Chapter 7
As I dressed the next morning in the clear light of day, the events of the previous night seemed like something from a dream. Surely there had to be some sort of rational explanation for what we had seen. Some sort of tragic deformity, perhaps, like that poor Merrick fellow in England.
As a child, I had once seen a “living curiosity,” as the traveling show called the wretch. But the drooling face and malformed body had inspired tears instead of terror—and a sharp blow from my father, who had been embarrassed by my “girlish display,” as he called it.
The sideshow freak had been tragic, but there had been something profoundly wrong about the creature we’d encountered last night. Something which inspired a loathing far beyond the worst nature could devise. And, God, the smell! Why did the thing reek of the graveyard?
It had snowed overnight. Although not unused to such weather, Widdershins seldom received the heavier snowfalls which plagued some of our inland neighbors, and the streets were far less crowded than usual. I stepped carefully along the treacherous sidewalk in my oxfords. The omnibus probably wasn’t even running this morning, so I’d have to trudge all the way to the Ladysmith in the snow.
As I passed the newsstand on the corner, a hand gripped my arm. I flinched back, before realizing the hand belonged to Griffin.
“Good morning, Whyborne,” he said, as if we met this way every day. His overcoat was buttoned up against the cold, making him look far more somber than usual. “Do you have an urgent appointment at the museum?”
I wanted to pull my arm away. I also wanted for him to continue to touch me. “Er, n-no.”
“Excellent. Then you can accompany me to the Kings Hill Cemetery.”
Did the man feel a constant need to drag me all over Widdershins? “Kings Hill Cemetery? Why on earth would we go there?”
“After you left last night, I spent some time going over my case notes. Something you said the day we went to the police station has been itching at the back of my mind ever since.”
Something I had said? “What?”
“You mentioned the theft of the remains of the town founder.” He let go of my arm and took a folded sheet of newspaper from his pocket.
WIDDERSHINS FOUNDER’S GRAVE VIOLATED screamed the headline, dated November 1, 1897. And in slightly smaller print beneath: Blackbyrne Tomb Opened During the Night. The attached article rather hysterically speculated as to possible motives, including extorting a ransom from the town for the return of the body.
Above the fold was a large photograph showing the disturbed grave, the earth black against the white snow. A grim-faced policeman stood to one side. In the center loomed the monument, the words THERON BLACKBYRNE, MARCH 11, 1671 - MAY 1, 1723 still deeply cut despite a century and a half of weathering.
I recalled the moldering coffins in the warehouse, the piles of clothing stiff with the filth of the grave. “Do you think the Brotherhood was behind the theft?”
“I think it a possibility, at least enough of one to investigate further. I’d like to take a look at the gravesite. Would you care to accompany me?”
I could hardly refuse, after arguing to be included. “Of course.”
His smile made me forget the snowy morning. “Good man.”
~ * ~
A cab let us out near the wrought-iron gates of the Kings Hill Cemetery. The cold air stung my face and ears, and the wind slithered icy fingers through every tiny gap in my clothing. I tugged my scarf more securely around my neck.
The snow outside the old burying ground showed the passage of hooves and feet, and I glimpsed a few black-clad figures entering through the iron gates. I detested funerals, and looked away quickly, as if afraid their grief might be infectious.
Inside the low stone walls, the tombstones stretched out in ragged rows, their tops frosted in white. Leafless trees loomed over all, and in the distance I could make out the dark wall of trunks forming the boundary of the cemetery.
“That’s the Draakenwood,” I offered, pointing in the direction of the forest. “Blackbyrne’s grave was near the trees, in the oldest part of the cemetery. I remember seeing it when my grandmother was laid in the family crypt.”
“Your family is buried here, then?”
“All of the old families have crypts.” The snow crunched under our feet as I led the way past the funeral. The sonorous voice of the priest followed us on the wind.
As we drew closer to the older section of the cemetery, the monuments grew more worn, and the family crypts appeared. Snow obliterated some of the names, but others I could make out, the letters softened by a century of rain: Marsh, Waite, Abbott, Whyborne. I paused outside our crypt. The padlock on the door had rusted badly; the last time it had been opened had been to inter my grandmother. My twin sister lay within as well, having died within hours of our birth; I was told my life had been despaired of as well for some time after.
Beyond the guardian row of crypts lurked the oldest part of the burying ground, on the pinnacle of Kings Hill: not the physical heart of the cemetery, but certainly its metaphorical one. Here lay the earliest settlers of Widdershins, those souls who had joined Theron Blackbyrne, years after he’d fled Salem one step before the witch hunters. Their graves were simple for the most part, in stark contrast to Blackbyrne’s grandiose monument. Unlike the orderly rows of the rest of the cemetery, they radiated out from a central point, forming a loose wheel of sorts. And at the hub of the wheel was the grave of Blackbyrne himself.
Undertakers had refilled the grave at some point since the theft, but I detected a decided concavity even beneath the snow, like the socket of a missing tooth. Stepping carefully around the disturbed ground, Griffin approached the monument and began to examine it in detail. “What do you know about Blackbyrne?” he asked, brushing snow away from the ornate carvings.
“Very little,” I admitted. Had Griffin asked me here assuming I would know the history of Widdershins? “He fled the witch trials in Salem. And he died in mysterious circumstances. Otherwise…well, I, er, never made a study of American history, you see.”
I stared at my shoes, expecting mockery. But Griffin only said, “No one can be a master of everything, my dear Whyborne.”
As he examined the monument, I wandered closer to the dark eaves of the Draakenwood. Unlike the wholesome groves of other forests, the trees of the wood seemed to huddle together, their black branches interlacing to form a deliberate tangle. Nothing stirred in the underbrush around the verge, and even in winter the branches blocked enough sunlight to render an impenetrable gloom a mere few yards in. No one took walks in these woods, and to my knowledge it had never been cut. It was the sort of place where boys dared each other to run in under the trees, although never far enough as to lose sight of their friends waiting outside. Occasionally, there would be rumors of someone who entered the wood and vanished without a trace; out-of-towners for the most part, who didn’t know any better.
I took a tentative step just under the branches. Thorny underbrush caught at my coat, as if trying to hold me back. I noticed black feathers snagged on the thorns, and I leaned closer, peering at them. Had some poor bird gotten tangled?
“Whyborne! Come see this!”
Startled by the low urgency in Griffin’s voice, I hurried back to his side. He stood in front of the now-bare monument, his gloves caked in snow. He stretched out one hand, then seemed to think better of touching the cold marble, and pointed instead. “Look.”
Amidst the bewildering profusion of faces, vines, and symbols carved into the monument there nestled a phoenix clutching an ouroboros in its talons. The symbol from the book last night, which had struck such fear into Griffin.
“The Brotherhood?” I said, bewildered.
“He must have been a member.” Griffin’s hand curled into a fist, then dropped to his side. “Perhaps this town isn’t the only thing he founded.”
“But why steal his body? That is, if he was one of them…”
Griffin shook his head. “I don’t know.” He glanced at me, then down at my hand. “What have you got there?”
I uncurled my fingers, revealing the pathetic bundle of feathers and bone I’d pulled from the underbrush. “A dead crow, I think. It was in the bushes, over there.”
He frowned and went to the edge of the wood, before bending down. “There’s another here. And another. They’re scattered all over. A whole flock.”
“A murder,” I corrected automatically. “It’s a murder of crows.” All of them dead, as if the entire group had simply dropped straight down from the trees in which they’d roosted. “Some people believe they carry souls to the afterlife.”
“From the state of them, they’ve been here a while,” Griffin said. “A month, perhaps?”
From the shadows beneath the trees came the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping.
Griffin jumped to his feet, the metal of his revolver gleaming in the dull sunlight. I peered anxiously into the wood: surely it had only been a deer, or a squirrel, or—
Something large and dark moved suddenly among the trees, its two-legged gait carrying it swiftly away.
“Someone was spying on us,” Griffin exclaimed, and a moment later charged into the woods after the fleeing figure.
I balked, every story and ghost-tale of the Draakenwood I’d ever heard flooding into my mind. But Griffin wouldn’t know the stories of travelers who vanished forever under the dark branches.
“Blast him,” I muttered, and gave chase.
The trees closed around me in a dense tangle; only a few yards in, and I could barely make out anything beyond the verge. Thorn-covered vines gone brown with winter snagged on my clothes and knocked off my hat. A branch dumped snow on my bare head, and I stopped to wipe it from my eyes. When I looked around again, there was no sign of Griffin.
Some of the snow had gone down my collar, and I told myself that was the reason for my shiver. Selecting the direction I thought he had dashed, I pressed further into the woods.
I’d never been one for exploring the countryside, even as a boy. Within a few minutes, I came to a stop and looked around, disoriented. I couldn’t have gone far…but which way would take me back to the graveyard? Was I going in circles? Heading farther in?
The trees gave me no answer, their thick, gray trunks looming on every side. Every direction looked the same now: trees and snow. Even the sunlight was diffused by the heavy clouds, so I was unable to tell exactly where it stood in the sky.
The wind came up, shaking the branches and sifting snow onto my head and shoulders. A low moan echoed from somewhere near at hand.
Branches. Not a moan. Just branches rubbing against one another.
Something moved deeper in the wood, just on the edge of sight, but I couldn’t make out what it might be through the trees. I opened my mouth, intending to call out in the hopes it might be Griffin, but my voice seemed lodged in my throat. The way the form moved didn’t seem entirely human.
Enough. I was getting out of this damnable wood. Surely even I could retrace the tracks I’d left behind me in the snow. I turned, intending to do just that, and froze.
A man stood watching me.
The trees and shadows half-obscured him, and he wore a dark, hooded cloak. All I could make out was the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips. Eyes glittered from under his hood, and, realizing I’d seen him, he smiled a cold, cruel smile.
A hand came down on my shoulder.
I jumped, letting out an undignified shriek. “Steady on, Whyborne!” Griffin said.
My heart pounded so hard from my scare I could barely speak. “Griffin—look—there—”
“Where?”
The man was gone. I looked frantically about, half-expecting to see him sliding closer through the shadowy trees, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. “There was someone watching me. And before, something else was moving in the trees.”
Griffin’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I lost the one I chased, assuming it wasn’t the same man. I don’t think there’s anything to gain from staying here longer.”
~ * ~
I locked the door to my apartment behind me that night. I could not shake the memory of the watcher in the woods. Bad enough he had vanished with such unnatural swiftness, but that was not what troubled me. Rather, I had the growing conviction those unseen eyes had looked not just at me but into me, as if the secrets of my soul were nothing more than words on a page, to be revealed to anyone who knew how to read them. It was a foolish fancy, but I felt slightly safer once the bolt was thrown between my apartment and the world.
Then I remembered the sense of observation I’d had the other night, and the strange sounds from outside my window, and hurried to close the curtains as well.
After our morning adventure, I’d retired to the museum and spent much of the day carefully re-reading the opening chapters of the Arcanorum. Many of the mystic formulas contained within required esoteric ingredients far beyond my meager means. Not to mention even the most disinterested of neighbors would object to alchemical experiments carried out in their midst. The stenches alone would drive them to complain to the landlady.
I discovered a few rituals needing only minimal preparation, however, and it was one of these I settled on as an experiment. A “novice’s” spell, the text said derisively, something practiced only by rank amateurs. Which certainly described me.
According to the Arcanorum, I needed only a combustible material, a certain chant, and a focused will. The book implied the latter was the rare quality, which made a convenient excuse if the whole thing was indeed a hoax perpetrated on the gullible, as I’d originally assumed. The spell didn’t work? Oh, you must not have the strength of will. Try harder next time!
Having seen what I had seen, I was no longer entirely sure what a failure would prove, if anything. But a success…
I lowered the gaslight, until only a faint glow remained. I sat at my rickety table and placed a single candle before me. Feeling rather ridiculous, I tried to focus on the candle’s wick and clear my mind of other distractions.
It wasn’t going to work. Why was I even trying? This was nonsense, like believing the sun descended beneath the earth every night and battled monsters, or a rabbit lived on the moon, or a dragon encircled the world and only the chants of priests could keep it at bay.
I cleared my throat and self-consciously spoke aloud the Aklo phrase the book pompously referred to as the “true name of fire.”
Nothing happened, of course. But to be fair, I wasn’t exactly focused.
I repeated the phrase.
Who had the man been in the forest? Just an innocent nature-lover out for a stroll? But no one went into the Draakenwood just to take a walk.
Blast it. I needed to focus.
I repeated the phrase again. And again.
I went on until the words became meaningless. I focused on the sounds and the wick, and slowly other thoughts dropped away.
The candle burst into flame.