Wildcat Fireflies (34 page)

“Okay, but first tell me what’s bothering you? Please? I’ll tell you more about the fight, if that’s what it takes,” I begged, trying to bribe him with gossip.

“Don’t be confiding things you’ll regret later just to see an old man smile and feel useful. Tens won’t divagate.”

I nodded. “Rumi, I know we … I … haven’t been completely forthcoming.” I reached out and touched his forearm so he’d make eye contact. “But you, your stories and your family history, have taught me about myself and maybe my future. I’m grateful. I really am.”

His eyes watered, but he smiled at me. “I always wanted a daughter, you know? Never worked out for me, but you’ll do. I’m morose. Today is the anniversary of my ma’s death. It makes me sad each year around this time that I can’t share the Feast with her. She loved this festival. Dressed up as a firefly annually, with wings that flapped and a hind end that glowed, thanks to modern engineering.” He gave a chuckle that fell off at the end in a sniff.

“A firefly?” That was hard to picture. “I wish I could see that!”

He nodded. “You’ll see around here there are swarms
of ’em in the evenings. She used to tell me that fireflies carried the souls of our loved ones back to earth to check up on us, and that the blinks were the souls winking at us. She’d sit on the porch for hours and watch them come out at dusk. She was a summer dreamer through and through.”

The insects sounded magical. There was nothing in Portland that compared. “I can’t wait to see them.”

He finished tying the ties on the plastic cover. “It’s early yet for the real ones. Not near warm enough. The only ones you’ll see here are in artwork or costume. But maybe you’ll be here when they come this summer.”

“Maybe.” I doubted it. I couldn’t think past today, let alone where or when we’d head on. Assuming we managed to save Juliet and added a third person to our party. Assuming we got another message from the Creators on what to do next. Assuming a lot.

“You given any thought to how we rescue your sister in arms?”

No, lately I’ve been too busy being insanely jealous of her to want to help her
. “Um, nothing yet.”

“Can’t we simply kidnap her?” Rumi tried to smile, though his seriousness was clear.

“I think that’s illegal and probably wouldn’t help our cause.”
And if Nocti are involved it probably wouldn’t work
.

“Ah, there is that. I do think we must tell Nelli, though.”

“Uh—” I tried to stall. There were already too many people who knew too much. Weren’t there?

He ignored my stutter and stepped back to inspect the
setup. “Well, I think that’s all for today. Gus arrives soon to take over in case there are early-bird customers. We don’t officially start until tomorrow, you know. I must go take my mum a bit of whiskey and hyacinths. My siblings are so far away.” His face was etched with a sadness, a loneliness, I understood completely.

I glanced over at Tens still hauling and climbing scaffolding. “Can I come with you?”

He brightened. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. A cemetery might very well be peaceful and restful. Besides, it was a good bet there wouldn’t be any ready souls. “Let me just go tell Tens.”

“Here Gus comes now.” Rumi pointed toward Gus’s Volkswagen Bug. “I’ll meet you at my car. Tomorrow, we’ll unload more of the glassware and hang the balls. I’ve got itsy fireflies, too; I’ve been making and saving all year.” He rubbed his hands together like a child; I loved seeing the sparkle back in his eyes.

I walked over to Tens and hesitated while he hoisted the last edge of huge wooden boxes onto the stage area.

“Tens?” I asked, hating the way my voice cracked with trepidation.

He turned. Sweat wet the edges of his hair. He’d stripped down to a T-shirt, which only served to accentuate his broad shoulders and the lean length of his muscles. He gave me a small smile, as if he hoped we were past this argument and didn’t have to finish it.

A young girl strolled past with a herd of her friends and blatantly checked out his butt with a toss of her head
and a lick of her lips. Then giggled with her friends in a way that set my teeth on edge.

“I’m going to go with Rumi. I’ll see you back at home.”

“But—”

I turned and walked away. I didn’t want to hear all the reasons being without him was dangerous. It was a feeling I might have to get used to living with.

W
e got to Riverside Cemetery after a quick Arni’s Pizza lunch. Behind us lay railroad tracks, and grave markers checkerboarded the hillsides, rising above us with only huge old trees breaking up the expanse of lawn.

I opened the gate while Rumi drove the car through. Stone angels, cherubim, and lambs knelt, guarded, or prayed by headstones. Some were so worn they were missing the tops of wings or hands, smoothed like they’d melted in the elements. There were newer, shinier markers with etchings of faces, names, or personal things like motorcycles or horses running in pastures.

“How old is this place?” I asked as I got back into the car.

“I don’t really know. Maybe it dates from the time of the Civil War? Graves date back to the mid–eighteen hundreds. Beyond, over there, you see that mound?” Rumi turned down a car path. Barely wide enough to drive on, it ran across the center of the yard, taking us farther up the hill.

“The hilly thing?”

“It’s man-made, a Native American ancestral burial site. My guess is it was sacred when the settlers arrived and they began being buried here too. The remains of a small stone chapel are in that direction. Used to be you were simply buried on your land.”

“How big is this place?” I asked as we parked and got out of the car.

“I don’t know. Acres in three directions. My family plots are up this way.”

I stopped by the bumper. “Do you want me to wait here?”

Rumi took a bottle of whiskey and a bouquet of flowers out of his trunk. “Oh no. I’ll introduce you around. I’m curious to see what you make of my family’s headstones. I think there might be a connection to the artwork. This place is full of peonies and wild roses in the summer. It’s beautiful. And every Memorial Day it takes on a picnic atmosphere.”

“Picnics?” In a cemetery?

He nodded. “Families come, all generations, and clean
the grave markers, plant flowers or bring fresh ones. If it’s nice weather there are Ultimate Frisbee games and touch football.”

“In a graveyard?”

“You’ve heard of All Saints’ Day? Day of the Dead, in Mexico?”

“In social studies classes.”
I think
.

“Well, take those ideas, jumble them together with immigrant wakes, sitting shivah, and the American Memorial Day, and you get generations of families who meet with their ancestors to pay respects. Also has a bit of family reunion, ‘summer is here’ vibe. It’s nice. Very eclectic and American.”

I nodded. “How’d your family end up here?”

“In the states, or Indiana?”

“Indiana.”

“Grandparents made their way to Chicago. It was possible for immigrants to find work. I’m sure the stories were better than the reality.”

“Probably.”

“When my grandparents married they wanted to get out of the big city, away from all the commotion. My nain needed space around her, doctors said she had weak lungs. So my taid bought a farm here sight unseen. They up and moved, called it an adventure.”

“That’s gutsy.”

“I think it was more desperate. She was very ill, and the country air was all that the doctors thought might help. But I think we know there was more to it now, don’t we?”

“If she was a Fenestra?”

He nodded.

Thoughtful, I answered, “The country would have been easier—not as many people crowding toward the windows. Makes sense she would have felt better out here. Learned better how to do it.”

“And my grandfather knew that, I think. Was he her Tens?”

“I don’t know. He might have been a Fenestra too. At least what you’ve translated so far seems like they both might be.” This was fast moving outside my range of knowledge.
I wish I had Auntie to ask
. “This place is gorgeous. So peaceful and almost—”

“Healing?”

I nodded. “Refreshing. What is that feeling?” Like a warm bubble bath or comfort food for the soul. It felt
nice
.

He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought it had something to do with it being sacred ground for so long. That there’s a reason for that.”

I saw a few shadows moving in the distance toward us.
Uh-oh
. “Rumi, I think I need to sit down. I’ll be okay, don’t freak out.”

“We’re almost there—” He gestured to a group of stones ahead.

“No, I mean now.” I grabbed a headstone with one hand and slid to a seated position, my back braced, closing my eyes to see the window. A breeze rustled the curtains and it was my window, the one Auntie taught me. I smiled.

Spirits who hadn’t moved on, who’d been blocked or
chose not to go during their actual death, now reunited with their families, one after another. Lots of freshly plowed fields filled with cheering greeters, and a raucous crowd in an old basketball field house welcomed those passing through me. I even saw a racetrack with cars speeding by. No Auntie, though.

I opened my eyes. Rumi was holding my hand and peering at me. “I’m okay.” And I was. Maybe I’d begun to get the hang of it?

“W-were you—?” he stuttered, pale but very interested. “Was that—?”

“ ‘Ghosts’ is the easiest word to describe them. Those who were ready to go are no longer late for their reunions. They can find me when they’re ready. I guess maybe they’ve been waiting here for the Memorial Day party.” I tried to smile while brushing my hair out of my eyes. It was curly, not the least bit limp.

He sat down hard. “Wow. Meridian, you glowed like the Stones.”

“What?” I asked.

“Softly. Not like a beacon. But even these ancient eyes picked up on the change.”

“I don’t think that’s ever happened.” But I didn’t feel exhausted or ill; I felt refreshed, renewed, whole. “Sorry,” I said, while Rumi helped me to my feet. “I’ve got a long way to go before I can open the window and keep moving in the real world.”

“A bit like walking while patting your head and rubbing your stomach?”

“Something like that.” I smiled.

“Look behind you at the headstone. I’m seeing—”

I turned. “Your nain’s paintings?” The headstone I’d leaned against was an exact replica of all his family’s drawings and paintings. The round top of a half sun unfurling its rays like the petals of a flower sat on top of a window. I checked the name and date, curious to know if this person was a relative. “Are you related?”

“Come on.” Rumi broke into a jog.

“What is it?”
Why is an old man beating me at sprints?

He stopped and pointed. “I assumed they were the style of the time. It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

I followed his finger. Two window headstones. “Your grandparents?”

“Yes.”

“They match perfectly.”

“Exactly.”

“So is that one over there—is that a relative of yours?”

“No. My family is all in this parcel. I’ll be buried in that bare spot over there.”

I cringed, unable to face or comment on Rumi’s death. “Who put these here?”

“My parents? I don’t know. They’ve always been here.”

The gravestones curved like windows, like an orange slice on top of a rectangle. Stone carvers had cut the crosspieces like the pane separators. At the top of each half circle was a sun with rays like the petals of a daisy. Each was decorated with a first name, a last name, and a quote.

I knelt down at the little stones about six feet away, parallel to the headstones. “What are these?”

“Footstones,” Rumi answered.

There was carving, weathered and smoothed, with lichen and moss growing in the crevices. “What do they say?”

“I’ve never been able to read it.”

“Is it Gaelic?”

“Can’t tell. I don’t think so.” Flames burned at the bottom, almost flickering in their intricacy. “Why the fire?”

“My best guess is that fire used to equate life. Without fire, without light, there was no life.” I leaned closer, trying to make out the words. I guess I wanted a big “This person was also a Fenestra” flashing at me in red neon.
So not going to happen
. “Could it be Arabic, or Sanskrit, or Russian?” I desperately wanted to know the language written on the stones.

“I really don’t know.” Rumi frowned in concentration. “It’s nothing I’ve ever seen elsewhere.”

“Would your siblings know?”

“No, I’m the only one who comes here anymore. They don’t talk about death, or life, for that matter. They dwell in the hard facts.” His face was so full of regret and grief that I stood up and hugged him.

“I’m sorry,” I said into his sweater.

“People either fear or accept what they can’t explain. They fear it. I accept it.”

The rest of the markers in the immediate vicinity were plain stones, small lambs, or kneeling angels, but farther
down the line was another large window beside a smaller stone carved with a shield.

Rumi walked me down to them. “These belong to my parents, my ma and my da.”

“Is that a sword?” I asked, stooping to get a closer look. “And a shield. What’s on the shield?”

Rumi nudged me. “Go closer, she won’t mind.”

I tried to stay in the scant few inches between where I thought was safe and where the dead might lie, in a bizarre, ungainly attempt to stay respectful.

Rumi guffawed. “You can step on the graves, Meridian, you can’t hurt ’em.”

I edged my feet more firmly. “Isn’t that bad luck or something?”

“I think it used to be because you could fall into the graves as they settled. These days they’re concrete, steel; there’s not a risk.”

“That would count as bad luck. The shield carries the window shape at the top and the flames at the bottom, doesn’t it?” I traced it with my fingers.