by Brandon Mull
“What did you do with the miner?” Pigeon asked.
“I popped the trunk, unwrapped the Forty-niner, and set him behind Hanaver’s gravestone. I did it right in front of my mom and she didn’t even pay attention, no questions, nothing. That guy is heavy to carry by yourself—I couldn’t have gone far. It didn’t look too odd sitting there; I mean, people sometimes leave weird things at graves, not just flowers. It’s a safe bet that nobody will have messed with it by tonight.”
“I hope you’re right,” Summer said.
“You know we aren’t actually going to Hanaver’s grave,” Trevor said.
“Right, but Mrs. White said Margaret Spencer was buried near Hanaver Mills.”
“Let’s get going,” Summer said, starting down the jogging path, heading the opposite direction from Greenway. Pigeon enjoyed the wind in his face, riding through the darkness. Not many houses had lights on at this hour. The night was warm, the stars were bright, and the horizon was beginning to glow with the approach of moonrise.
The path dumped them off at a road called Mayflower Drive before continuing on the other side of the street. They abandoned the path and followed Mayflower for quite a distance. Pigeon’s legs began to burn with exertion, but the others seemed fine, so he kept his mouth shut.
Summer led them onto a road called Skyline Avenue that soon became steep. Pigeon was relieved when Trevor dismounted and started walking his bike up the slope. After taking his time up the hill, by the time they had crested the rise, Pigeon felt ready to ride again.
They turned down another street, Saddle Road, and the cemetery came into view. Pigeon had never visited the Colson Valley Cemetery. A chest-high wall made of stacked, interlocking stones surrounded the graveyard. The graves looked old. He could see a few large tombs, several tall obelisks, a couple of statues, lots of upright headstones, and many flat grave markers lying on the grass. The effect at night was intimidating. It was easy to imagine the place teeming with witches and ghosts.
Summer rode over to the wall and stopped. “The front gates will be closed, so we might as well hop the wall here. Help me with my bike.” Nate and Summer lifted her bike over the top of the wall. Trevor hopped the wall and lowered the bike to the grass on the far side. They passed all the bikes over the wall that way, and then Nate and Summer boosted themselves up and over.
Pigeon placed his palms on the top of the wall like the others had, but could not boost himself high enough to get the upper half of his body draped over the top. He couldn’t kick a leg high enough to hook his foot up there, either. He just kept hopping and panting and scratching up his forearms.
He felt embarrassed when Trevor climbed back over and helped him get on top of the relatively low barrier. Pigeon dropped to the grass on the far side, and Trevor landed beside him a moment later.
“This place is scary at night,” Nate said, running his hand along the top of a worn old headstone. In the buttery glow from the rising moon, the fading inscription was legible. “This guy died in 1906. Just about everybody alive now hadn’t even been born yet.”
“There’s lots of old graves,” Trevor said.
“Especially on this side of the graveyard,” Nate said. “They still have empty land way over that way.” He waved a hand in the direction he meant. “The gravestones are more recent over there.”
“Where’s Hanaver?” Summer asked.
Nate looked around. “Mom and I came in through the front, so I’m a little turned around. Follow me.” He started weaving among the shadowy tombstones until he reached a narrow paved road. They continued along the road to an intersection. Nate paused, looking around.
“I know where we are now,” Nate said confidently. “I remember that tomb with the angels.” He took the road that curved up a gentle slope. As they rounded the bend, Nate started trotting. “There it is,” he said, pointing.
The tombstone for Hanaver Mills was as tall as Pigeon, and wider than it was tall. It looked old, but his name remained deeply inscribed in commanding letters. Beneath his name were the years 1821–1893, along with the words “Father—Inventor—Philanthropist.”
“What’s a philanthropist?” Trevor asked.
“It means he donated money to charities,” Pigeon said.
Around the back of the tombstone stood the Forty-niner, looking creepier in the darkness than he had under the sun. “Did you find Margaret Spencer?” Summer asked.
“I looked around a bit, but didn’t see her,” Nate said. “I figured eight eyes would be better than two. I didn’t want to ask anybody from the cemetery, since we were going to be digging up her grave.”
They fanned out. A few minutes later, Summer called out, down the slope and farther from the road. The others hurried over. Margaret Spencer had a more modest, traditional tombstone—about waist-high, narrow with a rounded top. The inscription had almost weathered away, and a few thin cracks zigzagged across the surface. Her name and the years she lived were barely legible.
“Good eyes,” Nate said. “Let’s go get the Forty-niner.”
Nate and Trevor returned to Hanaver’s headstone and lugged the wooden miner down to the other gravesite. “Should we take the Melting Pot Mixers now?” Pigeon asked.
“Maybe we should wait until we get more of a hole dug,” Summer said. “It might take a while, and the mixers only last an hour.”
“She should have given us more than one each,” Trevor complained.
“We definitely want them on the way home,” Nate said. “I think we should wait. If somebody comes, we can always take them quickly.”
“Except you,” Trevor said. “You’ll be unconscious.”
“Good point,” Nate said. “I better take mine now, just in case.”
Summer unzipped a pocket of her jacket and gave Nate the little ball of chocolate. She passed Melting Pot Mixers to Trevor and Pigeon as well, so they would have one when they needed it. Nate ate his, and after a moment started convulsing. He doubled over. When he stood upright, he looked like a full-blooded Native American. His face was darker, and though some similarities persisted, the transformation had structurally altered his features.
“You guys be lookouts,” Nate said. “I’ll want Trevor to stay by me while I dig. Stay low. With that moon, people could see us from the road.”
“I want to do the cool part this time,” Summer said. “Not keep watch again.”
“Mrs. White said I’m supposed to work the miner,” Nate reminded her.
“Not digging, that’s no fun either. I want to get the box out of the coffin.”
“Be my guest,” Nate said. “We’ll call you when we get there. Summer, you watch the little road, and Pigeon, you watch the main one. If you see trouble, hoot like an owl.”
“I’m not sure that would fool anybody,” Summer said.
“Just make that the signal if you need one,” Nate replied. “We don’t need something as piercing as the whistle.”
Nate and Trevor huddled into the shadow of the largest tombstone close to the Margaret Spencer gravestone. Summer moved in the direction of the little cemetery road and squatted behind an eight-foot obelisk. Pigeon snuck down the slope toward Saddle Road, taking up position behind a wooden supply shed.
Before long, Pigeon heard the sounds of a shovel penetrating and flinging earth, along with the occasional scrape of metal against stone. The sounds were so quick, they could have come from multiple shovels, but he never actually heard two at once, and Pigeon knew the only digging tools they had were the little shovel and pickax of the Forty-niner.
Pigeon watched the field of tombstones before him, the wall, and the dark road beyond. The rhythmic sounds of digging became hypnotic, but the tension of possible discovery and the eeriness of the setting helped keep him alert. As time passed, he recited the U.S. presidents to himself, first in the order in which they had held office, then alphabetically. Pigeon was starting on vice presidents when he saw a car cruising slowly along Saddle Road, the headlights messing up his night vision. Crawling
so that the shed was between him and the road, Pigeon hooted. The sounds of shoveling had already ceased.
Pigeon leaned out, peeking around the side of the shed with half his face. The car had stopped. He was almost certain that it was a police car. Suddenly a bright light glared in his eyes. Pigeon hid his head behind the shed. A bright beam of light began sweeping the area.
“You behind the shed,” crackled an electronically magnified voice. “Come out with your hands in the air.”
The beam of light returned to the shed. Pigeon popped the ball of chocolate into his mouth, and a moment later his flesh began to ripple. “I saw you, come out from behind the shed. Don’t make me come in after you.”
“Go,” Pigeon heard a low voice urge from up the slope.
The rippling had subsided, leaving Pigeon looking Latino. He stuck a Sweet Tooth in his mouth and stepped out from behind the shed, hands held high. “I’m just a kid,” Pigeon yelled.
“Keep your hands where I can see them and walk slowly to me,” the police officer instructed. Pigeon complied. It was a long walk. The spotlight stayed in his eyes the entire time.
When Pigeon reached the wall, he could see the police officer, a muscular man with short hair and chiseled cheekbones. The officer turned off the spotlight and approached Pigeon holding a bright flashlight, one hand near the gun at his waist. “You aren’t allowed to be in the cemetery after hours,” the police officer told him.
“I have special permission,” Pigeon said, the Sweet Tooth nestled under his tongue.
“Special permission?” the police officer repeated in a tone that implied it was unlikely.
The only lie Pigeon could think of sounded pretty lame, but he had to say something. “I’m doing a service project for Cub Scouts. Weeding graves.”
“Little late for weeding, isn’t it?” the policeman said.
“I have school, and my dad works odd hours,” Pigeon said. “This was the best time. The cemetery people know about it. I have to do this to get my Arrow of Light.”
The police officer stared at him. “You know, as a kid, I always wanted to be a Cub Scout,” the man said. “Never really knew how to join.”
“Please don’t report this or tell anybody,” Pigeon said. “If they hear from the police, the cemetery people might back out of sponsoring my project.”
The police officer winked. “I think we can keep this one off the record. Keep up the good work. Don’t stay out too late.”
“Thanks for being so understanding,” Pigeon said. “Might not be worth remembering this ever happened.”
“Might not.” The police officer turned, got in his car, and drove off down the road.
Feeling traumatized but relieved, Pigeon retreated to the shed. The noise of digging had already resumed. A Hawaiian girl wearing Summer’s clothes met him at the shed. “What did you tell him?” asked the Hawaiian girl in Summer’s voice.
“I said I was doing a Cub Scout project,” Pigeon said.
“He bought that?” she exclaimed.
“Pretty easily,” Pigeon said. “I was worried at first, but then he just accepted it. Now might be a good time for a victory hula.”
“Am I Hawaiian?” Summer said.
Pigeon nodded. “You should do the hula right now,” he urged.
Summer started waving her arms and shaking her hips. A moment later she quit the dance and swatted him on the arm. “I knew what you were doing and it still sort of caught me off guard,” she said. “Spit that thing out.”
“I don’t want to waste it,” he said. “I should probably keep it in.”
“You’re right,” Summer said.
“You ought to hurry back to your post,” Pigeon suggested.
“Okay,” Summer said. “Good job.” Crouching, she dashed up the slope.
Pigeon grinned.
*****
The last time Nate had tried to dig a hole had been very frustrating. The previous year, he had decided to dig a swimming pool in his grandma’s backyard. He had grabbed both of his grandpa’s shovels—the one with the square head and the one with the head more shaped for scooping—and gone to a patch of ground beyond the lawn where dry weeds were withering. It had been frustrating to discover how much force was required just to jab the head of either shovel even a little ways into the unyielding ground. He ended up driving the head of the shovel just a couple of inches into the dry earth with each thrust and scraping up only a little dirt. There were roots and rocks to slow him down, and a hot sun blazing overhead. He had given up before the pathetic hole was knee-deep.
Inhabiting the Forty-niner made digging a much more satisfying experience. With every thrust, the little shovel sank deep into the earth and came up with an impressive pile of soil. Nate soon found that since he did not feel the exertion of shoveling and never grew tired, he was free to dig as fast as he wanted.
He felt satisfaction watching the hole rapidly deepen and widen, the soil soft as pudding, light as popcorn. Whenever he struck a rock, he levered the blade of the shovel beneath it and flung it out of the way without difficulty. Trevor made suggestions on where to widen the hole and where to throw the dirt, which became increasingly useful as the hole deepened. In the three-foot-tall Forty-niner’s form, it did not take long before Nate could not see out of the hole.
When Trevor saw the police car, he jumped into the hole with the Forty-niner and whispered a breathless warning. After Pigeon sweet-talked the officer, Trevor climbed out, and Nate resumed the excavation.
The hole was about six feet deep when Nate struck something solid. Pitching dirt high over his shoulder, he uncovered the surface of the burial vault. He created some space on one side of the stone vault, then pantomimed for Trevor to toss in the pickax.
Nate found the line dividing the lid of the vault from the rest of the stone box, and began prying. Bits of stone chipped off under the pressure he exerted. Although he could not feel the strain, several times he wedged the pick into position but failed to raise the lid.
Nate dug more, working his way around the entire vault, creating space for him to chip away at the sealed lid. Finally, after relentlessly attacking the vault from all sides, Nate forced the lid up, got a wooden hand under it, and heaved it aside.
“Good job, Nate,” Trevor applauded.
Inside the stone vault lay a long box of rotten wood. Trevor shone a flashlight at it from above. Nate bashed open the wood with the pickax, tearing away splintery chunks and casting them aside. He glimpsed the remains of a decayed skeleton inside and observed a pale box beside the collapsed skull. Nate waved up at Trevor, who called to Summer in a loud whisper.
A few moments later, Nate saw a Polynesian version of Summer appear, grimacing down into the hole. “Okay, I changed my mind, you get it.” She moved out of view.
Nate retrieved the ivory box from the coffin and scrambled over to the edge of the hole. Trevor climbed partway down the least sheer side of the hole and accepted both the shovel and the rectangular box. Nate slammed the lid back onto the vault, adjusted it as snugly as he could, then used the pickax as a climbing tool to emerge from the hole. Having not exited the hole since commencing the project, he was impressed by the quantity of earth mounded around the gravesite.
“Fill it in and let’s get out of here,” Summer said. “It’s almost two-thirty.”
Nate started with the shovel, but soon he was racing around the perimeter of the hole, hurling in armfuls of soil. He would get low to the ground, spread his arms, churn his legs, and bulldoze sizable piles into the void all at once. Then he would turn around, bend over, and scoop dirt backwards between his legs, arms pawing tirelessly.
Trevor helped with the shovel, and Summer kicked at the dirt as well, but it was Nate using the Forty-niner to wrestle earth into the hole that got the job done. In the end, the grave looked recessed and grassless. Too much of the dirt had dispersed too widely as Nate had chucked it skyward during his digging. Staring at the grave, they could see how obvious it would be
that somebody had dug it up.
Trevor walked over to Summer. “What do we do?” he asked.
She surveyed the area. “Nothing. Had we been thinking, we would have cut out squares of grass at the start, set them aside, and laid them back down now. At least we got the box and pretty much filled in the hole. We better get out of here.”
“Should I wake you up, Nate?” Trevor asked.
The Forty-niner bobbed his head.
Nate felt the rush of wind against his eyeball and was once again back in his own body. He was already back to his original race. Summer remained Polynesian. Trevor had not ingested a Melting Pot Mixer.
Trevor and Nate hauled the Forty-niner back up to Hanaver’s tombstone; then they went and found a Latino Pigeon sleeping beside the supply shed. They woke him up, retrieved their bikes, and rode home.