Creepers (12 page)

The earth beneath the canopy of the tree was bare. Fresh ivy formed a border in the shape of a cemetery plot. Was that all I could think about? Then I noticed the bark of the tree. Ivy shapes—just like those in my basement—carved into the trunk of the tree from its roots to about six feet high.

I gasped and reached out to touch it.Then I felt something stringy and cold around my ankle. I looked down to see a vine of ivy wrapping around my shin.

I screamed and jumped to brush it off, but suddenly the once-bare ground was a bed of slithering, convulsing ivy. Vines were creeping like snakes to tangle themselves around my feet and legs.

I screamed again. I no longer cared about the witch. The ivy was trying to strangle me! I tore it away from my legs, stamping at it as it withered on the ground beneath my feet. Surprisingly, it didn't have the same death grip it had when Dad had tried to pull it from the walls of our house. This ivy seemed to let go when I yanked at it, like its efforts were only halfhearted.When I was finally free of the vines, I plunged toward the rough path in the woods that I had made. All I wanted to do was get home.

“Courtney,” someone whispered. I stopped as if I had no choice. I turned to see the witch standing by the tree now. Her black cloak was wrapped around her, and her green eyes were incandescent in the darkness of the woods. Her smile was pleased. The ivy was looping around her boots.

She raised her hand to beckon me to her.

“No!” I yelled at her as I pitched myself back down my path toward home.

I stood on our patio to catch my breath before I went into the house. I could not go inside like this—shaking as if I were freezing.Yet the sweat running down my face told me that I was not cold.

I stared at the cat food tins, which I had scattered all over the yard as I tumbled out of the woods. Not a graceful exit. I almost expected the cats to reappear on cue, the way cats seem to come out of nowhere when someone turns on a can opener, but they did not return. I smoothed my tangled hair with my hands and was still breathing like I had just run a marathon. For a moment, I thought I heard the whinny of a horse far off in the woods, but I was unsure.

I looked at my legs and the scratches on my ankles and shins, proof of my terrifying race through the woods and not the ivy clawing at me, because my arms were scratched, too.
Those ivy vines—were they really wrapping themselves around my legs and feet or was that just my imagination?
I had not noticed the ivy in the clearing when I had first reached it.Then suddenly it was there, all over the ground, writhing as if it were being boiled.The ivy . . . the same ivy clung to the walls of our house. I whipped around to see it fluttering innocently in the breeze.

A sudden noise in the kitchen nearly made me scream, but I caught a glimpse of Mom through the bay window, leaning over the sink, doing the dishes. She was home! I weakened with relief.

I could not tell Mom what happened. I was worried that after I told them about witches and crazed ivy, she and Dad would never let me help Mr. Geyer and Margaret with their campaign to save the cemetery. She would be sure that my imagination was getting out of control because of the stories I heard about the people buried in the cemetery. Even though she did not know about Christian's journal and his spooky connection to the ivy, Mom would decide that this cemetery project was not really healthy for a girl my age if it made me hallucinate. I could not let that happen. I would tell Margaret and Mr. Geyer about the witch
and the cats.They at least would have some theories.

“Courtney! What on earth happened to you?!” Mom cried. She froze in mid-reach for a hand towel.

My heart thumped against my rib cage.

“Hi, Mom,” I replied, as if out of breath from exercise. I wondered if I sounded too perky. “I saw a bunch of cats in the yard and chased them into the woods. I was curious about where they had come from,” I added lamely.

“Jeez, Courtney. Look how scratched up you are.” She came at me with a washcloth that she had just held under the faucet. “Sit down,” she instructed as she gently cleaned the scratches on my arm. “You need to be more careful. Does it hurt?” Her nose was scrunched up in the way it does when she thinks something is wrong. “Are you sure nothing else happened?”

“Mom, I'm fine,” I insisted, figuring that I was telling the truth indirectly. She crouched beside me and stared into my eyes, her own blue eyes sharp and probing.

“Okay, but I want you to put some antiseptic on those scratches when you go upstairs.” She paused for a moment, giving my legs a last swipe. “Are you anxious about tomorrow?” she asked. “I know I am.” Her words were eager and clipped, the way she spoke about a topic that excited her.

“Mom, sit down.
You're
making me anxious!” I said. “But I guess I am a little nervous. I don't want to mess up.
I practiced all morning for the cemetery event.” I glanced in the direction of the cemetery, as if I could see it through the kitchen wall. Mom slipped into the chair beside me. “I think I know every bat, hourglass, and Death head on my poster by heart.”

She crossed her legs and began to jiggle her foot. And she accused
me
of being jittery. “You're going to do fine, Courtney. I hope Mr. Geyer knows how lucky he is to have you on his side.” She cupped her chin in her hand as she rested her elbow on the table, silent for a moment.

“Was your article published today?” I asked. Bizarrely, I wondered if the witch might read the paper.

“I'm glad you reminded me!” she exclaimed as she shot out of her chair. “It's on the counter.” She glanced out the window as she picked up her folder. “I think we'll have a good crowd, Courtney, if the weather holds up. I heard on the radio that there's a slight chance of thunderstorms.”

She slid back into her chair as I opened
The Murmur Mercury.

“Hey, Mom, the article looks great,” I said.There was a big photo of the cemetery entrance with the
Memento Mori
sign.The article was titled the same.

“Do you think so?” she asked warmly. “I tried to cover so much—the history of the cemetery and the important families buried there. I ended the article with our current
crisis, noting how sprawl was decimating our country's precious green spaces.” Her lips were pursed as she stared at the print. “I hope it's not overwhelming. People today don't seem to have the greatest attention span.”

I looked at her and smiled. It always amazed me that she was able to collect and summarize so much information so quickly. Is that what passion does for you? Does it give you the edge you need when you are fighting for something? Then Mr. Geyer and Margaret should surely be able to find Prudence. “I think it sounds great, and I know Mr. Geyer will be thrilled,” I assured her.

She touched me affectionately on the cheek. “Come on. Go put some antiseptic on those cuts and then come grocery shopping with me.We'll have burgers tonight since the Geyers are coming over for rehearsal.”

I nodded. Seven o'clock could not come fast enough for me.

M R. GEYER AND MARGARET STOOD ON OUR FRONT steps at five minutes past seven. The leaves of the massive oak tree in our front yard quivered in the slight evening breeze.

“Hey, should be a nice day tomorrow,” I announced, bursting to tell them about the witch.

Margaret cocked her head and smiled. “It had better be,” she agreed.

Mr. Geyer stood quietly in his black shorts and red checkered shirt, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He gave me an amused smile. Margaret looked radiant—her green eyes sparkling against her blushed cheeks. Her hair was in a loose ponytail again. She must be feeling confident about tomorrow, which made my own spirits rise. Her poster was safely tucked under her arm.

Mom breezed into the foyer and shook Mr. Geyer's hand while beaming a mischievous smile at Margaret. “Did
you see the article in today's paper?” Her chin was raised expectantly.

Mr. Geyer smiled and nodded. “Yes, I did. It was very well done. I'm confident that it will deliver the crowd we're hoping for.”

Mom smiled in appreciation, still pumping his hand. “I'm glad you liked it.” She glanced at me, telling me with her eyes that everything was going to be all right. “Let's go into the kitchen. There's plenty of room for us to practice for tomorrow, and Tom has started a pot of coffee.” As she said it, the aroma of coffee wafted into the hall.

Dad suddenly materialized beneath the kitchen and dining room arch. He crossed the dining room, scooting expertly around the table, to shake Mr. Geyer's hand.

“Christian, how are you?” Dad's voice was warm and sincere. Mom must have given him a pep talk.

“I'll be able to give you a better response tomorrow afternoon, when our event is behind us,” Mr. Geyer replied, releasing Dad's hand to adjust his glasses. I knew Mr. Geyer well enough by now to recognize his nervous quirks, but his voice was steady. “Courtney and Jennifer have been extremely supportive. Margaret and I are very lucky to have met such good people.”

Dad glanced at me and smiled. “Well, I'm a little late coming into the game. So I want you to use me tonight as
your objective audience. At least I'll be able to tell you what themes tug at my heart.”

“Splendid idea,” Mr. Geyer agreed.

Mom, the organizer, interrupted to get us back on track. “Why don't we, the audience, sit around the kitchen table facing the windows.There's plenty of space for you to stand and move about.We'll use our imagination to pretend that you're standing at the cemetery entrance. Margaret, you can prop your poster next to Courtney's on the shelf of the bay window.”

I moved my poster over as Margaret leaned hers against the window. She stared for a second past the ivy that brushed loosely against the windowpane and then looked at me. The yard was empty and quiet in the twilight. Did she know that I was checking for witches or cats?

We were an attentive audience for Mr. Geyer.We all sat politely, mindful not to squirm in our seats or sneak peeks at the posters. Soon I was hypnotized by his stories. He projected his voice as if he were addressing a crowd, and waved his arms and gestured as if he were on a stage. Mr. Geyer planned to dress as a Puritan tomorrow and shared with us the story he would tell of the burial of a wealthy merchant to illustrate the Puritans' belief that funerals should be celebrations.

He spoke of Elijah Watson, who died in his seventh
decade, leaving his third wife, eight children, and five grandchildren behind. Mr.Watson was a contemporary of Cotton Mather, the famous Puritan minister and writer who supported the Salem witch trials. News of Mr. Watson's death would have spread quickly through the town, he said, and the town's craftsmen and stonecutters would have received the orders to produce Mr. Watson's hatchments for the funeral display—diamond-shaped panels bearing his coat of arms, glue-stiffened cloths with Mr. Watson's shield, and smaller crests to decorate his home. Mr. Geyer pulled a few samples of these decorations from his backpack with the air of mystery magicians use when they are pulling surprises out of a hat.

“And contrary to popular belief, the Puritans were capable of a little celebration, particularly when it involved sending a fellow citizen into the hereafter,” he continued with enthusiasm. “Even the horses would be decorated with these symbols as a solemn procession followed the carriage to the burial grounds. After the prayers were said, there would be a feast probably unlike any Mr. Watson enjoyed while he was alive, unless he happened to have been invited to another man's funeral. For Puritans lived in the presence of the Black Angel,” Mr. Geyer explained dramatically, “and came to not fear him.”

“Is that a true story?” my dad finally asked, breaking
the silence. He was holding my mother's hand.