His
Cemetery Doll
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
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His Cemetery Doll Second edition. May 3, 2015.
Copyright © 2014 Brantwijn Serrah.
ISBN: 978-1512063448
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Written by Brantwijn Serrah Cover design by Brantwijn Serrah Edited by Jayne Wolf
Special thanks to the staff of Breathless Press
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Also By Brantwijn Serrah
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Thank You For Reading
About the Author
His Cemetery Doll is an extremely special story. These characters have been with me in one form or another for almost eighteen years...exactly the amount of time since I first met my best friend, mate, and partner, Ken.
I dedicate this to you, love, for two decades of being my most enthusiastic supporter and my co-author of fantastic worlds. The love story in these pages began eighteen years ago when two middle-school kids met in fifth period study hall.
Also By Brantwijn Serrah
Short Stories
Right Where I Want You
Equinox
Hunting Grounds
Graveyard Games
Bad Dreams
Books of Blood and Fire
Book 1: Lotus Petals
Book 2: Satin and Steel
Chronicles of the Four Courts
Book 1: Goblin Fires
––––––––
His Cemetery Doll is an extremely special story. These characters have been with me in one form or another for almost eighteen years...exactly the amount of time since I first met my best friend, mate, and partner, Ken.
I dedicate this to you, love, for two decades of being my most enthusiastic supporter and my co-author of fantastic worlds. The love story in these pages began eighteen years ago when two middle-school kids met in fifth period study hall.
Chapter One
Conall...
Somebody was shaking him.
Gravekeeper...fallen soldier...
There is someone in the graveyard, Conall.
***
Conall Mackay woke with a start. Outside, the wind gave a haunting, low moan. He could hear the rustle and creak of trees in the graveyard outside.
He'd dozed off in his chair by the small cottage hearth, and the fire had long died down to sulky, smoldering coals. His daughter Shyla, bleary-eyed and wild-looking with her short blonde hair sticking up at all angles, shook him by the shoulder, mumbling sleepily.
"There's a strange woman, Dad. Outside."
In the dim light, Shyla's pale cheeks and her white cotton nightgown glowed, turning her into a little candle-flame girl in the dark.
He rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw, then reached out to comb his fingers through her messy tresses, trying to tame them down. "What do you mean, lass?"
"I told you." She paused to yawn, then said, "A woman."
Her big, bright eyes—one blue, one green—were heavy-lidded. Her voice muzzy with sleep. Conall studied her, then patted her shoulder.
"You're dreaming, Shyla. There's no woman."
"Yes, there is," she insisted quite matter-of-factly. "She's in the cemetery, by Maya."
Maya. The angel statue Conall had carved from stone, which stood in the center of the graveyard.
"Shy, you can't even see Maya from your window."
"I did," the young girl answered. Her eyelids drooped and she swayed a little on her feet. Conall stood, scooping her up to carry her back to her room.
As he tucked her back into bed, she settled into soft, faint snoring. Absentminded, he tried to straighten her hair, then picked up a small stuffed dog from her old, mostly-forgotten toy box, tucking it in beside her.
Almost thirteen years old, Shyla had recently sprung up into a lean, gawkish tomboy. Like this, though—curled in her bed, face soft and thoughtful with whatever dreams she'd slipped into—she appeared so much younger. His little girl.
"Sleep well," he mumbled. Then he retreated, mindful not to trip over any piles of books or the small desk chair she'd dragged out to the center of the room.
Back in the hall, he stood at her doorframe, watching her. Then his gaze drifted past her to the window, which faced the cemetery.
The night outside crept close in dense fog. Gray veils drifted, slow and ponderous, beyond the glass. Even if Shyla had a view of Maya, she couldn't possibly have seen anything out there tonight.
Yes, he thought. Just dreaming.
Although...
Those drifting grays...dancing whorls, like silk ribbons on the wind.
No. He told himself. Fog, is all. Nothing else out there.
Chapter Two
During the day, dappled green and gold sunlight played around the graves in Conall's cemetery. Cool, quiet woodland bordered three broad, gated sections, tree branches overreaching a tall iron fence, vines growing through and around scrolled-iron bars. He kept the tombstones clean and neat, scraped the moss from the mausoleums, and trimmed the worst of the overgrowth. He'd never clear away all the natural brush, however. It gave his cemetery a breath of quiet serenity.
Today, though, a thorny growth of brambles breached a little too far onto the grounds, creeping up toward an ancient pair of gray headstones. The inscriptions on those two stones had long eroded away, but Conall devoted an entire afternoon one spring, years ago, to deciphering and re-engraving the names of two young children, twins. Shyla sat behind him on another marker, swinging her little legs back and forth and watching him. He hadn't ever chided her for sitting on the graves. He didn't see any harm in it.
The bramble clung stubbornly to the trellis of an old mausoleum gate stuck in the ground, and Conall spat out an oath as he lost his grip. It sprang back to its anchor, scoring his palms with its thorns.
"How did the blasted thing creep so far in like this?" he growled, shooting an icy glower at the dark, gnarled creepers. He hadn't been by this corner of the graveyard in several days, but, still, he'd never have missed an intruder this overrun.
"It wasn't so bad yesterday," Shyla offered in a thoughtful tone. She leaned forward from her perch to inspect the bush. "I came by here to have a picnic under the willow."
"Well, it didn't sprout into a monstrous weed overnight," Conall grunted as he seized another branch and strove to untangle it.
Shyla cocked her head like a curious bird and swung her legs again. Though sitting on the graves had never been taboo, she still carefully avoided kicking the stone with her heels.
"Maybe the woman caused it to spring up. She could have been a witch, I suppose."
Conall paused and shut his eyes, quietly reminding himself to be patient.
He'd never been a fanciful or superstitious man, not by nature. He saw his graveyard as a simple thing, the community burial ground, and he tended it in dutiful respect. His daughter, on the other hand, pre
cocious little creature, continually pondered the stories and secrets of its inhabitants. This wasn't the first time she'd taken up interest in one or another personality buried here, talking about witches or fantastic creatures hiding in the small surrounding wood.
Of course, he'd always tell himself, she's a child. Children are imaginative.
Lately, though, he worried about it more. At her age, such nonsense became less charming and more...weird.
"It's almost lunchtime," he grunted as he finally pried an arm of gnarling limb away. Tossing it aside, he wiped his brow. "Shall we go in?"
Shyla hopped off the grave, smoothing out her overalls, and nodded.
"Goodbye Luke, Lucia," she said, giving a tiny bob of a curtsy to each of the little graves. "We'll come back later to cut away the rest of it."
About a year ago, Shyla had decided the twins buried here had drowned in the river, clinging to one another as the current overtook them. She'd spent some weeks pondering aloud if they'd run away from home to escape an evil stepmother, or if they'd been following fairies through the woods and become lost. Conall frowned to himself as she turned away from their graves and started skipping back to the house ahead of him.
He sighed, rubbing at the back of his damp neck. Even in the shade, the day had grown outrageously hot. He carefully arranged his heavy toolbox and set it aside, by the mausoleum, before following his daughter up toward the house. He wanted a cold splash of water from the backyard pump, and then the cool interior of his kitchen. Most days he began work in the cemetery at dawn, and today he'd risen with the sun as normal. He'd earned the midday break. Before he came back, he'd set Shyla to her own chores. It'd do her good to get out of the old boneyard for a while.
Limping up the hillside to the higher, newer areas of the grounds, he didn't notice Richard Trask waiting at the cemetery gates, until the other man called out to him. Trask, a slight bit paunchy, took shelter from the sun under a broad oak tree, and the shadows had hidden him for a moment. Now, as he came toward Conall, waving, the groundskeeper crossed his arms over his chest and nodded a welcome.
"Alderman," he greeted.
"Hot as all blazes out, isn't it?" Trask said cheerfully. "How's the leg?"
"About the same as ever," Con replied. "Course, it hurts worse in the cold."
"And how are you and your girl?"
Conall glanced up toward the house. "Well enough. What brings you by?"
Trask paused before answering. Conall recognized the usual wariness his neighbors all appeared to suffer when visiting him in the graveyard. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, he followed Trask's gaze to the statue at the center of the main ring of tombstones.
Maya. Conall's stone angel.
Frustration pricked at the back of his neck. He'd always been sure the neighbors' discomfort had something to do with her.
"Well?" he asked Trask. "What brings you so far out of town, Alderman?"
"Father Frederick wanted to invite you to dinner," Trask said. "I had an errand to run over at the Dillons' farm so I told him I'd pass on the message."
Father Frederick was the local priest and quite possibly Conall's one "friend" in the small village of Whitetail Knoll. Conall nodded to Alderman Trask. "Thanks for passin' it along. I'll be there," he said.
Trask owned the tavern where Father Fred most often liked to meet. Before he turned away, his gaze flickered up to Conall's house.
"How's the girl, then?"
"She's fine," Conall grated. He tried not to betray the annoyance it gave him when others asked about Shyla too much. They never hid their doubt very well, as though he would be incapable of raising a child on his own. Everyone knew Shyla wasn't really his daughter. They believed her to be his niece instead, taken in when his sister died giving birth. He let them think so. Their nosy disdain would be even worse if they found out Con had no sister, and in fact, no kin left at all. He and Shyla were not even distantly related.
Trask caught the brusque tone, and his expression turned apologetic.
"Will you be bringing her along tonight?" he asked. "The wife'll have a dinner ready for her, if you like."
Conall considered and then bobbed his head yes.
"Right then," Trask said. An awkward silence settled between them, until the alderman tipped his cap and added, "We'll serve at sundown. Don't be late."
"We won't."
He watched Trask leave, thinking maybe he'd been a bit uncharitable. His temper might be shorter than normal thanks to the bramble and his stinging palms.
He turned and spent a long moment eyeing the angel.
What was it about her that always spooked others away?
Chapter Three
He'd carved Maya the autumn after Shyla came to him. He'd never understood what motivated him to do it: besides not being very fanciful, Conall had never been particularly artistic, either. The inspiration must have come thanks to the baby.
He'd discovered the poor infant alone in his graveyard, tucked in a sheltering crevice of an old boulder. He remembered thinking she'd been arranged as though in a cradle. Whoever left her did it with care, placing her in a spot where she'd be protected from rain, above any wildlife...and sure to be seen by the first human who passed by. Con later used the same boulder as the base for Maya's statue. Perhaps because those small, thoughtful, careful details might be all he would ever know about Shyla's real mother.
Shyla was a golden child: fair where Conall proved tawny and dark; silky blonde with a cherub nose and soft eyes of differing blue and green, where he had sharp features and irises of amber. Con told everyone she'd been his sister's child because it avoided a lot of extra complications, but he could barely understand how his neighbors believed it. It couldn't be more obvious he and Shyla didn't belong to one another. Whoever delivered her into his graveyard probably hadn't realized who they left her with.
The mystery of it bothered him. Who could possibly abandon their little one there in a cemetery at all? Then, the answer came: someone to whom the shelter of a sturdy rock, and the hope of a stranger's kindness, were preferable to whatever circumstances led her to them.
That affected him. It affected him so profoundly, he'd made a decision no one would understand.
He chose to raise the baby himself.
***
Over lunch, he told Shyla about the trip into town. As always, she listened obediently, nodded when he finished, and stood to begin her afternoon chores without being asked. She'd clear the table, tidy the house, and then go outside to tend their small vegetable garden. With those tasks finished, she'd bathe and dress for a visit with the Trasks.
Conall knew Shyla always made an effort to be a little extra presentable when going to town. It was as if she suspected the ladies there were continually looking for a sign she needed their help and guidance, that Conall couldn't possibly understand how to raise a growing girl. She hated to let anyone think he hadn't provided for her.
Today, she glanced out toward the graveyard before clearing the table from their lunch, her gaze falling on the path leading down to Maya's circle.
"What are you thinking about?" Conall asked.
"Nothing, Dad," she replied softly. Her eyes shifted subtly away as she collected his plate and deposited it in the washbasin.
Conall furrowed his brow, but he said nothing.
On his way back out to the twins' grave, he made a quick detour to pay a visit to Maya.
Visitors often said the statue clearly exhibited a master's touch. They ran their hands over the smooth lines of her slender arms: one held tight over her chest in prayer, the other extended out to the open sky. They marveled at the painstaking detail in the feathers of her angelic wings, and the folds of cloth swathing her sculpted figure, flowing as though caught in the wind. They lauded the emotiveness of her expression, which Conall had always considered rather sad. Of all the detail he'd envisioned of the statue, her face came to mind first, yet he'd carved it last.
He'd dreamed about her
for weeks before he finally channeled the vision into his sculpture. She'd come to him in sleep in the nights following his discovery of the baby, when he'd fretted over the crying, hungry infant, scrambled to create a place for her in his cold old house. Soon thereafter, when tucking her in became a welcome nightly routine, he'd begun dreaming of Maya.
She never formed in his mind as a person. He didn't imagine a flesh-and-blood woman: always cold, white stone, always frozen, and always a sentinel amid the tombstones. He had no idea what possessed him to begin carving away at the boulder where he'd discovered Shyla either, or why he'd been so driven to bring shape to the angel in his dreams.
He'd also never understood why the statue came out so well. When others lauded her as the work of a skilled sculptor, he didn't understand. How could his hands have crafted something aesthetic? They were the hands of a laborer, a groundskeeper, callused from hard work in rough dirt and shapeless rock. He barely managed to chisel fresh inscriptions on the tombstones when they grew too eroded to read. How his angel had taken form and been so much like the alabaster creature in his imagination—exactly like her, exactly as he'd envisioned, down to the elfin ears and delicate, tender fingers—Conall couldn't fathom.
He'd never had the compulsion to sculpt anything else, either. Even if his first attempt had revealed some sort of hidden genius, he didn't believe he'd ever repeat it.
Even though most folks found Maya impressive at first, perhaps cheered by her appearance in the somber old graveyard, they grew unsettled with her in time. The change became a palpable thing to him, an inevitable, creeping distrust from anyone spending a prolonged amount of time in the cemetery with her. Where, if one did ascribe to fanciful imaginings, she might see them.
She'd been sculpted with her eyes closed, but, even so, she always appeared to be watching.
He plodded down the dirt path, taking in the sight of her standing amid the circle of headstones and reaching out to heaven. The trees cast dancing shadows around the area, but none of them fell on her: under a noonday sun, she stood perfectly untouched, at center stage waiting for curtain to rise.
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