“But he got
away
.” Andrews wanted confirmation.
“He did,” I assured him, “but you can't imagine the look on his face.”
The way was bumpy; Andrews clutched the armrest on his door. “I would have lost my mind,” he said, mostly to himself.
The shock was wearing off for me as well. The realization of what it must have been like to be dangling in the air was prying its way into my mind. I was having second thoughts about calling the police.
“Luck, that branch breaking when it did.” But my voice was shaky.
“You don't think it was luck,” Andrews said suspiciously. “You think it was some Jungian bit of Universal Synchronicity.”
“I think the recent rain made everything soggy,” I told him, “and the boys were in too much of a hurry or too drunk to realize that low pine limbs always break off and fall.”
“Despite the fact that they're smarter than I think.”
“Shut up.”
The rest of the ride home was silent. The moon that had been bone white in the graveyard was a more reassuring snow color on the open fields. The racket of night was soothing as the road made a gentle sweep around the mountain to my home.
Once safely in my driveway, I turned off the engine, reached into my pocket.
“Look.”
Andrews opened his door and the overhead light showed him the threads in my hand.
“You found those in the graveyard.”
“More fiber evidence.”
“I need coffee.” He swung out of the cab and lumbered toward the house.
Â
We'd started a fire, watching it instead of television. Andrews cleared his head; I tried to focus my thoughts. The orange light from the iron stove twisted around all the darker places in the room.
“Those graves we saw,” he said lazily, slouched down low on the sofa, feet up, shoes off. “Were they the loneliest things in the world or what?”
“âSarah, seven, lost' was the worst,” I agreed.
“Sally.” He folded his arms. “That one's name was Sally; the wife gone to angels was Sarah. Does it mean that little girl Sally was lost in the mountains or something and never found?”
“Probably,” I said, scraping one of the last kernels of popped corn from the bowl between us. “Happens every now and again. There are all kinds of stories about people lost on the mountain.”
“Stories you've collected, you mean?”
“Right.”
“You've been doing it, what? Ten years, I mean officially?” He closed his eyes.
“All my life, really,” I nodded, “but about twelve academically.”
“Which is eighty-four in dog years.” He reached into the bowl, found it empty, growled.
“Did I ever tell you about Truevine's parents?”
“Did you ever tell me you were going to eat all the popped corn?”
“Apparently the whole clan was much calmer,” I said, “when the parents were alive. More like other mountain families at the time. Davy and Eloise were fine people.”
Andrews demonstrated his interest by swinging open cabinet doors in search of something more to eat. “I can't find the popcorn.”
“There isn't any more.”
“Well, I'm starting to get a headache from that brandy and I need food.”
“Whose fault is that?” I slumped down, staring at the flames.
“Who gave me that evil crap to drink in the first place?” he said, rubbing his temples.
“How did the Deveroes find Able?” I wondered, ignoring him.
“You mean when we couldn't.” He poured himself some water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and came back to sit by the fire. “Especially when the brothers were, you said, twice as drunk as I was.”
“They found him near the graveyard,” I tried to continue my line of thought.
“Why do you say that?”
“Why would they take him any farther than they needed to?”
“Why didn't they do it in the cemetery, then?” He put his feet up on the newspaper-strewn coffee table in front of us.
“Superstitious,” I answered, “especially about that place.” I sat back. “You know, there is a strange feeling up there, don't you think?”
“I do.”
“Like someone is watching. Like someone is there.”
“Besides the Angel of Death,” he laughed. Stopped, sat straighter. “Hold on. Davy and Eloise. The Deveroe parents. Were they the ones on the grave we saw up in the cemetery?”
“That's what I was assuming,” I said, watching the glow of the coals.
“You'd think that family would be the kind to bury Ma and Pa in the backyard.”
“You'd think,” I agreed. “But if there
is
a Deveroe family plot there, I think it's more fuel for my theory that Able and Truevine were hiding out up there. The girl likes to consult her mother on nearly everything.”
“No, that doesn't make sense,” he said. “Where was Truevine while all this was happening to her swain? She wouldn't just stand by.”
“Good point.” I glanced at the envelope on the kitchen counter that held the strands of cloth I'd found on the tombstone. “I can't wait to find out if that thread belongs to her dress.”
“You like the theory,” Andrews said slowly, “that Able and Harding had words, Harding was accidentally killed, and the two lovers beat it into the greenwood, hiding out in a cemetery waiting for everything to blow over.”
“When you blurt it out like that,” I told him, “it doesn't sound like much of a theory.” I closed my eyes, sighing. “But it's something to do with all three; I mean Harding's death and the couple's disappearance are linked.”
“Sure,” he agreed, “but I think it's as possible that the Deveroe boys saw Harding, thought it was Able, jumped him in the dark, realized their mistake, and left him. And we've seen evidence of that behavior tonight.”
“They can see better at night than you and I can at noon,” I argued. “And Harding's their cousin.”
“It's all guessing,” he whined, “and my headache is worse. You're positive we shouldn't call Deputy Needle and tell him what we saw?”
“In the morning.”
“But,” Andrews objected, “why are we waiting? We saw a crime and we should report it, not to mention the fact that you have evidence in a murder case sitting in your kitchen.”
“We don't really know anything. I have no idea what the threads are, could be nothing. And I'm sure the boys are home in bed by now. They looked exhausted and they miss their sister. They want to be home tonight.”
“Guessing.”
“Educated.”
He gave up.
The fire popped; the glow dimmed. Eyelids were heavy; heads were light. Somewhere between waking and dreams, I saw my mother climbing the stairs.
She turned twice in a full circle, dancing in slow motion, in a black slip and no shoes. She was young, smiling. Her hair like a raven's wing fanned out as she spun, and she called out a man's name, not my father's.
I sat up; she vanished.
Andrews was out, snoring. I rubbed my eyes and stood. I tried to make as little noise as possible as I made my way out the door, onto the porch, braced by the cooler air.
Everything was damp from the rain earlier, and the smell was fresh and ancient at once. On the left side of the house, where the largest patch of sunlight stays most of the day, the spice bed filled the air with a war of smells. I stepped off the porch; the moon was high, bright as dusk. Two full sage plants, one variegated, one blue-green, edged the northern curve of the bed. I pulled one long stalk from each, fanned them in the air shaking off the rain. Drying them further with the sleeve of my shirt, I went back inside. Burning sage can banish any spirit.
Kitchen matches by the stove filled the air with sulfur; it took five to ignite the wet sage. Once both stems were smoking, I waved their incense around the kitchen, moving slowly toward the stairs, smoking the air where my mother's ghost had danced.
Satisfied with my work, I tossed the rest of the sage into the flame, and the room filled with its scent.
Andrews roused then. “Something's on fire.” He didn't open his eyes.
I glanced once at the old trunk in the corner. The fire was nearly dead, I closed the stove doors. In the silence I knew I wouldn't sleep. Too many ghosts.
“Andrews,” I asked him, “do you think you could listen to something, just for a second?”
“Listen to what?” he mumbled.
Why would my mother haunt me when I was thinking about Truevine Deveroe? And why bring me the dancing taunt of her infidelities?
“I have to read you something.”
“Why?” He opened his eyes. “Is it about our case?”
“Not so much,” I admitted. “It's more about
my
case, I think.”
I went to the trunk in a darker corner of the room, sat, opened it as I had done a thousand times, a boy alone in the house. What's sadder than memorabilia of the long dead? Why this preoccupation
engaged me time and again I have no idea, except that I wanted some reassurance that the past was dead, the ghosts weren't real, the bodies were buried.
“When my great-grandfather died at the age of seventy-one,” I tried to explain to Andrews, “all of his things were sold at auction except for this trunk. It contained papers and some personal valuables which he sent to my father, his favorite grandchild. My great-grandfather had been born in Wales but apprenticed to a silversmith in Ireland. The auction of his things brought a sizable bit of money. Some of it came to me for my university education. I'll never forget the first lonely rainy afternoon, nothing better to do, opening this trunk.”
I raised the lid; the yellowed paper crackled; the story sat waiting to be read once more. I picked up one stack. There were perhaps a hundred others like it in the trunk, written in my great-grandfather's arcane hand, all the same story written over and over again, all with the same title.
“It's called âThe Lily.' May I read it to you?”
He didn't understand and he was sleepy, but Andrews nodded, settled back in his chair, and indulged me. “Read away.”
I turned on the lamp beside me, closed the trunk and sat on it, and began to read aloud:
“âI wake from troubled sleep to write these lines. I can find but little rest. To and fro in my dreams I see her walking now, and I cannot keep to my bed. God in Heaven, there must be some release in the telling of my situation, else why would I be compelled to write it down over and over again in ink as black as night?
“âThere am I, in Ireland, with Mr. Jamison.
“âMy father had sent me from a lonely, motherless seaside village as apprentice to a man he barely knew. Still, I was glad to go and find my way in this world. Down the sunny path I passed through the garden gate without a care in this world. I had not yet stepped foot into the Jamison household when I first heard her voice.
“âShe was stirring peat in the fireplace to ready the evening
meal, as I could see through the open kitchen window. Her face was white and fragile as the porcelain teacup in her tiny hand. She took no notice of me.
“âI'm come from bold stock. I straightway cut a lily from the garden walk and went into the kitchen.
“âShe turned. I offered her my lily and she took it without a word.
“âShe locked me eye to eye. “What's your name, thenâand what's your business here in this house?”
“âIt's Conner Briarwood, and I'm expected.”
“âHer smile was wider. “It's a rough name.”
“âI come from a wild place, but I've manners enough to offer a flower to the finest woman in this world.”
“âNow she was teasing. “What if I'm the daughter of this house and you've set yourself off on the wrong foot, too bold with the only child of your new master?”
“âHe'll find me likewise bold in all manner of things and he may as well learn it now as later.”
“âBut what if I'm only the serving girl and he thinks me beneath your degree?”
“âThen Mr. Jamison will do just as well to learn I have no patience with the notion of high or low degree when it's God's made us all. I can't be other than I am.”
“âWith my eyes so locked on hers, I had not seen Mr. Jamison himself enter the room by the other door. There he was and spoke up strongly, a twinkle in his eye: “Well said, boy. You've got the Devil in you.”
“âI was startled out of myself; she dropped the lily on the floor.
“âMr. Jamison smiled, a kindly man. It was in that moment I knew why my father had so trusted him. That smile would win the deadâit won me all the more, being especially full of life that day.
“âBack to work now, Molly,” he spoke as gently as if it had been his own daughter. “Master Conner's been walking all day and he'll be hungry. Go on clean up, then. Your lodging's out by the smith house, a fine set of rooms. I've often kept myself there when
I was late working. Off now, and we'll catch up over dinner.” He started out of the room, then turned. “But don't leave without first fetching the lily you've cut from my lady wife's garden walk, give it again to our Molly. Once a lily's cut, its savor wanes.”
“âAnd he was gone.
“âSo it was I came into the house of a good man, into my time of apprenticeship. I learned to spin silver into teapots and fine plates and loving rings and ornate buttons. The nights were filled with longing for sweet Molly, a stolen moment in the kitchen or garden before falling to fitful sleep. When the day came at last that Mr. Jamison let me take on a project of my own, I fashioned a silver lily. It took the better part of five nights. The old man could see I'd not slept for working, and he praised the silver lily.
“âWhat'll it be, son? A pin, an ear piece, a ring?”
“âIt's a gift, sir.” I could not look him in the eye. “Useful for nothing else save a token of affection.”
“âThat night after dinner I found excuse to wander in the garden, moon the color of the little lily folded in my right hand. Molly came out into the moonlight when she was done with chores.
“âLook how fine this night is, Mol.”
“âShe laid her head upon my shoulder as sweetly as autumn leaf falls to the ground. I could barely breathe.
“âShe looked up into my eyes. “You're the dearest man ever I knew, Conner Briarwoodâand I love you till the seas go dry.”
“âLook here, Molly. I've made you a lily that'll never fade. It's a token of my regard for you. This silver lily would sooner turn to clay before my affection for you is cold. I love you till the day I die.”
“âAnd then we kissed.
“âStraightway I went to Mr. Jamison and told him of my intention to wed Molly. While his gladness seemed a little short, he was happy for me, offered to pay for the church on All Saints' Day. But his final word was strange. “This world is filled with the bitter as well as the sweet.” He'd say no more.
“âThe next day was clear and golden; all the leaves were turning.
I heard Molly's laughter down by the brook at the farther field, under the hazel.
“âThe sight that stabbed my eye when she came into view still cuts my brain.
“âMolly was entrapped in another man's arms. I could see he was a lord by his fine clothes. I could see he was kissing her neck. I could see he would not let her go. She hadn't been laughing at all but crying for help. I ran to her aid.
“âOut came the dagger and rapier to my hand.
“âYou there!” I shouted. “Leave off with that girl or I'll break open your breastbone. You're a dog and I mean to kill you.”
“âMolly broke free from his grasp. Her face was flush with fear and she came running for me.
“âNo, Conner! Don't fight him!”
“âBut she need not fear for me. I grew up wild and brawling with tougher men than this rich pastry, and I told her so.
“âQuit this place, Molly. I have something to do with your malefactor.”
“âHold, boy,” he said calmly. “You don't have the understanding of this situation.”
“âWill you take out your sword?” I spit back at him.
“âHere it is then.” He drew. “But I only mean to relieve you of those weapons and calm you down. You don't rightly know what's at work here.”
“âThere was a rage in me; the Devil had my throat. I threw myself at him and beat down his resistance at once. He fell backward puffing and stumbling and trying to shake off his cape. Molly was screaming, but the rage in my head would allow me nothing save the object of my blade. I took my dagger to his chest without a word, cracked his breastbone, spilled his blood, cleft his heart in twain. He fell to the earth, dead.
“âMolly was crying like a madwoman. Others from over fields and houses were running to see. She flung herself on me, beating my chest with her tiny hands.
“âWhat in God's name have you done? Don't you know you've
killed a lord who was going to take care of me with gold and silver and a house of my own? You've ruined me, you stupid boy.”
“âOn her hand was a ring of gold as wide as a beam of sunset.
“âWhat are you saying?” I dropped the rapier, took a step back from her, drenched in rich man's blood. “You're to be married to
me
this week.”
“âWhat girl would marry an apprentice,” she rasped, “when she had a fine lord? There's to be no wedding; there never was to be no wedding. And now you've murdered the only man who could have saved me from a life of serving and fetching. You'll hang, boyo. You'll hang!”
“âShe reached in her bodice and pulled out my silver lily, threw it in my face.
“âOn All Saints' Day I fed myself on a jailer's soup in place of wedding cake and watched the sun pass through prison bars.
“âThe day of my trial was in cold December, when all the birds had fled. Mr. Jamison found me a lawyer from Belfast who assured me there was a flaw in my indictment which could have me free. I had little hope. I'd killed a man of high degree, and my only love was witness against me. What good would freedom do me anyway?
“âThe trial began with legal talk; lawyers and judges speak a language all their own. The lawyers met up at the judge's bench and jabbered again in Latin for the space of half an hour.
“âI could make out but little: “ ⦠third page of the indictment no mention of the word
fiancé
⦠page seven
Briarwood
misspelled ⦠page eleven a blacksmith, far cry from a silversmith ⦠shoddy work, flaw after flaw ⦔ until at last the judge cried, “Enough. Step back!”
“âThe silence of the tomb was on the courthouse that day. The judge cast his eye about the place, slowly took in every face. At last he spoke.
“âThis indictment is riddled with flaws; I must release the prisoner until a new one may be filed.”
“âHe banged the gavel down; the room exploded. I scarcely heard a sound of it. I watched as Molly rose and departed the
place with never one look back at me at all. Not one. I soon left Ireland the same way.
“âMy name is Conner Devilin now, and I live in America. I've a fine wife and grown children and still more money in the banks than I know what to do with.
“âIt might have been that my fate would be to write these lines from a prison cell after killing a man in wild anger. But God devises various prisonsâsome are not made of stone and bars. For I wake from troubled sleep nearly every night of my life, can find but little rest. In my dreams I see her walking, setting fire to my heart, and cannot keep to my bed.
“âSo I write it down again in ink as black as night, but it is no use. The ending is always the same: I love her still, her voice like an angel, her tiny hands.
“âThere's the proof on my table: the lilyâstill silver, not clayâbright as the moon, the only true pain, and the only real light, I will ever know.'”