The Witch's Grave

by Phillip DePoy

  “The girl saw only a rider coming, furious and fleet. In her guilt, she took it for a murderer, sent out from Randal’s father to punish her. She fled, terrified, never recognizing her love in ghostly form.

  “She ran through sedge and hazel, weed and water, rock and salamander trails, past a circle of hemp. He gave chase, calling her name, until they came to the blacksmith shop in our town.

  “‘Help!’ she cried when she saw the glow from his bellows.

  “The smith appeared, a red-hot iron in his hand. He saw the girl’s distress and reached out his hand. But the undead spirit leaned down and grabbed the unfortunate girl’s dress, a pale yellow gown twined all about with rust roses. The smith raised his iron and burned off the dress from the rider’s hand, saving our Nancy. She fell, more dead than alive. The rider howled, believing Nancy no longer loved him. The horse, frightened to madness, leapt over the cemetery wall, gone.

  “The smith took Nancy into his shop, where she lay weeping, asking only that she be taken to Randal’s grave, that she might see her love one last time. A priest was called, the doctor came nigh, and Nancy’s mother made three in attending to her, but none could prevail. Before the first light of day, the poor girl died.

  “They took her body to the graveyard, where they found, on Randal’s grave, the corpse of a colt, drenched in foam, his eyes bulging, his tongue swollen round. The grave was fresh dug, no grass, no moss.

  “And beside it: a piece of Nancy’s dress, burnt from the smith’s iron.

  “She was buried beside him, in a simpler grave. And all around their graves, all tell the tale, on October thirty-first there grows a circle of hemp and the lovers are permitted one embrace before they must return to their cold coffin prisons.

  “If the moon is near full, you can see them to this day, twined in a true-lovers’ knot, between the midnight and the dawn, on the eve of All Saints’ Day.”

  I felt the icy touch of my great-grandmother’s hand on my cheek.

  “That’s a ghost story,” she whispered, “from long ago. I used to tell it to you when you were a baby, do you remember?”

  She fell silent once more. A slow-growing warmth surrounded me, taking the chill from my skin, seeking to penetrate my bones.

  “Oh.” Her voice shimmered. “You’re not staying.”

  Thirteen

  Samhain is New Year’s Day on the Isle of Man, the last Celtic holdout against Saxon invasions. A new fire is struck, the old one dies, and from the sacred flame torches are taken. All the hearths of the island are rekindled, fortunes are told, and the future is reasonably assured. The fire of the new year restores all spirits; its orange glow is the liveliest soldier against the gloom of the night. Bonfires blaze.

  On the last day of autumn children gathered ferns, tar-barrels, the long thin stalks called gàinisg, and everything suitable for a bonfire. These were placed in a heap on some eminence near the house, and in the evening set fire to. The fires were called Samh-nagan. There was one for each house, and it was an object of ambition who should have the biggest. Whole districts were brilliant with bonfires, formed an exceedingly picturesque scene.

  The most effective is a circle of fire, burning iron-hot. It is made on the highest spot, and a stone is put in the circle for every member of every family in the town. When the fire is out, the stones are examined. Any found moved or damaged were taken as a sign: within twelve months the person whose stone had been so disturbed would be cast out of the circle of the living.

  Fourteen

  “I think I saw his eyes move!” Andrews’s high-pitched tone betrayed great distress.

  “I don’t think so,” Able answered.

  “No, honestly,” Andrews shot back. “Come here.”

  “Mind the stones,” Truevine’s voice entreated urgently.

  “You’re going to burn the place down,” Andrews argued.

  Where’s Skidmore? I thought.

  Truevine was whispering something low and I was desperate to hear it, but the lovely warmth that was flooding my arms and legs was distracting me. I could feel the touch of a hand on my heart, hear the crackle of the fire in the hearth. I wanted to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t part, the way some dreams won’t allow the sleeper to awaken.

  Flashing red light stabbed my eyelids. Car engines raked my ears. Heavy footfalls disturbed my slumber. Vague voices barked commands; rude hands roughed me.

  “Time of death?” someone said.

  “Stop!” Truevine’s imperious voice pierced the din. “Do not pick him up!”

  More voices mumbled, but the jarring ceased; I relaxed.

  “Oh my God, Needle, come look at this.” I didn’t recognize the voice. “I thought you said he was shot.”

  “He was.” Skid’s voice was clawed and ragged.

  “There’s a dab of blood. But see here.”

  “Mind the stones!” Truevine’s voice triumphed again.

  “What the hell?” Skid whispered. “There’s no bullet hole.”

  “Right,” the voice said.

  “So what killed him?” Skid asked softly

  When I was finally able to open my eyes, I could make no sense of what they saw, as if a brief chapter had unfolded without me.

  I was lying in the middle of the parlor, tumbling bits of the abandoned Newcomb mansion all around me. Strangers surrounded Andrews and Able Truevine sat in the corner closest to me, rocking back and forth praying or whispering to herself, eyes closed.

  I was in the center of a small circle of stones, black, each with a slight hollow indentation where a candle sat. I tried counting, for some reason, but was unable to focus on numbers; I suppose there were twenty or more.

  Skidmore was by himself, staring out the window.

  I sat up.

  For a moment, no one took notice.

  I rubbed my eyes, absently put a hand to my shoulder where it ached.

  One of the uniformed strangers close to Andrews happened to turn at that moment and catch me out of the corner of his eye.

  His gasp took him backward, into another officer, and he began choking violently. All eyes turned first to him, then my way.

  I looked down at myself, trying to determine what they were staring at. The room had fallen crystal-still, poised.

  “What happened?” I said.

  Everyone remained frozen.

  “Fever?” Skidmore said strangely, his hand steadied on the windowsill.

  Truevine opened her eyes, sighed, and collapsed on the floor.

  Everyone rushed to my side.

  “Fever?” Skid repeated, trying to stare through my eyes into my head.

  “My chest hurts.”

  One of the deputies laughed. He was wearing a uniform different from Skid’s.

  “You got shot, brother,” Skidmore said, his voice shaking. “You were dead.”

  “What do you mean, dead?” The sound in my throat was barely mine.

  “As in ‘pronounced dead on the scene’ dead,” he returned, trying hard to pull himself together.

  “Deveroes.” Able was white as milk. “They were outside.”

  “They didn’t mean to shoot you,” Skid said, gathering strength. “They were shooting at the dog. Didn’t even know we were in here.”

  “You don’t know that,” Able shot back belligerently.

  “I’m really thirsty,” I managed, still unable to recognize the sounds I was making.

  Everyone’s attention was on me; my eyes were distracted by movement in the corner of the room. Truevine had recovered herself, stood, and was moving past us out of the room.

  “I’ll be damned if I can explain this,” a man in gray said to Skid.

  I focused on him; he was an emergency medical technician, beefy, shave-headed, young.

  Skidmore leaned in to me. “You got shot, Fever, did you know that?” He was speaking as if I were five.

  “I don’t think I was shot,” I said, gaining energy by the second. “I’m not bleeding, it doesn’t hurt tha
t bad, and I’m conscious.”

  “You were dead three minutes ago,” the ambulance man chimed in.

  “Stop saying that,” I sniffed. “Who told you I was dead?”

  “This.” He held up his stethoscope. “No heartbeat, no pulse, no eye movement, no breathing—just exactly like a dead guy. I’ve seen my share.”

  “Didn’t I hear you say there was no wound?” I looked down at myself. It was a little bloody and my coat was ripped open, but otherwise I seemed fine.

  “That’s just one of the questions I have,” the ambulance man said, straightening up.

  “Truevine did this,” Able said softly. He was staring at the stones and candles.

  “Give me the two-second tour,” I said, looking up at Skid, “could you do that?”

  “Dev, you don’t know what you just put me through.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t; that’s why I’m asking you to tell me what happened.”

  “You know he won’t let up until you do.” Andrews had stood mute, unable to speak. When he did, his voice was shaky, but his face beamed down at me.

  “The dog ran in here,” Skidmore sighed, resigned. “Shots were fired from outside; you went down; I went out. Deveroe boys were running away. Andrews was yelling his head off. I saw you’d been shot, ran to the squad car to call the ambulance, called the state troopers who were here to investigate the mortuary; we all came back. When the medical personnel got here, they did their best, but you were already gone.”

  “In the meantime,” Andrews took up, “Truevine set up these stones all around you; she had them in a little sack. She told Able to get candles; they were in the pantry in the kitchen. She set up this circle, despite my protestations, and started some voodoo ceremony.”

  “It included dabbing this on your chest.” The ambulance man held up a bloody square of moss the size of a kitchen sponge.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “I’d like to know,” he said, “but the girl won’t talk to any of us, just keeps rocking and praying.”

  “We’ll figure all that out,” Skid said licking his lips. “Right now it don’t … I’m just … damn, Fever, you were really gone.”

  “I may want to discuss that later, in private,” I said, scrambling to get to my feet, “but I wouldn’t mind getting out of here at the moment. I feel strange.”

  “Yeah.” Skid blew out a breath. “Let’s get everyone together.”

  “I’m taking him in to the hospital, Deputy,” the ambulance man chimed in. “He needs medical care, don’t you believe?”

  “I need a good rest in my own bed,” I insisted, standing, pushing past everyone.

  “Where are you going?” Andrews protested.

  “I’m trying to stop Truevine,” I answered, still dazed, headed in the direction of the front door, “since the rest of you won’t.”

  They all turned toward the front entrance.

  The girl had disappeared.

  The next part of the evening was a blur. Weaker than I’d thought, I sat down in front of the house outside, doggedly resisting evacuation to the hospital. A shroud of shock had settled over me; I could feel nothing.

  Loud argument from everyone about my medical condition seemed vague to me, far away. In the end Andrews saved the day, waving his university identification, claiming to be a medical doctor, promising everyone he’d take care of me. There was some heated discussion, someone wanting to know why Andrews hadn’t done anything earlier. Skidmore finally lent his support to Dr. Andrews, and it was settled.

  The ambulance departed; Andrews fetched my truck and drove me home; Skidmore took Able back to lockup; state patrol went into the woods after the Deveroe family unit.

  I must have fallen asleep in the truck, groggy getting into my house. But Andrews had a roaring blaze going after a while and brought me a cognac the size of a country iced tea.

  A few sips warmed me inside almost as much as the fire bathed my skin. I settled back onto the sofa, covered with a thick quilt, doing my best to concentrate on the events of my demise.

  “Go over everything again, do you mind?” I said to Andrews. “What happened to me?

  He’d poured himself a glass equal to mine. It was already nearly half-gone. He sat slumped in the chair beside me, shoes off, feet up on the table.

  “All right, let me clear my thoughts.” He took another gulp, a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “We were about to leave the haunted house with Truevine safely found when her dog came barreling into the place, yelping, scared to death. That, of course, got our attention. I was thinking there was some sort of huge animal or something that scared it. Skidmore got out his pistol and headed for the front door, when a bunch of shots were fired, I don’t know how many. Glass broke; a couple of bullets must have hit the walls; there were little plaster explosions. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even react. The next thing I knew, you were on the floor.”

  “Was I bleeding?”

  “I’m sure you were; I didn’t see it right then.” He sipped again. “Skid barked something over his shoulder and ran off into the woods. I don’t think he saw you go down. I could hear yelling outside, but no more shots. Truevine took charge inside, a remarkable command. She pointed; we did what she said. I thought maybe she’d had some sort of folk doctor training the way she was ordering us about, the mouse that roared. I found some blankets upstairs, which was an adventure in itself. You ever try climbing that staircase?”

  “A long time ago. It was more intact then. Go on.”

  “Anyway, upstairs at the house of Usher there are still a few sticks of furniture. I found a bed with linens still on. The top layers were useless, mostly mold, but underneath was a blanket and some sheets that I thought might do under the circumstances.”

  “Could we skip the fascinating adventure of the bedclothes and get on with what was happening with my dead body?”

  “It’s always about you, isn’t it?” He finished his cognac, hoisted himself out of the chair, lumbered into the kitchen. “The point is, what with the navigation of the wacky staircase and the time it took to find decent linens, I was gone out of the room you were in for, I don’t know, as long as ten minutes maybe. When I came back, it was a scene from The Exorcist. She’d laid out that circle of stones all around you, set candles; they were all burning. The girl was huddled over you, dabbing at your chest with some hunk of sod, and I use the term advisedly.”

  “I was bleeding.”

  “You were then,” he affirmed, pouring out another healthy drink. “A lot. Able was hunkered in a corner, I stood for a moment in the doorway, uncertain what to do. It was just so weird.”

  “What was she saying?”

  “No idea.” He waved his glass grandly.

  I pulled the quilt aside, unbuttoned my shirt. There was a welt the size of a nickel on my left pectoral muscle barely two inches from my sternum—and my heart. It was purple like a bruise, black on the edges, ragged, very nasty. I sat up.

  “Come over here, do you mind?” I wrestled my shirt over my shoulder, exposing my back. “Is there anything there?”

  He clicked on the lamp beside my head, peered down. “Yeah.” He leaned in. “Like a black mark, a jagged hive or something.”

  “About the size of a quarter.”

  “Roughly.” He straightened. “What is it?”

  I lay back down, pointed to the similar mark on my chest.

  “Hey.” He reached out and poked it.

  I winced.

  “Still a little tender?” He pulled back his finger.

  “Hurts like hell,” I answered, pulling my shirt back on. “My whole shoulder does, like it’s been broken, run over by a truck, and stapled together with rusty pins.”

  “Descriptive. What are those welts?”

  “Just hear me out,” I began.

  “I hate when you start that way,” he said wearily, retreating to his chair once more.

  “These are the entrance and exit wounds of the bullet that
went through me. The Deveroes told me once that they use bullets that are very smooth and thin, coated with some sort of oil. Their bullets go through clean.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I remember they were very proud of the idea.” I tried to concentrate. “Something about not having to bother finding and removing shot from the innards of their kill. They thought it was a brilliant time-saver …” I floundered.

  “ … effort-saver …” he offered.

  “Something,” I soldiered on. “Also claimed it was kinder to the animal.”

  “They really are morons,” he mumbled.

  “No matter. I think that’s what they shot me with.”

  “They were shooting at the dog,” he reminded me.

  “I believe that. I was just unlucky.”

  “Are you serious?” He sat up, the cognac beginning to flush his face. “You’re the luckiest bastard I ever knew. You were dead, and now you’re fine, all in the space of a couple of hours.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that,” I told him, settling back on the sofa, covering up again.

  “How do you think that happened?”

  “I think Truevine is privy to a certain moss or lichen in those woods that has the ability to stop bleeding and heal scars, bind wounds.”

  “That wouldn’t begin to describe it,” he said, clearly not agreeing. “What kind of a remarkable medical breakthrough would that be?”

  “It would be something,” I admitted.

  “Voodoo nature crap.”

  “Twenty years ago everybody in the medical community laughed at echinacea and Saint-John’s-wort, that sort of thing. Look how they’ve come into common usage.”

  “You can’t seriously compare the new age herbal marketing boom,” he began, sneering, “to the kind of thing you’re talking about. The medical establishment doesn’t take Saint-John’s-wort any more seriously now than they did then.”