Andi Unstoppable

by Amanda Flower

  Bergita snapped some pictures with her massive camera, and Colin made a note in our project notebook. Bird one: check. We were going to ace this assignment.

  “That was so cool,” I said.

  Claudette shared a rare grin. “That’s just the beginning. You kids are in for the time of your lives!”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Ava muttered behind me.

  Claudette resumed the march. Every so often we would stop. Claudette would hear something no one else could hear and play a bird song back on her phone. Most of the time, a bird appeared at her call like magic. It was almost as though she was the Pied Piper for anything with feathers.

  We were almost an hour into the hike and Claudette was frozen in front of us playing a palm warbler song. According to the map, the campsite was only a mile from the parking lot, but we stopped every few paces for Claudette to listen to the woods. The palm warbler never appeared and she started moving again.

  Ava poked me with a stick from the forest floor. “Do you see something or are you blocking traffic?”

  I glared at her and stepped out of the way.

  The trees broke into a clearing. There were people with binoculars hanging from their necks setting up campsites. At least a half dozen tents were going up.

  On the south end of the clearing, there was a crumbling stone building. I guessed it was the haunted Shalley homestead.

  Bergita caught me staring at the ruins. “That house is nearly two hundred years old. Before this was a park, the land belonged to the Shalley family. I don’t think anyone has lived on it for at least a hundred years. The story goes that there were five sons in the family and every last one of them died during the Civil War: one in active combat, the other four from disease. Twenty-some years ago, a descendent of the family who lives in another state donated the land to the city and asked that it be turned into a park in the city’s honor.”

  “All five sons died?” I asked barely above a whisper.

  She nodded. “The Civil War had more American casualties than any war before or since.”

  “That’s terrible.” I continued to stare at the crumbling house. “But why didn’t someone try to save the house?”

  Bergita sighed. “It would have been a nice old house to save, but by the time the town got ownership of the land, it was too far gone. I’m glad they decided not to tear it down all the way. It’s a nice tribute to the family that it’s still there. Now nature can reclaim it in her own old sweet time.”

  “Is that all that’s left of the family?” Ava asked.

  I glanced at her in surprise. I had been so engrossed in Bergita’s story I hadn’t noticed Ava.

  Bergita shook her head. “All five boys are buried a little ways along the path.” She pointed at a break in the trees near the south wall of the house. “The family had a private cemetery, but the boys are the only ones buried there.”

  “I thought the ghost was a woman,” I said.

  Bergita patted my shoulder. “Oh, don’t pay any mind to that silly story.”

  Claudette marched toward us. “It’s time to set up camp.” She pointed across the campground. “We’ll camp over there. I don’t sleep next to crumbling old houses that are probably full of all sorts of critters. It’s a motto I live by.”

  We followed Bergita and Claudette to the far end of the field. It was over a ridge. From where we camped, I could see the upper edge of the house’s crumbling wall, but the rest of it was hidden.

  We dropped our packs where Claudette directed. “Have any of you pitched a tent before?”

  The three of us kids shared a look.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Claudette grumbled. “Kids are happier today sitting inside and playing on the computer instead of getting outside and in touch with nature like they should be. It’s disgraceful. Completely disgraceful, if you ask me.”

  “I know how to pitch a tent,” I said, hoping it was true. “I used to camp in the backyard with my dad all the time when I was little.”

  “Maybe the next generation isn’t a complete loss. Get started,” Claudette ordered.

  I untied the tent bags and dumped the contents in the grass, wincing. There were about a thousand pieces for the tent Ava and I were going to share.

  Colin unzipped his pup tent, and it sprang to life. All he had to do was pound its stakes into the ground so that it wouldn’t blow away. I wished our tent was that simple.

  “Do you really know how to put that thing together?” Ava asked.

  “Sure.” I picked up one of the metal sticks. “How hard can it be?” I started pushing a rod through the loops in the fabric.

  A man with a round belly was walking by and said, “That piece is for the roof. You just stuck it in the hole for the door.”

  I blushed and pulled the rod out of the fabric. “Oh, right.”

  Ava groaned.

  “Any time.” He grinned. “It’s nice to see kids taking an interest in birding.”

  Colin drove the last stake for his tent into the ground. “We’re here to look for the Kirtland’s warbler.”

  The man nodded. “We all are.” He held out his hand. “I’m Gregory Sparrow.”

  Ava arched an eyebrow. “Your last name is Sparrow, and you’re a birder?”

  He laughed. “I suppose I was destined to be a birder with that name.”

  Claudette marched toward us, her arms loaded with firewood. I was beginning to realize that marching was her favorite way to get around. “Gregory, what are you doing over here? Don’t you have a bird to misidentify on your side of the campground?”

  His grin faltered. “I’ve never had a misidentification in my life. That can’t be said for everyone here.” He gave her a pointed look. “Now, can it?”

  Claudette dropped her stack of wood onto the ground. “You won’t get any information from these kids.”

  He put a hand to his chest. “Claudette, I’m offended that you would think I would have an ulterior motive to be friendly. I was greeting your camp mates here.” The man looked at the three of us. “I haven’t been formally introduced to your companions.”

  Bergita joined us. “Colin is my grandson, Gregory.” She set her hand on Colin’s shoulder.

  He smiled. “I should have known they were here because of you, Bergita. Claudette doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.” The corners of Gregory’s mouth turned up. “I hope they don’t slow you down, Claud. It would be a shame if I spotted the Kirtland’s and you missed it, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s more likely to be the other way around. I’ve out-birded you the last three locations. Don’t forget that,” Claudette said.

  Ava, Colin, and I shared a look.

  Gregory’s eyes fell on Ava and he smiled. “Aren’t you Fiorella’s daughter?”

  Ava’s tan skin paled.

  “I thought you were. Shame she can’t clean for us anymore. My wife’s still lamenting the fact she stopped working. She claimed that Fiorella was the best maid ever. Apparently, the new help my wife found isn’t measuring up.”

  Just as quickly as the color drained from Ava’s face, her complexion flushed. “Don’t talk about my mother.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I was being complimentary. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother,” Ava hissed.

  Gregory frowned but said nothing more about it.

  Bergita shielded her eyes in the direction of Gregory’s camp. “Gregory, I see one of your students waving. You had better go check what he needs.”

  He looke
d behind him. Everyone at his camp was quietly setting up. It was a group of four college students. Two girls and two boys. Susan was the only student I knew. She had been one of the camp counselors at Discovery Camp that Colin, Ava, and I went to at the university that summer. She waved at us.

  Gregory said good-bye and returned to his camp.

  “Did you lie?” I asked Bergita. “I don’t see anyone from his camp waving at him.”

  Bergita winked. “No, one of the students was waving. I didn’t say she was waving at Gregory.”

  “Who is he?” Colin asked.

  “A windbag,” Claudette complained. “He thinks he’s an expert when it comes to birds. I’m the expert. All his book learning can’t match what I have seen in the field.”

  Bergita knelt and unrolled her sleeping bag. “He’s a biology professor, I think. He teaches ornithology. That’s how he and Claudette know each other.”

  “I thought all the science professors were at Discovery Camp this summer,” I said.

  Bergita shook her head. “You met only a few. Michael Pike has a large faculty for its size.”

  Claudette grunted.

  “I didn’t know there would be other birders camping out,” I said.

  “Of course, there will be,” Claudette practically growled. “If there is a sighting as coveted as a Kirtland’s, birders will come from all over the state. There will be even more birders in the woods come morning. The wimps stay in a motel. Those truly committed to the cause, camp.”

  “Oh, umm, okay.” I stepped back.

  “Let’s finish putting up the tent,” Ava said. For once, I agreed with her.

  CASE FILE NO. 6

  After we set up camp, Claudette took us on what could only be described as a death march. The blisters on my feet had blisters. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so tired. The three of us kids limped behind Claudette and Bergita as we trekked through the woods. Bergita shuffled along too, but her sister marched on as though she was ready to attack the Appalachian Trail.

  Bergita called up to her sister at the front of our line. “Claud, I think it’s time to head back to camp. It’s starting to get dark, and the kids need their rest. We won’t be able to walk a mile tomorrow if you tire us out tonight.”

  “Scarlet Tanager, one o’clock.” Claudette had her binoculars pointed high in the trees.

  Bergita sighed but dutifully lifted her own binoculars to her eyes.

  The bird was bright red and beautiful. I let the binoculars hang from my neck in order to log the sighting in our assignment notebook. Since we arrived, we had seen ten varieties of birds. There was no chance that any other group in our class would see more. The ten extra credit points were a lock. The additional twenty points depended on the Kirtland’s warbler. That bird was still missing in action.

  I slid the pen into the spiral bind of the notebook and lifted my binoculars to my eyes again. Everyone was still watching the tanager. I searched the trees for something new. Secretly, I hoped I would be the one who spotted the Kirtland’s for the first time. It would drive Ava crazy to know I found it before she did. I swept my gaze through the trees, both high and low. Different birds moved in different levels of the forest. Some, like tanagers, liked to be high up, and others, like thrushes, liked to be close to the ground.

  When I moved my gaze lower, I spotted a dot of red in the brush. I focused in on the color and saw it was a cardinal. We had seen at least half a dozen of Ohio’s state bird during the hike. It wasn’t so much the bird that caught my interest, but what he was perched on. It was a stone, a large polished stone.

  I took a few steps to the right for a better angle. There was a faint engraving in the stone. It was faded but legible. “S-h-a,” I read aloud.

  Ava lowered her binoculars. “What are you looking at?”

  “I think it’s the Shalley’s cemetery,” I said.

  “Let’s go check it out,” Ava said and stepped off the path.

  “Wait,” I said. “Claudette wouldn’t like that. She said from the start we have to follow her.”

  She snorted. “Claudette is going to be looking at that tanager for the next twenty minutes. Come on. Unless you’re scared of the ghost.”

  I gritted my teeth and followed her off the path.

  There were five headstones in the graveyard, one for each Shalley son who died during the Civil War. Moss grew around the base of each stone and ivy climbed up the sides. The once sharp edges of the names chiseled in the granite were worn by a century and a half of rain, wind, and snow. To my surprise, a small potted mum sat at the head of each grave. The cardinal flew from the headstone to a neighboring sycamore tree.

  I knelt in front of the first grave marker. “RIP. William A. Shalley. Beloved son. December 1, 1840-July 4, 1863. Battle of Gettysburg.”

  “I wonder who put the flowers here,” I said.

  Ava shrugged.

  I went to each grave and read the names, “Harold, Randall, Matthew, and Luke. Don’t you think it’s odd that all the graves are men, but the ghost is supposed to be a woman? Who is she?”

  Ava walked to the far end of the cemetery. “Whoa!”

  “What is it?” I jumped up.

  She pointed down. I walked over to her and pulled up short. My toes hung over the edge of a deep ravine that was masked by a wall of trees. “Yikes. We should be careful.”

  “Yeah, I don’t want to fall down there. Did you see those rocks at the bottom?”

  I swallowed.

  Bergita broke through the trees. “Did you girls see a bird back here?”

  Ava and I spun around.

  Bergita put a hand to her mouth. “Good heavens, this is the Shalley cemetery.” She stepped over William’s grave. “You know, I’ve lived in Killdeer my entire life and have never seen them.”

  “Bergita,” I asked, bending down and touching one of the burgundy blossoms on Harold’s grave. “Do you know who put the flowers on the graves?”

  She examined the closest mum. “It would be Patrick Finnigan, I would guess.”

  “Mr. Finnigan?” I asked.

  “Why would the town curator put flowers on the graves?” Ava asked.

  “It’s part of his job.” She ran a yellow bandana across her forehead. “Since he deals with all things historical in Killdeer, he has to do it. One of the stipulations of the city getting the land, I believe, is the graveyard has to be protected. You see, the grass is mowed around the stones too, don’t you?”

  Now that she mentioned it, I did see the grass had been recently cut, but it was hard for me to imagine lanky Mr. Finnigan bringing a mower into the woods while wearing his bow tie and sports jacket.

  In any case, it sounded like Colin and I needed to visit Mr. Finnigan’s museum inside the old bottling company again.

  “He might want to work on keeping the headstones clean,” Ava said. “They are covered in moss and ivy.”

  Bergita laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell him the next time I see him. But let’s get going. Right now, Claudette is distracted by an Eastern Towhee, but before she heard the towhee, she agreed to head back to camp. I hope you girls like hot dogs, baked beans, and s’mores because that’s what is on the dinner menu. It’s real campout food.”

  I took one last look around the cemetery. Grass, weeds, and fallen leaves covered the graves, but then I noticed something different about the far grave — Matthew’s grave. I walked over to it. On a small patch of earth there wasn’t any grass or weeds, just fresh dirt. “It looks like something has been digging here,” I said.

  Bergita stood ne
xt to me. “We’re in the middle of the woods. There are all sorts of critters that can dig a hole like that. Rabbits, chipmunks, raccoons, and even skunks.”

  I squatted by the spot. “It doesn’t look like an animal did this. See, the patch makes a perfect square. What rabbit or raccoon would dig in a straight line like that?” I pointed. “And look at this. I think I see a partial print of a shoe. Like someone stomped down the ground after he was done digging.”

  Bergita tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe Mr. Finnigan took a piece of ground back for the historical society to preserve in the museum. He is always collecting odds and ends from town and putting them inside his museum.”

  Ava stood above me now too. “He puts dirt in the museum?”

  “It’s historic dirt,” Bergita said with a shrug. “We’d better go before Claudette changes her mind about letting us return to camp because she wants to see just one more bird. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I know my sister — there is always just one more bird to see. The woman is crazy, but I can’t help but love her.”

  When we stepped through the trees and back on the path, Colin and Claudette were right where we left them. Both had their binoculars trained on a towhee barely visible in the deep brush.

  “Do you see the burnt orange color under his wing? Simply gorgeous,” Claudette gushed. “I’ve seen these beauties dozens of times, but it never gets old. I love them.”

  “It’s getting dark, Claudette,” Bergita hinted.

  The supreme birder sighed. “I suppose we should head back.”

  “We did great though,” Colin said. “Twelve species today. That’s amazing.”

  Claudette shared a rare grin. “That’s just the beginning, my boy. Tomorrow will be even better.”

  As we left the woods, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder to where I knew the cemetery was hidden by the trees. I didn’t believe Mr. Finnigan dug that hole and took a dirt sample for the museum. Something about that patch of dirt bothered me. I suspected there was a much creepier reason why it was there that may or may not involve a real ghost.