The whistlebrass storm w.., p.3
The Whistlebrass Storm Watcher, page 3
“Perhaps you could fill me in on the details some other time.”
“Of course.” Miss Greenwebbe offered Margo a crinkly smile. “At any rate, we are very lucky to have your help. It is so lovely to be working with a professor’s wife who is also an accomplished artist.”
“Thank you, but I’m strictly an amateur,” said Margo, modestly waving away the compliment.
Other than participating in a couple of small gallery shows before Pearl and Casey were born, Margo felt that she hadn’t done much with her art school training. Maybe life in Whistlebrass would offer her a chance to be creative again.
“I have my camera and art supplies in the car. I’ll do a series of exterior shots, and I’ll be sure to get some pictures and rubbings from inside the Sebastian mausoleum.” Margo looked toward the window, noticing that the room was growing darker as a few clouds drifted across the sky. “I don’t think any more rain is expected today, but we’d better hustle. After that last storm, I want to keep an eye on the weather. Is there anything else that you want us to document while we are up there, Miss Greenwebbe?”
“Please, dear. You must call me Arachne. I do feel we’re becoming friends. I think you’ll have plenty to do today. The library committee is very grateful for your help, and so am I.”
In the parking lot, Margo opened the tiny trunk of her 1973 Karmann Ghia. The sporty lime colored convertible had been discovered rusting away in a neighbor’s garage. It was completely impractical, but the price had been reasonable, and Margo had fallen in love with it. After stowing away the library books she had borrowed, she slammed the trunk shut. As she buckled Pearl into her booster seat, she noticed the girl smiling up towards a high window in the library tower.
When Pearl waved her hand, Margo gave the window a fleeting glance. It was empty. She sighed and smiled wearily. She had not really expected to see anyone there, but she didn’t want to believe that Pearl was actually seeing someone in the window that she could not. Unfortunately, the rationale that Pearl, like many children, enjoyed pretending to see imaginary friends was wearing a bit thin.
“Okay, kiddo,” she said brightly. “Let’s hit the road!”
As she maneuvered the Karmann Ghia toward the outskirts of Whistlebrass, she marveled at the kind of minds that had planned the town. Some of the streets seemed to snake and curl with no more logical order than a plate of spilled spaghetti. Margo had discovered several intersections where it didn’t matter whether you turned left or right because you arrived at the same place either way.
Just beyond the town limits, they passed a rather forlorn looking little farm. From a fenced paddock by the side of the road, two black and white cows despondently chewed their cud, indifferent to the little lime car passing by.
“Mommy, cows!” Pearl called out.
Margo beeped the horn at them in a friendly salute. She skirted around several vast puddles and fallen branches from storm damaged trees. She was glad the drive to Bonegrove was a relatively short one, and that traffic in this remote section of Vermont was virtually nonexistent.
The road that wound its way up the steep hill to the cemetery grew gradually narrower, crowded by gnarled trees pushing in on the uphill side. Tree roots had forced their way upward, causing sections of the pavement to crack and pull apart. Margo carefully maneuvered her way along the twisting road, and eventually, a stone archway came into view. BONEGROVE was carved into the worn stone in elegant old-fashioned letters. Margo drove beneath the arch and into a circular courtyard paved with cobblestones. As she pulled the car to a stop, she tried to envision what the scene had been like centuries earlier.
The courtyard might have been lined with the fine horse drawn carriages of elegantly gowned ladies and top hatted gentlemen. But even then, would Bonegrove have been a restful memorial park? Margo looked past the ruined chapel to the narrow walkway between imposing crypts and eccentric monuments beyond.
She shook her head. Nope.
The imposing cemetery had been built to impress rather than comfort. She decided that although it was historically and artistically interesting, even a well-manicured Bonegrove would be a forbidding place.
She consulted the graveyard map and pointed towards one of three narrow roads that branched off from the courtyard. “That way should take us past the reflecting pool and curve around to the Sebastian mausoleum.”
“Mommy, what’s a maw. . .a maw. . . .”
“Mausoleum, sweetie. It’s a building where they put people after they die.”
Pearl nodded, satisfied. “It’s Mr. Sebastian’s house now.”
“Well, yes. I guess it is.”
The road, though cracked and somewhat flooded in a few spots, was relatively clear. They drove past carved marble urns, obelisks, and sarcophagi marking the final resting places of the town’s founders and wealthiest families. Even here, the memorial park showed signs of neglect. Margo assumed that apparently the Pennyfeathers, Arlingtons, and Throckwells had either died out or moved away. Otherwise, she was certain that their loved ones’ final resting places would have had much better upkeep.
As they circled the sludgy reflection pool, the Sebastian mausoleum came into view. Margo parked by a copse of pine trees. With her camera around her neck and a messenger bag of art supplies slung over her shoulder, she guided Pearl along the uneven path that zigzagged between clusters of tombstones.
“Okay, Pearl, remember the rules?”
Pearl looked up at her mother with her somber silver eyes and nodded. “Always stay where you can see me, and keep on the stepping stones or the gravel paths.”
“Exactly. I don’t want you to get lost or covered in mud.”
Margo clicked photos as they walked, recording small gravestones crowded closely together near the path. One tiny plot appeared to contain the entire McWeeb family judging by the seven names carved on the stone.
Were they stacked on top of each other or pushed in tightly like sardines, lying side by side? Margo wondered. However they were buried, the McWeebs sure didn’t take up much room.
Winged figures adorned the facade of the impressive if somewhat derelict Sebastian mausoleum. A third angel carved over the entrance was nearly covered in moss. Ivy twisted around marble columns flanking the entrance. The tomb’s massive bronze doors gaped open.
Beyond the mausoleum was the oldest section of the cemetery. Crumbling tombs stood forgotten and strangled with ivy. The inscriptions on many of the timeworn graves and monuments had been worn away by centuries of Whistlebrass winters. Some of the tombstones near the northernmost edge had fallen. Others stood at drunken angles on the unstable ground near the point where the hill dropped off sharply in a steep downward slide toward the banks of the vast dark lake.
“Is that lake down there where Daddy’s working?”
“Yes, sweetie. That’s where they found all those old Viking things. Don’t go walking back there. I’m serious,” cautioned Margo. “The ground isn’t solid, and I don’t want either of us to roll downhill and fall in the lake.”
After taking some long shots of the Sebastian crypt and its surroundings, Margo stood watching Pearl picking wildflowers and carefully arranging them on one of the headstones. The child was an irresistible subject, and Margo couldn’t resist the chance to get a few candid shots. As she zoomed in for a close-up, she noticed something odd about the image in the viewfinder. Her brow furrowed and she lowered the camera.
There’s no breeze, she thought. Why is Pearl’s hair moving?
Margo held up a hand to check the air.
Nothing. There’s no wind at all.
She refocused her camera and zoomed in framing Pearl’s head and shoulders. Pearl’s lips moved steadily for a while, and then she paused and tilted her head as if listening to a response. No gust of air rustled the leaves, but Pearl’s fair hair rippled, floating gently around her face as if fingers were trailing through it. The cemetery was so silent that Margo thought she might be able to hear what Pearl was saying if she moved in closer.
Margo turned her ear towards Pearl. She strained to hear and prepared to creep forward.
“Who’s she talking to?” asked a small, matter-of-fact voice at her shoulder.
Margo gasped and spun around.
Regarding her with a frank, inquisitive gaze was a girl with a large bouquet of dark flowers, cradled gently in her arms. She was about fourteen years old and as slim as a reed. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Contemplative chestnut brown eyes studied Margo from under spiky, uneven bangs.
Margo leaned back against a stone obelisk and laughed. Her hand fluttered to her pounding chest. “I thought you were a ghost.”
“Nope. Who was she talking to?” the girl asked again, pointing at Pearl.
“Oh, she’s just playing.”
Feeling suddenly self-conscious under the girl’s disconcertingly frank scrutiny, Margo held up her camera and smiled. “I’ve been photographing the headstones for the library. I’m Margo Wilde, by the way, and this is my daughter, Pearl.”
She nodded at Pearl who had come close to investigate the intriguing newcomer. Instinctively, Margo smoothed her daughter’s hair, relived to see that it was no longer a fluttering cloud.
“Who are you?” Pearl’s guileless silver eyes met the girl’s clever brown ones. “Whatcha doing with all the flowers?”
“I’m Fae Novarro.” The girl offered Pearl an ebony, bell-shaped bloom. “These are cauldron lilies. They only grow in graveyards, and my mom likes them. They’re for her.”
“Does your family live nearby?” asked Margo.
Fae hesitated. “I live with my mom. It’s just her and me.”
“Well, it’s very nice of you to gather flowers for her.” Margo fished a couple of flashlights out of her messenger bag. She switched on a big aluminum flashlight and tucked it under her arm, and handed a tiny yellow one to Pearl. “We’re going to do some rubbings inside the mausoleum. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
Margo ducked around the bronze door, closely followed by Pearl. After a moment’s hesitation, Fae joined them inside.
Another gloomy life-sized angel stood against the back wall. Margo managed to position her flashlight in the statue’s outstretched hand. Individual stone chambers to hold Sebastian family coffins were stacked three high on both sides of the mausoleum. In the center was the ornately sculpted sarcophagus of Whistlebrass patriarch, Vane Sebastian.
“This is pretty weird,” said Fae. She pointed to a sculpted stone bas-relief lit by the faint afternoon sun that streamed through a broken skylight. “Why did they carve monsters on the wall?”
“According to something I read at the library, the carvings represent the early settlers in Vermont and the founding of Whistlebrass,” said Margo. She pulled a miniature tripod with telescoping legs out of her satchel and attached her camera to it. She adjusted the exposure time to maximize the available light and articulate the carvings. “Those weird creatures look like something from ancient mythology. I don’t know what they’re supposed to be, but they’ll look great in the photos.”
Margo completed a series of photos highlighting the eccentric architectural details. After carefully packing up her equipment, she taped pieces of thin paper over some of the carved images that were within reach on the walls. She fastened some additional pieces to Vane Sebastian’s sarcophagus.
“Have you ever done grave rubbings, Fae? You just go over the paper with a piece of charcoal or rubbing wax. The wax color picks up the details of the carving.” She demonstrated the technique with a piece of dark red wax. “See? You can create a life size record of the carving in a very short time.”
Fae went to work on a section of the wall carving, enjoying the way the rubbing wax picked up every tiny crack and imperfection in the old stone. She wasn’t surprised when Pearl put down her little chunk of rubbing wax and began looking around the mausoleum. Little kids didn’t have much of an attention span. It was also no surprise that Pearl had started whispering again. After all, a lot of little kids talked to imaginary friends.
Now that is kinda weird, thought Fae. Most little kids don’t have hair that moves on its own.
“Mommy?” called Pearl.
“Yes, sweetie,” answered Margo, who was intently worked on a rubbing in the rear of the mausoleum. “What do you—”
She turned towards Pearl and gasped. Her wedge of rubbing wax fell to the floor. Fae was standing next to Pearl, holding out her hand and watching in fascination. Pearl’s hair rippled over Fae’s outstretched hand as if it were alive.
“Mommy, the man wants to know what we’re doing in here,” said Pearl. She patted the side of Vane Sebastian’s sarcophagus. “The man in the box.”
“Vane Seb. . .Sebastian?”
Margo felt her face flush as she walked over to the sarcophagus and leaned toward it. She was more upset than she wanted to admit or appear. She didn’t want her daughter to be having conversations with strange men, and definitely not with strange men who had been dead for centuries. To be having paranormal chats under a stranger’s watchful eye was even more disconcerting.
“We’re just making things for the library, Pearl,” Margo said, hoping her voice sounded nonchalant. She walked over to the sarcophagus and leaned toward it. “Mr. Sebastian, if you are speaking with my daughter, I insist that you stop immediately!”
The stillness in the tomb became even more profound. For a moment, no one moved. Pearl’s hair fell smoothly over her shoulders. She shrugged, and then selected a new piece of paper to make another rubbing.
“Gee,” said Fae. She whistled softly. “That was pretty intense.”
“Just one of Pearl’s little games, Fae.” Margo tried not to sound as rattled as she felt.
“That’s quite a game,” Fae said. She carefully detached a completed rubbing from the sarcophagus, and put it next to the satchel of art supplies. She turned to Margo with a candid look of appraisal. “She really was talking with him. . .with that dead guy.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. Pearl has lots of imagination, and look where we are right now.” Margo swept an expressive hand through the air. “It’s spookier than a haunted house. Of course she’ll imagine she has ghosts to talk to.”
Fae shrugged and began to gather up her cauldron lilies. Under her breath, she whispered “I’ve seen it before.”
Near the base of the angel statue, Pearl was crouching down making a rubbing of an embossed floor tile. Margo knelt to look closer. “That is very pretty, Pearl. Let’s make that one the last rubbing, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Okay, Mommy. That’s a good idea.”
“Why is that, honey?”
“Mr. Sebastian,” said Pearl. “He wants us to go. They’re all upset.”
“Oh? He’s upset that we’re in here?” asked Margo. She was doing her best to keep her tone light and breezy.
“They are all upset.”
“They?” Margo dropped the blocks of art wax into her satchel, and then rolled up all the rubbings and slid them into a tube.
“Yep. All the people in here. They keep coming in,” said Pearl. She was chewing her lip and starting to look anxious. Her silvery blonde hair was once again fluttering around her face. “They said something bad is coming and we really need to go home now.”
“I think that’s a stellar idea!” Margo slung her satchel over her shoulder. “Fae, will you be okay getting home on your own? Maybe I could. . .Fae?”
The girl had vanished.
Suddenly, the walls of the old mausoleum began to seem unnervingly close. Margo gathered up her art supplies, looped the strap of the messenger bag over her shoulder, and took Pearl’s hand. They paused in the little courtyard outside the mausoleum and called out for Fae.
No response.
Shadows had grown longer, and a chill wind rustled the trees. Thickening slate grey clouds threatened to block out what remained of the sun. It looked like another storm might be heading in. Warmed by early afternoon sunshine, the cemetery had seemed like a quaint relic of an earlier time. In the gathering gloom, Bonegrove was assuming a more sinister atmosphere. Metal clanged against stone. Margo spun around and the color drained from her face. The heavy bronze door of the Sebastian mausoleum had slammed shut.
That door weighs hundreds of pounds, she thought. How could anything short of a hurricane move it? And what if we had still been inside?
“Come on, honey,” said Margo. She reached down and took Pearl’s hand. “Let’s get back to the car. It’s time to hit the road.”
Holding tightly to Pearl’s hand, Margo started purposefully down the path. Something slippery on the ground nearly made her lose her footing. Crushed under her shoe was a dark waxy flower. Several more lay scattered in the dirt nearby. Margo suddenly felt very cold and very vulnerable.
“Fae’s cauldron lilies,” she whispered. “She spent so much time gathering a bouquet for her mother. What could have made her drop them?”
Margo decided that whatever it was, she didn’t have time to puzzle it out. She inhaled deeply, scooped up Pearl in her arms, and started to run.
“ind something good, Dad?”
Casey Wilde stood chewing thoughtfully on a pencil in front of an old army surplus tent. Although the framework was slightly off kilter and there were a few holes in the faded canvas, the tent did provide some protection from the elements. Inside, on a steel framed folding table, was the wooden Viking shield surrounded by spearheads, axe handles, bits of carved bone, and pottery shards. A second table held a row of painted wood fragments and three rings of knotted bronze.
