by Joanne Dahme
“I’m glad you reminded me!” she exclaimed as she shot out of her chair. “It’s on the counter.” She glanced out the window as she picked up her folder. “I think we’ll have a good crowd, Courtney, if the weather holds up. I heard on the radio that there’s a slight chance of thunderstorms.”
She slid back into her chair as I opened The Murmur Mercury.
“Hey, Mom, the article looks great,” I said.There was a big photo of the cemetery entrance with the Memento Mori sign.The article was titled the same.
“Do you think so?” she asked warmly. “I tried to cover so much—the history of the cemetery and the important families buried there. I ended the article with our current crisis, noting how sprawl was decimating our country’s precious green spaces.” Her lips were pursed as she stared at the print. “I hope it’s not overwhelming. People today don’t seem to have the greatest attention span.”
I looked at her and smiled. It always amazed me that she was able to collect and summarize so much information so quickly. Is that what passion does for you? Does it give you the edge you need when you are fighting for something? Then Mr. Geyer and Margaret should surely be able to find Prudence. “I think it sounds great, and I know Mr. Geyer will be thrilled,” I assured her.
She touched me affectionately on the cheek. “Come on. Go put some antiseptic on those cuts and then come grocery shopping with me.We’ll have burgers tonight since the Geyers are coming over for rehearsal.”
I nodded. Seven o’clock could not come fast enough for me.
M R. GEYER AND MARGARET STOOD ON OUR FRONT steps at five minutes past seven. The leaves of the massive oak tree in our front yard quivered in the slight evening breeze.
“Hey, should be a nice day tomorrow,” I announced, bursting to tell them about the witch.
Margaret cocked her head and smiled. “It had better be,” she agreed.
Mr. Geyer stood quietly in his black shorts and red checkered shirt, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He gave me an amused smile. Margaret looked radiant—her green eyes sparkling against her blushed cheeks. Her hair was in a loose ponytail again. She must be feeling confident about tomorrow, which made my own spirits rise. Her poster was safely tucked under her arm.
Mom breezed into the foyer and shook Mr. Geyer’s hand while beaming a mischievous smile at Margaret. “Did you see the article in today’s paper?” Her chin was raised expectantly.
Mr. Geyer smiled and nodded. “Yes, I did. It was very well done. I’m confident that it will deliver the crowd we’re hoping for.”
Mom smiled in appreciation, still pumping his hand. “I’m glad you liked it.” She glanced at me, telling me with her eyes that everything was going to be all right. “Let’s go into the kitchen. There’s plenty of room for us to practice for tomorrow, and Tom has started a pot of coffee.” As she said it, the aroma of coffee wafted into the hall.
Dad suddenly materialized beneath the kitchen and dining room arch. He crossed the dining room, scooting expertly around the table, to shake Mr. Geyer’s hand.
“Christian, how are you?” Dad’s voice was warm and sincere. Mom must have given him a pep talk.
“I’ll be able to give you a better response tomorrow afternoon, when our event is behind us,” Mr. Geyer replied, releasing Dad’s hand to adjust his glasses. I knew Mr. Geyer well enough by now to recognize his nervous quirks, but his voice was steady. “Courtney and Jennifer have been extremely supportive. Margaret and I are very lucky to have met such good people.”
Dad glanced at me and smiled. “Well, I’m a little late coming into the game. So I want you to use me tonight as your objective audience. At least I’ll be able to tell you what themes tug at my heart.”
“Splendid idea,” Mr. Geyer agreed.
Mom, the organizer, interrupted to get us back on track. “Why don’t we, the audience, sit around the kitchen table facing the windows.There’s plenty of space for you to stand and move about.We’ll use our imagination to pretend that you’re standing at the cemetery entrance. Margaret, you can prop your poster next to Courtney’s on the shelf of the bay window.”
I moved my poster over as Margaret leaned hers against the window. She stared for a second past the ivy that brushed loosely against the windowpane and then looked at me. The yard was empty and quiet in the twilight. Did she know that I was checking for witches or cats?
We were an attentive audience for Mr. Geyer.We all sat politely, mindful not to squirm in our seats or sneak peeks at the posters. Soon I was hypnotized by his stories. He projected his voice as if he were addressing a crowd, and waved his arms and gestured as if he were on a stage. Mr. Geyer planned to dress as a Puritan tomorrow and shared with us the story he would tell of the burial of a wealthy merchant to illustrate the Puritans’ belief that funerals should be celebrations.
He spoke of Elijah Watson, who died in his seventh decade, leaving his third wife, eight children, and five grandchildren behind. Mr.Watson was a contemporary of Cotton Mather, the famous Puritan minister and writer who supported the Salem witch trials. News of Mr. Watson’s death would have spread quickly through the town, he said, and the town’s craftsmen and stonecutters would have received the orders to produce Mr. Watson’s hatchments for the funeral display—diamond-shaped panels bearing his coat of arms, glue-stiffened cloths with Mr. Watson’s shield, and smaller crests to decorate his home. Mr. Geyer pulled a few samples of these decorations from his backpack with the air of mystery magicians use when they are pulling surprises out of a hat.
“And contrary to popular belief, the Puritans were capable of a little celebration, particularly when it involved sending a fellow citizen into the hereafter,” he continued with enthusiasm. “Even the horses would be decorated with these symbols as a solemn procession followed the carriage to the burial grounds. After the prayers were said, there would be a feast probably unlike any Mr. Watson enjoyed while he was alive, unless he happened to have been invited to another man’s funeral. For Puritans lived in the presence of the Black Angel,” Mr. Geyer explained dramatically, “and came to not fear him.”
“Is that a true story?” my dad finally asked, breaking the silence. He was holding my mother’s hand.
“Of course.” Mr. Geyer smiled. “And while I still have you perched on the edge of your chairs, let me give you an overview of tomorrow’s tour,” he teased, pulling a map of the cemetery out of his bag. He pointed out the various grave sites and tombstones that would be visited. I noticed that he didn’t stray anywhere near Prudence’s grave.
“Then I will direct the crowd, and I use the word hopefully,” he interjected, “to stop to see the girls and their posters by the entrance and to ask them about their research.”
“That’s our cue,” Margaret said as she nudged me. We dutifully stood up and marched to our posters. Margaret volunteered to explain hers first as Dad and Mom stood beside us, peering intently at the photographs. They made interested or sympathetic noises as we explained the circumstances of each picture. By the end, Mom had tears in her eyes.
“I’m so proud of you both,” she sniffed. Mom had always been an emotional person.
Dad put his arm around her shoulder. “Great work, girls. You’d have to be dead not to be touched by this.” Margaret and I rolled our eyes at his intentional pun. “Anyway, how about some coffee, soda, and dessert? You deserve a reward for all of this hard work.”
Margaret turned to me and said, “Courtney said she wanted to show me something in her bedroom first. Can you all excuse us for a few minutes?”
I looked at Margaret, amazed. How did she know I needed to talk to her?
“Certainly. We’ll be sure to save you some goodies.” My dad was already pouring the coffee and pulling out a chair for Mr. Geyer.
We made it only as far as the hallway when Margaret grabbed my wrist. “What is it, Courtney?” she whispered. “You looked like you were ready to burst as soon as I saw you.” Her green eyes were wide, her gaze penetrating. I looked at th
e hallway closet and beside it at the closed basement door, shadowed now as the sun had set.
I shivered, suddenly cold as I recalled this afternoon’s events. I told her everything—about the cats in our backyard, the witch doing weird things in the woods, the tree with the ivy carved into its bark, and the ivy wrapping itself around my ankles, holding me to the spot. It was like a scary fairy tale—cats luring the unsuspecting girl into the witch’s woods.
Her grip loosened and I rubbed my wrist without thinking. Margaret wrinkled her nose, perplexed. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the laughter coming from the kitchen.
“I don’t think the ivy would harm you, Courtney. Perhaps the witch was using it to tell you something.” Her voice was suddenly breathless. “She uses the cats that way. That’s why we feed them. Of course we feed them because they’re hungry, too, and it’s the humane thing to do,” she added quickly. “But we can tell when the witch is around, because the cats act nervous and stay together. They’re always listening to something that we can’t hear, as you saw happen in your yard today.”
“I don’t know, Margaret. That ivy scared me,” I insisted. If the witch was trying to tell me something, she had a strange way of getting my attention. “And besides, what would she possibly want to tell me?”This was the thing that unnerved me the most. I never had believed in wicked witches, invisible ghosts, or haunted ivy.
“I bet you believe now,” Margaret retorted.
Before I had the chance to ask her how she kept reading my mind, she put her finger to her lips to shush me. “We need to check the ivy in the basement,” she said softly, probably afraid that she was going to give me a heart attack. I knew that she was going to suggest this, even though I couldn’t read minds.
I nodded. “I couldn’t go down there without you,” I said.
She peeked around the corner and seemed satisfied that our parents were still at the table. Then she grabbed my hand and opened the basement door.
I clicked on the light as we tiptoed down the stairs. All of the boards creaked but the laughter and conversation coming from the kitchen smothered our sounds. From the bottom of the steps, the basement appeared as it did the last time. The sickly yellow light cast from the lonely bulbs barely illuminated the stored furniture and the boxes lined up along the far wall.
I thought Margaret was going to crush the bones in my hand as we approached the carved ivy. Dad and Mom had moved the boxes away from the wall enough to give them a better look the last time they were down here. We were only halfway across the basement floor when I saw that the ivy had blossomed from its original patch to spread to the entire wall and part of the ceiling.
“Courtney, when did this happen?” Margaret gazed at the ceiling, her mouth open.
“I don’t know,” I replied weakly. My knees felt wobbly. “Why does it look so angry?” I asked.The original carvings had been faint and curved softly as the vines seemed to twine along the wall. I could not find a better way to describe the sharp twists and turns its vines seemed to dig into the stone as if it had gone berserk.
“Courtney, stop,” Margaret warned in a high, unnatural voice.The sound of it made my hair stand on end. I turned to her. Her face was white. She stared at the floor now.
There, between the ivy-covered wall and the boxes that we had pushed into the center of the basement, ivy was being chiseled by invisible hands into the slate of the floor. The sudden, staccato sound of a hammer on metal reminded me of little firecrackers—snappy and defiant. Before our eyes, the ivy formed a straight line and then took a turn at a right angle. Its work was done within seconds.
I wanted to scream but nothing came out. For the second time today, my heart attempted to bash its way out of my chest. I grabbed Margaret’s hand and yanked her toward the basement stairway. All I could think about was the ivy coming alive and wrapping itself around my ankles, angrier now, as it had failed once already today.
But Margaret resisted my tugging. “Courtney, wait,” she pleaded. I could barely hear her above the pounding in my head. She turned her face toward me. It looked drained of all color but she shook her head, trying to slow me down.
“It’s the witch,” she insisted. “She’s trying to tell us something. We must listen.” She let go of my hand, allowing me to dash up the stairs. She was obviously staying right there.
I stood my ground. I could not leave Margaret. I tried my best to slow my heart as Margaret stared at the newly carved ivy. “It’s forming the outline of a cemetery plot, I think,” she said in wonder. Her hands were now cupped over her mouth. As soon as she said it, I knew she was right, for the chiseled ivy took the exact same shape as the ivy plot that the witch had made beneath the tree in the woods. A map for gravediggers.
“Is this a good thing?” I croaked. Margaret would know, I told myself. Margaret had studied signs from the witch her whole life, but she said nothing. In less than a minute, someone—or something—had finished their work. A carved border of ivy in the shape of a coffin was inscribed forever into the basement floor.
Margaret nodded, never turning from the ivy. “Dad believes that any attempt to communicate is a good thing.” Despite her calm, I could feel her trembling. Or was that me?
Suddenly, more than anything in the world, I wanted to tell my parents everything.
“Is the witch on our side?” I asked her, this time leading her more gently toward the basement door. I did not want to take any chances in case the witch decided to give the ivy life.
“Dad thinks so,” she replied. Her eyes were watery as she looked back at the floor. “I think so,” she added more softly. “But I can’t be sure. Read this,” she said fiercely as she pulled a folded paper from her pocket.
I opened the paper, amazed that Margaret and I were having this conversation just yards away from new ivy carvings. It was another excerpt from Christian’s journal.
Margaret looked at the ceiling, at the spot where Mr. Geyer might be sitting. “I didn’t tell Dad that I copied this page, because I didn’t want to worry him.”
“Why couldn’t you tell your dad?” I asked. This was unlike Margaret.
“Because I needed to know something. Something that I couldn’t ask Dad about.”
Margaret was looking down again at the ivy. This time there was no ambivalence in her face. I wanted to ask Margaret how she could be afraid to tell Mr. Geyer something, and yet have no fear of this ivy blazing its own paths across my basement floor. But I could not ask here, in the presence of the miraculously growing ivy.
“Go ahead. Read it now, before we go upstairs, but don’t read it out loud,” she whispered.
The paper contained Margaret’s deliberate script. I took a deep breath and began to read.
Wherever I go, there is ivy. The ivy and I are one now, it seems.
The witch said that it is in my blood, as it is in her blood, and this is how it must be for the ivy to do its work.
“Is that why the ivy breeds where I go, on whatever I touch?” I asked her.
She smiled at me like a pupil.
“Yes. It will bring us together, all of us together. It will bind us until we are one. The ivy is our talisman.”
I turned from her. I was unsure if I understood the ivy’s power.
She cocked her head at my reluctance and took my hand in her cold one.
“The cemetery and this house—they are your heart, your spirit. And the spirits that come after you will fade, will shimmer into dust, should they leave this site. For here is your Prudence.”
“Margaret,” I looked up from the paper. A sudden realization hit me in the stomach.
“Don’t say it,” she commanded, placing her fingers over my lips. “We must go upstairs now.” She took the paper and put it back into her pocket. The banister squealed under the weight of her hand.
“I should tell my parents about this,” I said, more calmly than I would have thought possible minutes ago.
“No, Courtney,” she said, tur
ning to face me.“The witch is active. I’ve never seen her so active. If you tell your parents, everything could be ruined.” Her eyes were pleading.
I paused, my heart still doing somersaults. Margaret seemed so sure that the witch and her ivy—real or carved—were helping us to solve the mystery of Prudence.
“Margaret, how do you know that the witch is good?” I pleaded.
She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head before she answered me. “I can’t tell you yet, Courtney. But I know.Will you trust me? We need your help.”
I knew then that I would not tell my parents, not tonight anyway. Margaret was right. Once they saw the ivy for themselves, they would know something bizarre was going on and they would take me away from here until they could explain it.
I reached for her hand.“I trust you, Margaret. And I want to help you and your dad. I promised I would,” I added.
She took a deep breath and smiled. “You’ll see, Courtney. Soon you’ll understand.” But just before she opened the basement door, she turned to me, her green eyes fierce. “I am going to tell Dad about this,” she said, as if recognizing my need to have some adult informed about today’s events. “And if he thinks there is any danger, we will be back tonight.”
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN BLEARY-EYED, BUT INSTEAD I HAD THE worst case of butterflies, just like I do when I have to take an oral test or perform in a school play. It was only nine o’clock as I stood before the cemetery entrance with my poster at my side. We were supposed to meet at ten to prepare, but I needed to be out in the warm air and sunshine. My insides had felt cold all night. Besides, here it was quiet. Only the birds and squirrels could be heard, with the exception of the occasional car as it whooshed by on the open road. There was no breeze, and the cornstalks across the street seemed to be stretching to touch the sky. This was much better than listening to Mom and Dad chattering away over breakfast, giving me public speaking tips, and reminding me to smile. I was not in the mood for a parental pep talk.