Chapter 2: Ghost Town
The floodgates burst open. All of my senses are fully engulfed by a memory so vivid that it nearly knocks me from the horse's back. I used to live for this moment alone; when a rocking canter smooths out into a full-blown sprint. We are pushed to the edge. To the very brink of flight. The wind in my ears drowns out the metallic clang of bridle and bit. Even the pounding hooves beneath me cannot withstand the empty noise of air. Moonlight paints each passing field silver. Shadow paints each lonesome tree and knoll the darkest shade of gunmetal. The heavens bleed monochrome; bleed and run over the landscape with careless artistry like watercolors on a handkerchief. For an instant, it seems as though we are levitating inside of an imaginary sphere- a portal where the earth and the sky collide. Peace is always found at the highest point of chaos. Peace is ephemeral and we cannot live there long. Momentarily, we soar, knowing that soon we will hit turbulence followed by the rugged ground below.
The muscles in my arm flex. Like my mind, they are possessed by that which time has forgotten. I reach for my weapon, for a saber that is no longer there. My heartbeat climbs to a steady bang. I swear I can see the Continentals standing just ahead. A familiar sensation sears my gut as they lift their rifles and take aim. I always was terrified riding into battle. It was within that terror that my ruthlessness came to be. My mount senses apprehension in me and skews off-course for several strides. I correct him as best I can. Still, he protests. He is not a warhorse, not in the slightest. Just a gentle Morgan bred for evening trail rides. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only person to ever coax him to such a fast gate. To push him further would be unfair, but he is stubborn and so am I. I know horses well and he is no exception. They are easily intoxicated by the very taste of freedom. I have tapped into his wildness and we will not stop until that fire consumes us both.
The line of infantry hold their ground. I am close enough now to see their faces. The flecks of starlight in their eyes. The crumpled texture of their uniforms. The bloodied craters scattered all across their frost-bitten skin. I have but a moment left to surrender. The rational part of my mind tells me that they are nothing more than an apparition. My remaining senses, however, have fully succumbed to this vision and so, I raise an imaginary sword high above my head. Some of the boys flinch beneath me, some disperse into the woods while the braver few continue their assault. I ride after the cowards. Perhaps I am a coward, too, for blowing past those who were willing to stay and fight. A blast follows. The likes of which are difficult to describe, for that deafening bang is not produced by a weapon- but by some supernatural force. It happens right as I cross into the trees, swallowing me whole.
The forest is still. I have passed through woods great and small in my lifetime. But none so silent as this. Even while standing at their core, all that grows within those sanctuaries are eternally unquiet. I crave that hum, that presence. I long to hear the sacred echo made by the whispering of leaves, the choruses of crawling things, the stretching of roots and trickling of streams- birth and decomposition all balled together to create the very voice of life itself. Any such sound has been extinguished here. Even the wind glides across my skin with trepidation. The noise of my horse's hooves rise and fall from the ground before reaching my ears. I open my mouth to breathe, to speak. "Show yourselves, lads!" Is my bold command. Or rather, what I intend to say. But the silence does not yield. I lift my hand to my chest, fearing that I will find nothing more than a vacant cage where my heart resides. In my palm, I find warmth, reverberation and I breathe a weighted sigh. This is the place. I can feel it in my soul. Those soldiers were but a few of the ghosts who live here, calling me away from Waterford and into their shadowy realm.
There is a narrow trail slicing through the undergrowth. My eyes venture down it as far as they can go. I see it fork and comb through the darkness. The decision is mine to make, to move further into this strange abyss or to turn and head back. Fear reaches out to grab me, to force me into choosing the latter. Something stirs in the corner of my vision and curiosity overpowers that fear. I wait in the soundlessness for the figure to unfold itself. As I watch, I grow all the more intrigued. It is a man that I see. The similarities between the two of us baffle me. Then again, so do our differences. He is not a military man. He is not a farmer. The gold braiding on his ebony waistcoat and the positioning of the glistening buttons across his breast have a language all their own. He turns, passing through the underbrush and onto the jagged road. The deathly whiteness of his complexion surpasses even the heavy dusting of powder on his wig. He halts, staring at me, piercing my very soul with his icy gaze. I once believed that I could pick Father out of any crowd. How very strange it is that now I can barely recognize his ghost.
He does not move towards me, but he does not back away, either. We merely stand, watching one another from across the centuries. My final recollection of him has long been expelled from my mind and replaced by a fairer one. Or rather, as fair a memory as one could have of Julius Tavington. He appears now exactly as I forgot him. Even the halyard rope from his finest ship, the one that he had fashioned into a noose, still grips tightly at his throat. As he turns to retreat into the forest, I can see its end dangling, barely dusting the top of his boots with its frayed edges. He pauses, then gestures without so much as glancing over his shoulder. I take this as his invitation and then a dare to follow him, to find him again after he drops behind the black incline ahead.
Like the rebels, I expect the apparition of my father to swiftly fade and vanish on the breeze. Instead, he holds a steady distance from me so that I might follow. My horse shows little reluctance, but I know that he is vexed by the unnaturalness of it all. His ears twist frantically in their sockets, hunting deafly for some semblance of sound. I touch the side of his neck, nestling my fingers into the deep gray fuzz of his winter coat. At first, he quivers but is quickly calmed by the stroking motion of my hand. The ball of my spur gently nudges him onward and he obeys.
I further observe the silence. Every waking hour that I spent in my father's presence was crowded with noise. The accusations of laziness and stupidity that he flung to my brother and I. The spiteful words that nipped at my mother's ankles, cornering her, herding her into an early grave like the tender, defenseless lamb that she was. Even now, I could scarcely curse the noose around his neck which condemned him to an eternity of strangulation. I had words for him, surely. He had words for me, too, he always did. To meet him now in a place devoid of sound holds a keen feeling of mercy, for both the dead and the undead. He steps off of the deer trail and saunters onto a grassy knoll at the riverbank. This space, dotted with trees draped with Spanish moss which hangs from every branch like beggar's rags, seems so familiar. Father waits for me to catch up and then leaps onto a flat stone by the water's edge.
"This is where you decided," his voice startles me, piercing and ringing in my ears like the bang that had stolen away my hearing earlier. "Right here. This is where you decided, is it not?"
"Father?" I say. Before those words are severed from my tongue, the noises of nature return and with them, an unnamed feeling that the world is as it should be once more. "Why have you come here?"
"To show you," his form begins evaporating like steam that has reached its highest point above a pot of boiling water. "That which you have forgotten. To lead you to what you have left behind."
The remaining wisps of his stark, cloud-like spirit linger for but a moment. They gather and swirl in a cluster before dropping into the river. I watch them sink into the sand and the valleys between each rounded rock. In their place, a glistening light appears. I bend over and dip my hands into the cool stream. A sharp pain bites at my fingertips, followed by a dime-sized cyclone of my own blood. I am troubled by this, but refuse to let go of the cold, smooth object that Father wanted me to find. I lift it out of the water and see that it is a glass square. Or rather, part of a square. As I glide my thumb across its surface, brushing aside two hundred years of sediment and debris, I realize that it is an old mirror- my old mirror. The glass is badly damaged, most of it is scratched and warped, but it still provides a faint rendition of my reflection. Foolishly, I reach back into the icy waters and hunt a while for its other half. Nothing comes of my efforts. I soon retire in disappointment and ride home with the mysterious item tucked safely away in my pocket.
...
"Why, I wonder, did he want me to find this?" I ask, glancing at the mirror for easily the hundredth time this evening.
Marigold blows softly at the pebble-shaped flame which tops her incense stick. A meditative act to wean herself from a long list of distractions. Like me, she has hardly removed her eyes from the thing since I came home with it. "Maybe it's an enchanted mirror! Like the one from Beauty and the Beast!"
I smirk, "What? So now you're calling me names? I am no beast, Marigold Tavington, but you are certainly a beauty!"
She shakes her golden head, smiling sweetly before lending her attention to the intricate twists and curls of perfumed smoke between us. I watch them a while, too. I never told her as much, but the waves of white from her incense move in a cadence identical to the movement of ghosts. It has always haunted me, always delighted me.
"May I see it, William?"
I cross the room and, with gentleness, hand it to her.
"Did your father say anything about finding the rest of it?"
"No. I must have sifted through all of the sand in the river, up and down for a half a mile!" I see her right eyebrow work its way into a pretty albeit mocking arch. "More like a quarter mile."
"Huh. I'll bet you dollars to donuts the other half isn't in the Santee at all!" She watches the glass, turning it beneath a pool of yellow lamplight. Suddenly, she startles and turns to look behind her. "What the?! I just saw something. I thought it was a reflection from out the window, but it's too dark outside. It's," she squints, "it looks like- no. Where are my glasses?"
"Out in your glovebox. I can fetch them for you if you would like."
"That's okay, just... here, you have better eyes than I do. Look at it under the light. Tell me what you see."
I place it in my hand and my hand directly under the table-lamp. Brown, spindly branches appear across it like spiderwebs do when touched by morning's first light. "It's a tree. A barren tree."
"Barren? It had leaves when I saw it. I don't know what kind. You might. You're the fair-weather botanist around here!" She flatters me, of course. There is no houseplant or perennial or tree that she couldn't name off the top of her head! "They were flat and ovular with kind of sawed looking edges."
"That could be any number of trees, my beautiful one." I look closer at the empty limbs and a memory, one of the fondest memories I have ever possessed enters my mind. "Of course," I say. "Annabelle. I dropped the mirror in the stream when Annabelle appeared at my camp. That was when it broke. I must have been so distracted by her and the approaching militiamen that I didn't notice at the time, but I do remember collecting it and putting it where I always did for safe keeping. The pages of my field book. That same book was the one that-"
"-Solomon Casey buried in the schoolyard. It's Annabelle's apple tree! They have shovels in the barn, right?"
"Marigold," I pursue her, barely matching her speed as she scrambles to the front door, "the schoolhouse is property of the Waterford School District now."
"I don't care. I might not have built it, but I did restore it from the ground up! Besides, its the Casey Schoolhouse and I am a Casey!" She places her hands on her hips, a picture of pride. Goofy, perfect, beautiful pride. "Now let's throw on some jeans and wellies! We've got some trespassing to do!"
...
Waterford is especially charming at night. Even after the drive-in, the skating rink and all other businesses which thrive after dark shut their doors, those streets are just as inviting as ever. We should consider ourselves fortunate that tonight is the coldest on record and the weather forecast brings a promise of snow. If it were any other evening, the pair of us would have been spotted already. Marigold, being the little bundle of energy and excitement that she is, has been anything but inconspicuous since the straightaway became Main Street. She drove us into town at breakneck speed, jamming out to her Blues Brothers soundtrack. In case you are wondering, we are, in fact, wearing sunglasses.
She pulls one shovel from the bed of her Baja, making sure not to scratch or ding its bright yellow paint in the process. Tragedy averted. The second shovel plummets to the ground with a noisy clang, causing us both to freeze momentarily, still as statues in the schoolyard. Then we approach the stump and Marigold kneels, levitating her hands over the ground like a carnival fortune teller bending over a cheap crystal ball.
"What are you doing, you goober?!" I chuckle at my words and so does she.
"You've been spending too much time around Giselle! I'm trying to remember where exactly I buried it!"
"Where you buried it?"
She crawls away from me and begins humming ominously. "I'll tell you later. For now- yes! This is the spot! Right here! I'm sure of it!"
Before I even have the chance the collect our shovels, she starts clawing at the ground with her bare hands. "Good gracious, Marigold! What has gotten into you?"
"This is exciting! Sneaking out, destroying public property that's historically my property! Wearing turtlenecks! It's an absolute high! Plus we're solving a very important mystery! We're like two detectives! I'm the pregnant one and you're the one who knocked me up! Somebody should write a television show about the two of us!"
"Darling, hush! Unless you want to be-" my train of thought is immediately derailed by an aggressive sphere of light. I swiftly cover my aching eyes, blocking out the assailant. "Damn!"
"Well, well, well! Miss Casey!" Tommy Martin clicks off his flashlight and attempts a cackle, which his cracking, pubescent voice can barely produce. "My, how the tables have turned! What brings you cool cats to my turf at this ungodly hour?"
"I should be asking you the same question," Marigold says, I can hear genuine concern in her voice. "Your father must be worried sick about you."
"My father?! He was the one who gave me money so I could get my smokes! That and I had some stuff to do downtown. You know how it is." One obnoxiously unwelcome wink later, Tommy reaches into his pocket for a pack of bubblegum cigarettes. "Want one? They're tutti frutti. Oh, rootie! Wooo! No? Smart. They're terrible for your health. And your teeth. And since Miss Casey is now smoking for two-"
"-you look cold, Tommy. Would you like me or William to drive you home? Hot chocolate will be involved if you go quietly."
"That isn't a terrifying offer!" He removes a neon pink "cigarette" from the pack in his hand and pretends to strike a match on the sole of his dirty sneaker. "But I will allow it. You temptress! Hot chocolate from where?"
"I don't know," Still seated uncomfortably on the ground, Marigold scratches her chin and moves her eyes from one end of the street to the other, "there has to be a gas station nearby that sells it."
"Butternut fudge cappuccino and I'm sold, but Miss Casey has to take me."
"Mrs. Tavington-" I interject. Well, until Tommy begins talking over me, as is his way.
"I'm also pretty sure that you guys are barking up the wrong tree... or stump. I mean you are looking for something small and book-ish. Si?"
I move in, casting my shadow over the grinning, lisping lad. "What do you know?"
"Just that I found that puppy years ago! While making mud angels with my bros. That was when Miss Casey was in college or Oregon or whatever. The museum was no longer a thing, so my dad gave it to, hm. I thought he was supposed to give it to Miss C! That is, of course, unless he forgot. Which the poor old man is prone to doing. What can I say? I keep him on his toes!"
My wife begins to stand and I assist her, dusting off the sand from her turtleneck and yellow coat. "Alright. Well," she beams, "Cappuccino earned. To the Subaru, boys!"
Tommy crosses his arms, most likely unhappy that I must remain in the picture.
"I'll ride in the bed with the shovels, I suppose," I say with a grumble.
"Now, now, now! Mr. T! Let's not be too rash. I've been bugging Miss Casey to let me ride in the back of her Baja for years!" He dashes towards the car, climbs into the bed and begins to jump up and down.
"Fine. But here are the rules, Tommy," Marigold instructs, ever the teacher, "number one you need to sit the entire time. Two, you need to pull up your hood. No ear infections are happening here tonight, at least not on my watch."
"She loves me!"
I watch in disgust as Tommy blows her a kiss before settling into the back and, surprisingly, following her instructions to a tee. "This is why I thank my lucky stars that we aren't having a boy." I close my door and buckle my seatbelt.
She follows suit, switching on the ignition and cranking the heater up to full blast. "I'm actually really happy that we ran into him tonight. Now we just have to see if Benny still has the book. Let alone, remembers it."
"What did you mean earlier when you said that you buried it? Was that when you," I stammer, searching for a better way of saying it, "when you went back?" She nods. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if there was another way to go back in time? You know, without having to-"
"-we should wait until we're alone to discuss this. Tommy is a world-renowned eavesdropper" she mutters lowly as I steal a glance at our rambunctious passenger. He seems unaware of what we are saying, but Marigold knows his tricks better than I ever will.
We drive from gas station to gas station, searching for one with an open convenience store. She jokes about her hometown's dramatic response to winter storms. I am entranced. Three months have passed since I arrived here and there is so much left for me to learn. I have yet to meet Springtime Waterford and Summer Waterford, too. I have seen, once or twice, the downtown district all dressed up in a sparkling gown of white and look forward to seeing the farm in that same attire. What I anticipate, above all, is witnessing the lovely dance between this place and the woman beside me who loves it so well. Season after season, year after year. She shines brighter on these streets than anywhere else on earth.
Here in her light, I nearly forget about where we are headed and what we are doing here in the first place. Visiting Benny Martin might be easier for me now, but I still have a ways to go before it feels normal. That's where Marigold comes in, especially tonight. Her playfulness, her exuberance is infectious. I see our sunglasses poking out of the drink holder between us, I put mine on and pass the yellow, horn-rimmed shades to her. She slides them onto her lovely face, still pink in places from exposure to the frosty air. We share a warm, loving glance and crawl to a stop at what is the forth red light this evening. Funny how reds always last longer when you're the only car for miles around. Tommy slaps the roof, shouting for her to run it and he jumps a mile high when Marigold revs the engine, unannounced. She moves the frames down the bridge of her nose and winks at me. "Hit it."