Childgrave

by Ken Greenhall

  The people, still carrying burning candles, began to file out of the hall and line up two abreast behind the sleigh. When everyone had left the hall, Chief Rudd shook the reins, and the horses walked slowly forward—toward the cemetery. Rudd held the reins in his left hand, and as the sleigh creaked and began to move he held his right arm above his head. Something glinted in his hand. He was holding a knife. The girl in the back of the sleigh raised her head and stared at the knife.

  I was certain by then that the girl was Gwendolyn, even though I still couldn’t see her features clearly. She was as self-possessed as ever, and she showed no sign of fear or distress as she stared up at the knife.

  I can’t say the same about myself. As always seemed to happen in my trips to Childgrave, I had begun to shiver, this time partly because the wind seemed to have freshened, but mostly because I was terrified. I wondered if I should run out and stop the procession. Perhaps I could grab Gwendolyn and get her back to the safety of my car. It wasn’t likely. For one thing, she might not want to come with me. But even if she did, there would be a lot of people pursuing us; people who were familiar with the terrain and who, in at least one case, might be armed.

  It didn’t take much to convince myself that the best thing for me to do was stay out of the way. After all, I didn’t know that anything sinister was about to happen. I was just an uninvited observer at a quaint ceremony. Just because the chief of police was holding a knife before a little girl and heading for a cemetery, and just because my daughter and my camera had been seeing the ghosts of a lot of dead girls in a town called Childgrave, that didn’t mean that in a few minutes Chief Rudd wouldn’t fling off his cape to reveal a Santa Claus suit and use his knife to cut the ribbon of a Christmas package for Gwendolyn. Right? I wasn’t being cowardly. Right?

  Wrong.

  The procession moved slowly ahead. Candles flickered in the wind and went out. Capes fluttered, and people stumbled and slipped. There were about two hundred Childgraveans walking behind the sleigh: men, women, children, and a few infants who were being carried. The last person in the column was a man. He was the only one in the crowd who was not wearing a hat, and his cape was draped loosely over what seemed to be a well-tailored business suit. He wouldn’t have looked out of place strolling along Park Avenue. It seemed I wasn’t the only out-of-town visitor in Childgrave that night.

  But I was the only one who thought it best to keep out of sight—which is what I continued to do. I sneaked along after the procession, staying just close enough to have some idea of what was going on. The parade stopped at the gate of the cemetery, and the marchers gathered along the fence on either side of the gate. Chief Rudd, Gwendolyn, and the hatless man entered the cemetery and went to stand on the steps of the mausoleum.

  Then things seemed to get out of control a bit. There was some movement in the crowd, and a woman broke away and ran awkwardly through the gate, toward the mausoleum. She shouted just one word: “No.” Her voice seemed incredibly loud after the long silence. Then a man rushed out of the crowd and quickly caught up with the woman. He caught her by the arm, and she immediately stopped. She didn’t resist as the man led her back into the crowd.

  When I looked back to the mausoleum, its steps were empty. The people of the village looked toward the mausoleum, and they became absolutely motionless and silent. After a few seconds a high-pitched moan broke the silence. My first thought was that it was an animal of some kind; a cat in heat, perhaps. But there was a human quality to the sound. Maybe one of the infants in the crowd was starting to cry. But the moan was not repeated.

  Then the man who had accompanied Chief Rudd and Gwendolyn came out of the mausoleum. He stood facing the people of the town. “It is done,” he said.

  I wondered whether he was going to spell that out. But obviously that wasn’t necessary. I think everyone knew what had been done. I was the only one who didn’t know the details. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know them.

  But what would happen next? After fifteen minutes or so, it seemed fairly certain that nothing was going to happen. The people of Childgrave were going to stand silently in the cold darkness and stare at the mausoleum. The question was, how long would they keep it up? The horses snorted occasionally, but the people were quiet. There was a little foot-shifting in the crowd, but no one seemed ready to leave. No one except me.

  I had definitely decided to leave. I told myself that my reason for leaving was that despite my warm clothes, I felt as if I were in the early stages of frostbite. But even though there was some truth in that, my real problem was that I felt sick with terror, disgust, and fear.

  I turned away from the vigil and, stiff-legged and numb-footed, began walking in the direction of my car. I hadn’t gone very far before I began to stumble, and I realized that I wasn’t able to see anything at all. Next I noticed that my cheeks were wet and that my eyes were filled with tears. I pretended that the tears were caused by the cold and not by my emotions, but I didn’t convince myself.

  Whatever the cause of the tears, they made it almost impossible for me to navigate, and I decided I needed to rest for a few minutes and pull myself together. Could I take a chance and find shelter in someone’s house? It might be safe enough in the Coleridge house. But that seemed like an illegal act. Not that illegality seemed to be defined the same way in Childgrave that it was defined in most other towns.

  Then I thought of the Meeting Hall. It was a public building. My conscience would have less trouble dealing with that. I knew I couldn’t be far from the hall, and with a lot of wiping of my eyes and some cautious maneuvering, I found myself inside the building in a few minutes. As far as I could tell, no one seemed to have stayed in the hall, which had the peculiar quality of a room that has very recently held a great many people. It seemed warm to me—not a dry, mechanical warmth but a moist, earthily scented heat that had been generated by heavily clothed bodies. The aroma of sweat-dampened wool mingled with a thin haze of candle smoke.

  I thought of calling out to see whether anyone was still in the building, but I decided it was better to be discovered misbehaving than merely being inquisitive. I found a chair near the door, and I sat until I felt reasonably warm and until my vision had cleared. Then I went to the case in which I had seen the knife displayed. The case was empty. No surprise in that. There was one light burning in the building—a large white candle in a floor stand. It was on a platform, and next to it was a lectern. I went quickly to the platform. On the lectern was a closed, folio-sized book that was impressively bound in full leather. No Florentine scarlet or gilded curlicues; just thick, rubbed natural cowhide. I opened the book.

  There was no title page, and the first leaf was blank. The second page was covered with large, angular handwriting in a faded brown ink. With difficulty, I began to read:

  In this 6. month of the yeare of Our Lorde 1660, I, Josiah Golightly, being neere to the time that I shall gratefully join my blessed Maker, do set down a brief history of those joys and perturbations which have been visited upon me in the New World. I put forth these words neither in idleness nor in vanity, but in feare that we may soon forget, nay that some hath long since forgot, that we did come unto this land not that we might become Marchants, Prelates, and Magistrates, neither that we might deal falsely with Indeans; rather, we did come to this incorrupted Wildernesse that we might live as Saincts under a Covenant with Christ Jesus.

  Being long oppressed in my Christian conscience, I did with regret leave the English Nation Anno Dom. 1634, shipping first to Holland and then, upon faire report from those first to venture there, to the Bay of Mattachusets, whence I and my wife Mariah arrived in the 2. month, 1635. Although the Gouvernour Mr. Winthrop and his brethren did make me most welcome, it was not long ere I sensed the russel of Prelate silks and the whispering of Magistrate velvet ’neath the rude wool of Puritan cloakes.

  Josiah’s penmanship wasn�
�t easy to decipher, and I was making slow progress in getting through the manuscript. My stomach felt like a fist, and I kept looking up at the doorway of the hall, expecting to see a disapproving face. I hoped it wouldn’t be the face of Delbert Rudd. I skipped ahead in the journal, looking for something I hadn’t already heard about. The book was well thumbed at the corners, but the paper of the manuscript had remained remarkably strong and white. I owned paperback books less than two years old whose pages were already more yellow and brittle than those of the journal.

  As I turned the pages I reached a section that had obviously been read more often than the early chapters. Josiah was describing his ordeal after being banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony:

  I know not how long the Snows and Blasts were upon us, for day and night became as one. I knew only that we should perish, for no shelter, whether of tree or rock, could suffice against such fearsome storms. The meagre bit of Corne that was our only sustenance was now exhausted, and our sweet childe Colony was taken with extream weaknesse. For some dayes we had eaten nought but Snow. We huddled in the storm, dolorously praying and awaiting the Angel of Death.

  And ere long a towering Angel truely did appear to me, being appareled all in white and but indistinct amidst the swirling Blasts. Sayeth I, “Which of us will you take first to Our Lord?” Answereth the Angel, “This day the Soul of the childe will I take.” Teares began to streame on my cheeks, and though I wished to protest that I should be taken in the innocent childe’s stead, I could not reply. The Angel continueth, “The Soul onely will I take. The flesh have I no need for; the flesh I give unto thee, that ye may live to praise the Lord. Recall ye the words of the Lord in these places: Genesis Two and Twenty, Psalme Seventy and Eight, and John Six.” Then the Angel departed, leaving me distressed to ponder on its words.

  And I did somewhat revive, being put in mind of Scripture. As I bethought Genesis Two and Twenty, these words came into my eare: “For because thou hast done this thing, and thou hast not with held thy sonne, thine only sonne, that in blessing will I bless thee.” Psalme Seventy and Eight brought forth these words: “Man did eate Angel’s food: He sent them meat to the full.” And John Six put to my mind that most vexing speech: “Except ye eate the flesh of the Sonne of man, and drinke his blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day.”

  Holding these thoughts, I went hence to my wife Mariah, who, neerer than I to being famished, did hold our daughter Colony to her brest. Freeing the childe and taking her some paces apart, I determined that indeed her Soul had been taken. And I prayed to my God that I might do his Will. The Angel then appeared againe, approaching and giving guidance to my hands. From our piteous belongings I drew two cups and a knife. The Lord’s words were in my ears: “Except ye eate the flesh and drinke the blood, ye have no life in you.”

  The deare little bones I preserved most carefully.

  And the following morning the sunne shewn copiously and I did rejoyce. Yet withal I was neere to death and in great confusion. My godly wife Mariah did never see the sunne againe, for though she breathed still awhile, her eiyes remained sealed. Her limbs had blackened and withered, and before that daye was out her Spirit, which bore not the least blemish, departed.

  I wondered whether I wanted to read any further. I didn’t really want to know the rest—and someone was sure to be returning from the cemetery soon. But the fear of being discovered was not as strong as it had been. Josiah’s story was making me feel less like an outsider. It was also making me feel a lot of other things; none of them very pleasant. I went back to the journal.

  Had not the Angel given courage unto me, I might my self have perished that day. I had not the strength to bestir my self through the great Snows that were everywhere about me. I was scituate in a valley ringed about with tall stoney walls. I despaired that I should ever ascend from that place. Yet I did not lose faith, and soon there appeared atop a nearby peak what I took to be a wisp of smoake. I cried out, and despite my weaknesse, my voice ecchoed marvelous loud through the valley. In a short time, through teares of gratitude, I saw a dark figure close unto the smoake. This person began without delay to descend toward me. With much distress of body but joye of minde, I went forth to meet my benefactor, who shewed him self at our meeting to be an Indean. And as God would have it, this young man, by name Sayqueg, was of the Mowhiggin Tribe and spoke a Tongue like enough to that of the Narrowgansets that we could converse most freely. Sayqueg brought forth from beneath his fur robes a purse of crakt Corne, such as Natives were wont to travel with, and placed it in my hands. In return, I offered up to him my knife, which although a most pretious object to me, seemed but a feeble show of my gratitude. Having partaken of the Corne, I made my way with much assistance to Sayqueg’s shelter.

  Josiah then launched into a description of what I had been told previously about the founding of Childgrave. I skipped ahead in the journal, stopping at the final section:

  Thus did we establish our little Congregation, each person a Sainct and Seeker of Grace according to individual Conscience and the Scriptures, without Pastor, Ordinance, Publick Meeting, or Ceremonie. I soon perceived, however, a certaine diminishment of Grace among my brethren, and began to think on ways that might preserve that Grace. Might not a solemn Ceremonie be conducted, but at some wide interval to prevent the encouragement of hollow, popish practices? I recollected the Angel that had come to me in my distress—a visit that was never far from my thoughts—and I convened with my fellow Saincts. Whereupon we did decide that since the Lord Christ had miraculously sent forth his Angel with tidings of Eternal Life through innocent blood and flesh, that we should take this for a sign. Therefore we did joiously institute for our selves and for ever in those who follow out of our seed, the following

  CEREMONIES

  1. That each yeare on the Sunday of the Resurrection of our Lord Christ Jesus, out of our Congregation be chosen a female childe who hath not yet attained her 6. yeare of age; that this childe be honored and revered beyond any member of the Congregation and that any wish she have from that daye be granted.

  2. That within the same yeare, upon the Eve of the Birth of our Lord Christ Jesus, the chosen childe be taken to the place where the remains of Colony Golightly do lie, where there will be constructed an edifice of enduring stone. And as the Congregation do keepe a silent vigil, the chosen childe be removed from their sight and her Spirit be released unto Heaven. Thereafter the blood of the childe be mingled with wine and her flesh be cut fine and dried.

  3. That upon the first daye of the New Yeare the Congregation joine together in Communion that each may sip of the wine and taste of the flesh, thus having Innocence and Grace restored to them.

  4. That the deare bones of the departed childe be interred, her name inscribed and ever remembered.

  ADMONITION

  The people of the present Congregation of Childgrave beseech all ye who shall follow out of our loins to honour the Lord God in the manner we have set forth here. Forget not that ye would not have seen this Earthe but for the Lord’s Angel and the Blood and Flesh of the innocent childe. Heed not the voices of those apart from our Congregation. Heed only the voice of thy Lord God.

  AMEN

  I slammed the book closed and grasped the edges of the lectern. My knees were trembling, and I was whispering: “Deare little bones.” I thought of the townspeople who had become my friends and who were now standing in the darkness of the cemetery.

  I thought of Verity Palmer: a love of the past and of touching flesh.

  And her flesh be cut fine and dried.

  I thought of Beth and Arthur Hopkins: anatomical drawings, harp, and wine.

  The blood of the childe be mingled with wine.

  I thought of Evelyn Coleridge: séances and meatless meals.

  That each
may sip of the wine and taste of the flesh.

  And then I could think only of my body, which was acting in a way it never had before. I was shaking uncontrollably, feeling alternately feverish and chilled. My clothes were damp with sweat, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  I wasn’t sure at first whether the pressure on my shoulder was real or imaginary. And then I saw a hand sliding across my shoulder and down my arm. It was a woman’s hand; strong and familiar. The hand tightened on my arm and pulled firmly, forcing me to turn. And when I turned, Sara stood before me, smiling and calmly beautiful.

  I fainted.

  Chapter 13

  It wasn’t a long faint, but it was enough to create the where-am-I? effect. I don’t know whether I actually asked the traditional question when I opened my eyes, but Sara spoke as though I had: “You’re in the Meeting Hall in Childgrave. You’ve had a shock or two, Jonathan.”

  I tried to get up, but movement brought about a strong protest from my stomach. I lay back and treated Sara to about as unappealing a request as anyone could make. I said: “Kiss me or I’ll throw up.”

  Instead of backing away, she kissed me. I immediately forgot about my stomach. I forgot about everything else but Sara and her nearness to me. After a couple of minutes, I was able to sit up.