His Cemetery Doll

by Brantwijn Serrah

  What did Maya wait for? Why did she watch these stones?

  Why did he attribute any emotion whatsoever to a figure sculpted out of plain white rock?

  Conall scowled. Maya, of course, offered no reply. He did, for a moment, imagine he sensed something more...some unwelcome intelligence.

  Dad?

  There's a strange woman outside.

  In the cemetery...by Maya.

  "You keeping my girl up at night, you bloody troublemaker?" he asked the statue.

  Maya said nothing.

  "I don't need you filling her head with bad dreams or more strange ideas," he continued, as though a statue could actually understand him. As though it had anything to do with Shyla's midnight mumbling at all.

  "So...no more nonsense, you hear?"

  For the briefest moment, something at the edge of the trees caught his attention. He glanced away from Maya and stepped out, toward the flicker of motion: something like the flutter of a bird's wings, gray or white perhaps. Except...had he heard a footstep?

  He stared, trying to make out the shapes and shadows. He'd caught sight of it near the path to the graveyard's oldest section, which stood above the river passing by his property. He moved another step toward the brush.

  Then, he stopped himself.

  No. He'd seen nothing there. He'd let Shyla's spooky, sleep-addled ramblings last night actually get to him for a moment.

  He shot Maya another warning glare and shook a finger at her.

  "You," he said, "are getting to be more trouble than you're worth, lass."

  Then he returned to the path, following it down toward the twins' graves.

  He still had a bramble to conquer.

  Chapter Four

  Father Frederick stood several inches shorter than Conall, which always made for an amusing picture when the older man greeted Conall with a clasp of the hand and a one-armed hug. Frederick had to reach quite high to get his arm around Conall's shoulders, but he used this brotherly greeting every time, regardless.

  "Conall!" Frederick welcomed him cheerfully. He turned to Shyla next, extending a hand to her, which she shook with a smile.

  "Hello, Father Frederick," she recited.

  "And hello to you, little one! So good to see you. Will you be joining your father and myself for our evening repast?"

  Shyla glanced up at Conall, and he shook his head.

  "Alderman Trask's wife offered to have Shyla to her table tonight, and I'm sure she'd prefer the company of Ora and Toby to us."

  Ora and Toby were the Alderman's two children, and two of the few people in town Shyla ever kept company with. Shyla gave the Father one of her dutiful little curtseys and excused herself to the Trasks' kitchen.

  "Such a dear one, your girl," Frederick complimented. Conall, as always, remained stoic, but he gave the man a nod of thanks.

  "Come, sit. Join me."

  They sat together at the table nearest the tavern's open front window, where they could bask in the nighttime breeze.

  It had been some time since the two men had met like this. Usually Fred made an effort to meet with Con every few days, especially if the priest had been out at the nearby convent to say Mass on a particular morning. On the return trips, he always stopped by the tavern and sent out an invitation for Conall to join him.

  The convent, about two hours or so upriver, housed a small order of mostly-secluded, contemplative nuns who called themselves the Little Sisters of Margaret. Saint Margaret of Antioch served as the patron saint of pregnant women, childbirth, convalescence, and the dying. As such, the sisters studied nursing, and they took in unfortunates in need of care. When Conall first came to the countryside—a man disoriented and heavily injured in a violent highway assault—he'd been taken to the Little Sisters for aid. He'd met Father Frederick there, on one of the priest's visits.

  Fred somewhat adopted Conall, becoming the next closest thing to family. They shared common histories. As a soldier in the Second World War, Conall worked as part of the Special Air Service before a debilitating injury to his leg sent him home again; Father Frederick spent his own tour of duty as an army chaplain in the northern regions of the continent until his own early discharge. They made fast friends, and Fred arranged for Conall to become the groundskeeper of the graveyard, thereby giving the itinerant ex-soldier an honest job, and a real home.

  Trask brought them their drinks without having to ask their orders: an ale for Conall, mug of tea for Frederick. They accepted them with a nod of thanks, and the alderman informed them they'd be having roast rabbit for dinner, before walking away and leaving them to their conversation.

  "Nice to see you again, Father," Conall said. "I'd been wondering when you'd feel the charitable call again to minister to your prodigal agnostic. I'd almost missed the attention."

  "Ah, yes," Frederick muttered, smiling as he sipped his tea. "Well, circumstances have been a little more demanding than usual, I'm afraid. I'm quite sorry if you've felt neglected..."

  Conall sat back in his chair and took a long slug of his own drink. "Not at all. So how've you been, then, Fred?"

  A bit of mirth sparkled in the monk's eyes. Conall might be the one man who ever addressed the priest so informally. "Quite well, Conall. Thank you. I suspect the graveyard has to be a bit of a torment, in this heat, yes?"

  "Bloody troublesome, yeah," Conall muttered with a bit of a growl. "And the woods creeping up on me on every side. Ought to uproot the whole plot and start over."

  "Conall!" Frederick admonished. "Such disrespect for the dead."

  "I respect them more than most," he replied.

  Trask returned with their dinners, and Frederick offered him payment, which he refused. He wouldn't have, if Conall had been the one to offer.

  "The graveyard is doing quite fine," Con continued. "I'm hoping you didn't ask me here to tell me we'll have another patron there, soon."

  "Not of which I am aware," Frederick said. As they set into their meals, however, Conall recognized the subtle shift in the man's tone. Frederick did have a motive to this meeting, even if it wasn't to arrange a burial. The longer he put it off, the more Conall suspected it would be a very unappealing subject.

  "How has little Shyla been?" Frederick asked after a moment. Conall had been right.

  "Shyla is fine," he said. Why did everyone have such a vested interest in his daughter today?

  "Keeping up with her chores? Behaving herself?"

  "Yes," Conall replied warily. "She always does. What's the question, Father?"

  "Well, Conall..."

  Fred put down his eating utensils and templed his fingers. "It has been on my mind lately...Shyla is old enough now she'll be needing some direction soon. Don't you think?"

  "Hadn't given it much consideration," Conall replied. "She's got direction enough, for a lass of thirteen. She has school in town during the week, works with me other times. She's always had an appreciation for her studies and for her household responsibilities."

  "It's very good to hear, Conall. However...don't you feel she ought to be considering something more?"

  Conall also put down his utensils, mostly because the tone his friend used now gave him a very uneasy feeling.

  "I don't see what's wrong with things as they are," he said. "She's learning quite a lot of skills already, for a girl her age. She's a quick study at sewing, gardening, and I've started teaching her a bit of carpentry—"

  "Carpentry?" Frederick raised an eyebrow. "What will she ever need carpentry for?"

  "Might have to build herself something someday," Conall muttered. "Like a door, in case ours blows out in a storm, or a table, if ours busts a leg. Same reasons she'd need to be able to grow her own food and mend her own clothes."

  "Conall..."

  "I don't aim for her to be a helpless lass unable to care for herself. She's too bright for that."

  "Conall," Frederick said again. "I see why you would be protective—"

  No, you don't.

  "�
��but Shyla is a lady, and she could benefit from a stronger education."

  Conall flicked his glance out the window. "What do you want to say to me, Fred? You suggesting I send her to a boarding school?"

  "I'm asking if you might start considering sending her to the Little Sisters."

  Now the gravekeeper sat up straight.

  "To the church?" he shot. "I'm not sending my daughter away from home to...to be a nun!"

  "Oh, no, not at all," Frederick said with a frown. "Conall, I've spoken with the prioress. She's agreed—as a favor to me—to consider taking Shyla in and schooling her in nursing. She would be taught by the sisters in the abbey cloisters; they would take excellent care of her. Why should you ever object to such a thing?"

  "Because she's my daughter," Conall insisted. "And I don't mean to send her away."

  "I don't mean to take her away," Frederick replied. "She wouldn't be required to take monastic orders, if she chose not to. She would learn exceptional skills. Nursing, hospice care."

  "Bit odd for a convent of nuns to offer to adopt a student with no plans to take her orders..."

  The priest closed his fingers around his mug of tea. "Come now, Conall. You are my friend. You must realize what I am suggesting is the same course I would suggest to any father and mother, even the girl's own birth parents."

  Conall didn't answer but drew sullenly on his ale.

  "Shyla is thirteen years old," Frederick said, "and I believe she can do better than a small-town education filling her time until she is old enough to search for a husband. It is time you start thinking on what manner of future you want for her, and how you can give it to her. She can accomplish so much more at the abbey. She doesn't belong here, not growing up in a place of the dead."

  I live in a place of the dead, Conall thought grimly. Though all he said was, "I'll consider it."

  "I hope you will," Frederick replied. "Now... how is your work in the cemetery?"

  The conversation moved on to business, but Conall had little left to say.

  Chapter Five

  Whatever others might believe, Conall was no fool. He did realize Frederick had the right of it. Sooner or later, he must consider Shyla's best interests...and letting her go to the abbey could be an exceptional opportunity. The church would definitely offer her a better education than the school in town. Conall didn't need to keep her home, unlike the men who depended on their sons to help at the farms or mothers whose daughters must help tend the homestead. He gave her chores, yes, but chores he set her to for her own purpose, to teach and shape her. He didn't rely on her to help their household make it through a day.

  If she did go, his work would still get done.

  He didn't mean to keep her because he needed her. He wanted to keep her because...

  They were all the other had.

  Conall's family died in one of the bombings in Scotland, while he'd still been overseas. He'd come home to mother, father, brother, all dead, and his home laid waste among so many others destroyed. With nothing left in his home country...he'd become a wanderer.

  When he accepted the role of graveyard keeper and taken up residence outside the town, he'd finally enjoyed some stability again. The job brought with it a certain level of wariness among the community. He didn't mind. It suited him fine, being mostly left alone. No one had ever been unfriendly, of course—but no one had gone out of their way to try and understand him either.

  Then Shyla had come. A little girl lost, with no home or family to speak of either. She was a stranger, like him.

  He didn't keep her from the town or from playing with other children. However, she, like him, didn't take personally to most others. Toby and Ora, she liked well enough. Shyla, though, made no secret she preferred the solitary world of the cemetery; the grey tombstones and the long-dead people who had become nothing more than names carved into rocks. She made up stories for them; sometimes the stories changed, when she became bored with one alternative and imagined another. Conall sometimes saw Ora among the plots down there with Shyla. Toby refused to enter, though. At seven years old, he trembled whenever he came near, and might panic if someone suggested he go in past the gates.

  Like the boy, most of the other children in town avoided the graveyard, and so none of them cared to play with Shyla or listen to her stories. He'd sometimes seen her come home from some errand, crestfallen because someone had been harsh with her or some other child cruel. She would be sullen for a day or so. The next, though, she'd be back to her usual self as if nothing happened at all.

  They were alike. She needed a father; he, finally, found someone to care for. He wasn't ready to give it up.

  Perhaps he could be called overprotective. Conall never shook the feeling Shyla's true family fell victim to something terrible, and probably in his woods. He searched, of course, and asked around the town if anyone had been seen. If her mother returned and discovered Shyla missing from her hiding place, she could have asked any of his neighbors and learned who'd taken the baby in. Still, no one came for her.

  Conall could not imagine what, beyond death, could keep a mother from her child. So he had always been especially careful with Shyla. Protective, watchful. At the heart of it, Conall believed he owed it to her missing family to keep her safe. Always.

  Letting her go to live at the church...what if something happened to her there?

  When his meeting with Frederick came to an end, Conall sullenly stood to retrieve his daughter from the Trask's connected kitchen, without bothering to say anything to the alderman or his wife. Shyla made her thank-yous, and his as well—she always looked out for him—and she gave Toby and Ora cheerful goodbyes. Then she fell in at his side for the trip home.

  The night had grown cool at last. The moon shone down, bright in the darkness. He and his daughter walked for quite some ways in silence.

  Then Shyla spoke up.

  "Dad? Did Father Frederick come to take me up to the church?"

  "How did you hear that?" he asked.

  "Toby."

  Conall's grimace tightened. "Toby shouldn't be spreading around other people's business. But yes, baby. Frederick asked me if I would like you to go to the convent, to learn from the sisters there."

  She fell silent for some time. Then she asked, "Are you going to send me away?"

  He considered it.

  "I hadn't decided," he muttered. "It...might not be a bad idea. Proper schooling, for a girl your age."

  She remained quiet. Her expression pensive but unreadable. Whatever she said next would matter greatly. What if she wanted to go?

  In the typical manner of children, though, she changed the subject.

  "Do you think our graveyard is haunted?"

  "What?" he asked. "Really, Shyla, why would you ask such a ridiculous question?"

  She lifted her skinny shoulders in a shrug and avoided his gaze. "Toby believes it is."

  "Toby's an unruly layabout with a fool's imagination. He doesn't want you to think he's a coward for never entering the place. You've lived there all your life; you should know better."

  "But it could be," she mused. "What if there's always been a ghost...or maybe lots of ghosts? What if they've only been asleep until recently?"

  "Shyla..."

  "Maybe something's happened to wake them up."

  "Shyla!" he scolded. "Stop. It's nonsense, and I don't want to hear you mentioning it again."

  She glanced up at him, and hurt and guilt washed over him. He hadn't meant it to come out quite so harsh. He'd never become so frustrated by her storytelling before. With talk like this, though, no wonder the community doubted he could raise her right.

  "No more talk of ghosts," he repeated.

  "Yes, Dad."

  They walked the rest of the way home without another word. As they approached the house and the cemetery gates, he caught Shyla glancing furtively toward Maya's circle. The angel stood bright in the glow of the full moon. As he noticed his daughter's curious searching eyes, his irri
tation flared again.

  "Go on," he urged. "Up to the house, and ready for bed."

  "Yes, Dad."

  She continued up the hill. He remained, now searching Maya's circle himself, exasperated by whatever troublesome notions his daughter might be entertaining.

  Wondering why he'd ever carved the angel in the first place.

  Chapter Six

  "Dad...she's back."

  Conall awoke to Shyla's careful nudge for the second night in a row. He ran his hand over his mouth and shifted, aching from falling asleep once more in his hard wooden chair.

  "Shyla," he grated. "What did I tell you not two hours ago about—"

  He blinked. Shyla wasn't there.

  Conall glanced around. Wind groaned through the eaves outside, and the shutters shook. His brow knit.

  "Shyla?"

  No answer. The dying fire in the hearth flickered. Without thinking about it, he gathered a fresh log and fed it to the embers, renewing them into a healthy flame. Then he headed up the stairs.

  Shyla slept safe in her room, a tiny pale face and a mop of messy blonde hair visible above the edge of the blankets. He puzzled it for a moment before deciding he must have dreamed her hands on his shoulders and her plaintive voice in his ear. Turning from her room, he descended the stairs.

  He stood, staring at the house's main room for a long time. The wind groaned again, sliding and sluicing around the corners and under the eaves of the roof, shaking the ancient boards. A shiver slipped down his spine.

  She's back.

  He snorted. Rubbish.

  By Maya. In the graveyard.

  "Bah," he grunted. He wouldn't be getting any more sleep until he ruled out mischief in his graveyard though, so he reached for his hunting shotgun and exited out the house's back door.

  For a second, the scene left him dumbstruck. The graveyard lay blanketed in chill, freezing fog. The night had been pleasant when he'd fallen asleep. Pleasant and clear. Now it appeared to have plunged in gloomy, creeping winter. He actually shivered, and when he stepped down from the back porch, he found the ground brittle with ice.