Creepers (8 page)

I had wanted to sit in on the interview. I knew my mom would ask good questions about the cemetery and Mr. Geyer's role in its protection. Questions that I would never have thought about or dared to ask. Questions only an adult can ask another adult. But then again, my mom had no knowledge of the ivy or Christian's journal, and from what Mr. Geyer had told me in the cemetery just an hour ago, he was not going to tell her.

Margaret and I were quiet as we walked along the bed of the drainage swale. It was already dry and hard, as if the August sun had sucked up all the moisture from the ground. I gazed up at the leafy canopy that periodically shaded our walk. Some of the trees were so large that their thicker branches arced across the road, allowing their shoots to brush softly against the swaying stalks of corn.

“Courtney, my dad didn't mean to be harsh,” Margaret said apologetically. She cocked her head, awaiting my reaction. Her green eyes were serious as she used the back of her hand to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. “He's just worried about the cemetery. He knows your idea to teach people about the cemetery is a good one.That's why he sent you and me home to begin working on the posters.”

I gave Margaret one of my biggest smiles, the kind I give to Mom and Dad when they are acting like the world is coming to an end. I didn't like Margaret looking pinched with worry. Maybe it was that tight braid of hers.

“I know, Margaret. He was just being single-minded, the way grown-ups can get when they've got a problem,” I replied, pulling my damp T-shirt off my skin. I was looking forward to the permanent shade of the woods. I could see the dirt path that led to the Geyers' house about five hundred yards farther down the road.

Margaret emitted a musical little laugh. “Single-minded! That's a very good description of him, Courtney. My dad would be the first to admit it.”

“My mom can be, too. Actually, that could be a very good thing for the cemetery—two single-minded champions,” I declared proudly. I had recently finished
The Once and Future King
as part of my summer reading list. King Arthur believed that the mighty should protect the weak from evil.
Who more than the dead would need someone fighting their cause for them?
I realized with some excitement that we had a cause now, although I was not sure if we had the might.

“I think we can do it,” Margaret said, as if she had read my mind again. She grabbed my arm to pull me toward the dirt path as a car whooshed by, unsettling the wildflowers that grew along the swale.The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as soon as the odor of pine needles perfumed the air.

We began to walk faster once we were in the woods, propelled by a mixture of excitement and shade.

“Do you have a mailing list of people who have attended your tours? Maybe we can alert them about the cemetery and invite them to our event.” Mr. Clark, my eighth-grade teacher, did that when he was fighting to save some land. People actually showed up, but were disappointed
to find that the only show was Mr. Clark tied to that bulldozer.

Margaret looked down. “No, we're pretty informal. Our tours are more word of mouth. People don't really sign up.” She sounded almost embarrassed.

I was sure if Mr. Geyer told my mom that little tidbit, he would get an earful, but it was not Margaret's fault if Mr. Geyer was not a businessman. I wanted to change the subject for Margaret, even though their little cabin was in view.

“Margaret, do you play soccer or volleyball? I plan to go out for the teams. Maybe we can do it together.”

Margaret gave me an odd smile. “I don't get involved much at school, Courtney. I'm not really that popular.”

“So what?” I answered, surprised and angry for her. “You and I are friends now. And
I
don't know anyone. We can learn the ropes together.”

She stopped as we reached the front door to inspect the row of cat food tins. Most were empty. “That's real nice of you, Courtney, but I have a feeling that whatever happens to the cemetery will kind of decide where I'll be in a few weeks.” She looked toward the thick thatch of trees as if searching for her cats. She sounded far away.

“What do you mean?” I asked, truly concerned, but she acted as if she did not hear me as she took a key from her
shorts' back pocket and opened the front door.

“Okay, we've got our work cut out for us. Let me grab us both a drink and we can start sorting photos on the dining room table.” Margaret was suddenly all business. I had seen that gleam in her eyes before, when we were in my basement, looking at the ivy.

Was Margaret trying to say that they might move away? I'll bring this up later
, I promised myself. Friends were allowed to ask those sorts of questions.

I pulled out a chair and slid it close to the dining room table, which was already covered by neat piles of black-and-white photographs. Before I reached for them, I took a quick glance around the house to see if anything had changed since my last visit. The way Margaret was talking, I almost expected to see the Geyers' bags packed and lined up by the door, but there was no luggage announcing an imminent departure. Nothing had changed. The rooms were still mountain-cabin dark and the living room's armchairs and couch were all still angled as they were yesterday.Why did I expect something different? We don't normally move around our furniture.Why would Margaret and Mr. Geyer? But something about them made me feel that nothing should be taken for granted.

I could hear Margaret in the kitchen emptying the ice tray. I started to reach for one of the piles of photographs
when I noticed the black-covered book on top of a pile of papers to my right. My stomach did a little flip as I slowly reached for it. My fingers tingled as I lifted it and placed it gently in front of me. I opened it, treating the cover and the yellowed papers between it as fragile as butterfly wings. It smelled like dust as I squinted at the scratchy writing that blackened the pages.The script seemed foreign at first with its alien characters, but if I concentrated I could begin to make out the words. I nearly cried out when I recognized Prudence's name.

“Courtney, I'm sorry, but you can't look at that.” I hadn't heard Margaret enter from the kitchen. She smiled apologetically as she picked up the book and placed it back on the pile of papers. “Dad is really fussy about anyone handling Christian's journal.
I'm
not even allowed to look at it unless Dad is in the room.”

“I'm sorry, Margaret. I didn't mean to be rude.” I could almost see my mother looking over Margaret's shoulder, mortified by my lack of manners.

“Courtney, it's no big deal. Really. It's my fault. I'm the one who's been reading the journal pages to you.” Margaret sat down and slid the glass of ice water to me. The cubes floated like a slowly spinning nebula. “It's just that Dad gets really nervous about its age.That's not the original binding,” she noted, nodding toward the book. “But the pages are
authentic and they're obviously falling apart a little more every time the book is opened.”

“Can't your dad take them to somebody who knows how to protect old books?” I asked, appalled at the idea of Christian's life crumbling beneath Mr. Geyer's fingers.

Margaret almost rolled her eyes. “Maybe when he is finished with the transcribing. In the meantime, he won't let that journal out of this house.”

I understood. I probably would not want to let it go, either. We spread out the collection of tombstone photos. There must have been at least one hundred of them, and Margaret and I were to choose the ones with the most interesting art and names. These would make for a really depressing photo album, I thought, except for maybe on Halloween.

At least two hours had passed while we whittled our selection down to twenty photos to cover the two posters. We had tombstones with hourglasses, skulls, bats, angels, suns, and moons—but no ivy. We chose stones that belonged to little children—one stone had four different babies' names crammed onto it, each one dying one year after another. Stones that belonged to mothers who died young or young men drowned at sea. We tried to pick the tombstones that would bring tears to your eyes as you imagined the lives of these people. It suddenly struck me
that cemeteries were jam-packed with life.

“I never looked at cemeteries that way,” Margaret replied pensively. I had not realized that I said it aloud. She looked up, her green eyes clear, despite the images of death splayed beneath her hands. Her appreciative smile softened the determination that usually sharpened her features. “I think we've picked the best photos. Could you get the poster boards, Courtney? They're in the living room, by the front door window.”

“Sure,” I replied. “We're going to stop this development, Margaret,” I announced as I stood. This afternoon, I could be fighting for Margaret—fighting to keep her in Murmur.

I was forcing myself to be hopeful about our media event. It had to work. Besides, we had lots of real fascinating information to share, and with Mr. Geyer telling the story in that dramatic way of his, people would be hooked. I looked out the window as I grabbed the boards, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the many feral cats that the Geyers kept well fed, but what I saw running toward the line of trees was not a cat but a woman.

I was speechless as I watched her dart across the yard toward the woods. She may have been standing outside this very window until I approached.

The woman was not dressed for a steamy August day.
She was wearing a long black skirt and blouse with long sleeves. A black cloak flapped erratically with her steps. Her long black hair was loose and fell below her shoulders. I thought of Christian's journal and of the witch whose hair was black as a crow's wing.

“Margaret,” I squeaked. I couldn't seem to raise my voice.

“Courtney, what is it?” Margaret replied. Her voice sounded far away.

The woman seemed to hear me. She stopped, turned, and looked at me or at the house. She seemed unafraid. As a matter of fact, she raised her chin in the air just as Margaret does when she feels challenged. Even from my post at the window, I could see that the woman was young, with incredibly pale skin, like Margaret's, and the same piercing green eyes. She was beautiful.

She nodded and was gone.

“Margaret!” I screamed. My volume was back. “Did you see her? She's running into the woods!” I wasn't thinking. I just grabbed the doorknob, flung open the front door, and sprinted to the end of the dirt path. I swear I saw the flap of a cape.

“Courtney!” Margaret yelled from the door.“Please don't chase her. Please come back!” I did not realize it then.There was fear in Margaret's voice, but I was unable stop myself.

It was much darker in the woods, I realized, as I felt the sting of the pebbles kicked up in my wake. My heart was beating so hard that I could have been running the hundred-yard dash. Strips of sunlight would momentarily blind me as I squinted down the length of the path to find her. I ignored the overgrown weeds that slapped against my legs and face.

“Courtney.” I heard Margaret's cry far behind me as I stopped to get my breath and bearings. The path forked. Both dirt paths looked identical. I could not find any sign of the woman.

Then I heard a horse's whinny toward the left.

“Wait!” I yelled as I charged the path. “Wait?” I berated myself. Like someone running away from me was going to stop because I yelled at them?

This path had a globe of light at its end, as if it led to a clearing or meadow. I reached it in seconds and staggered against the blinding sun. I used both hands to shield my eyes and I searched for her. I heard another whinny to my right, on the fringe of the meadow. I looked just in time to see her effortlessly mount a large black horse. She flicked its reins and galloped toward a path that was invisible to me. She rode toward the east—toward the cemetery and my house.

I WAS UNABLE TO FALL ASLEEP LAST NIGHT. I COULD NOT get the witch out of my mind. She had to be Christian Geyer's witch. I was sure of it.
Who or what else could she possibly be?

I felt bad I ran yesterday, without so much as a good-bye to Margaret, but after seeing the witch ride off on her black horse toward the cemetery I had to get home. It was almost as if she were
leading
me there. She had looked right at me and sort of cocked her head the way I had seen dog owners pose after they tossed a stick.

Margaret had looked upset when I passed their house. She was still standing in the doorway, where I had left her, when I ran off to pursue the witch. Her eyes were wide as she held one hand to her mouth. She did not say anything or try to stop me, but I swore I could still hear her voice cut through me as if she were yelling my name. I hit the drainage swale alongside the road without looking back.