountain itself. He knew the other families as well, had played with their children, now grown as he was grown, had eaten cookies in many of their kitchens and fished for trout with their fathers.
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