Tearing down the hill from our new house, the wind whipping through my hair and drying the few tears which managed their way down my cheeks, the air seemed cooler, lighter; it filled my lungs easily, oxygen flowing through my veins and to my white knuckled hands gripping the handles of the bike which bounced heavily and sturdily over the rough road. My vicious trembling was overtaken by the small sharp shocks shooting up my legs and from the seat below me. Focusing so intently on the steep descent, the anxiety and panic which had risen so readily took a back seat. My vision cleared, though my mind could not shake its turmoil. Speaking of my death was one thing; speaking of the day of my grandfather's funeral was another thing entirely. And now, thanks to Grandma, it was all that I could think of.
My dad cannot stand Mum's family – he's convinced they're all nothing but convicts and kooks, and to be fair he's not fair off the truth. One can't blame him in his certainty that they were not exactly proper role models for his only child. His dislike for them proved so intense that he refused to join Mum and I on the day trip we took to Isla Huesos when I was seven, to attend my grandfather's funeral. That hadn't gone done well at the time, unsurprisingly to all except my father.
The funeral was a typical affair; I sat in the pew flanked by Mum and Grandma, with young Alex at the other end. I didn't know my grandfather, but I cried because they cried.
I shook my head and wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand as the decline steadied out and my bike slowed to a casual pace. Dim streetlights passed overhead as I rode past house after house, ignoring traffic lights, not bothering to look at intersections – the streets were dead at this time of night; and anyone who was out and about was most likely up on the hill, at the party Mum threw for me. Regret and shame flared as I thought of the efforts she had made, the work she had put into organising everything, inviting everyone, decorating and preparing. And here I was, the ungrateful, crazed child who couldn't even cope with a conversation about a day that happened more than a decade ago. So many years had passed since then, and memories of that afternoon in the cemetery seemed more and more like a dream as each one went. That it was a dream was the only explanation that made sense. And then I died, and I learned otherwise.
"Go on and play outside – your mother is busy," Grandma had said.
We sat in the cemetery sexton's office, Mum and Grandma signing the last of the paperwork for Grandpa's tomb. Maybe I had been fidgeting, distracting, bored; for whatever reason, Mum had looked up through her tears and managed a small smile as she nodded at her mother's words. "It's alright, darling. Go and play in the gardens. Don't stray. We won't be long."
It was warm that day, but heavy clouds hung overhead, threatening rain. The cemetery was well-kept; the grass green, the paved path clean, the crypts pristine, and the mausoleums and tombs stood proud and intimidating against the gloomy sky.
I remember that I found the dove near the carpark by the cemetery sexton's office. It limped along the path toward the tombs, one wing dragging low at its side, clearly broken. I hurried after it, travelling further from the office than I knew my mother would allow, intending to pick it up and take it to her, she who was so good at helping; at fixing broken things. But as I approached, the wounded bird panicked and half-flew, half-leapt directly into the side of a nearby tomb, the impact of its small, delicate body against the unyielding stone giving a terrible thwack. Then it laid there and as I rushed to its side, I realised with horror that the dove was dead – that I had killed it. I sobbed harder then than I had at the funeral, my young self wracked with guilt.
That's where he had found me; on my knees low in the grass surrounded by graves, completely alone, crying over a dead bird.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, in a voice as smooth and low as thunder over gentle waves.
What stood out to me then was that he was so very tall, even as he crouched beside me. There were no alarm bells in my mind – I was too young to be suspicious and paranoid of strangers, though my mother had certainly tried her best to instil 'stranger danger' into my psyche. His face was filled with concern, and his eyes were kind. He seemed nice.
"I was trying to help," I cried, once I could get out the words through my hysterical sobs. "She was hurt and I tried to help. But she got scared and I killed her. It was an accident!"
"Yes, it was an accident," the man told me softly, and through my tears I watched as he reached out one large hand and took up the dove's limp, fragile, dead body.
"I don't wanna go to Hell," I whimpered.
"Hell?" the man asked, bemused. "Why would you go there?"
"That's where murderers go," I told him, face swollen with tears and knees covered in dirt. "My grandma told me."
He gave a small, breathy laugh, watching me with kind, sympathetic eyes. "You're not a murderer," he assured me. "And I wouldn't worry about where you're going just yet."
"We should get a coffin," I hiccupped, looking at the bird cradled in his enormous scarred and calloused hand. "When someone dies we get put in a coffin and then no one sees us ever again," I told him, just as my grandma had told me earlier that day.
"Some of us do," the man nodded, voice light, "though not all. We could find her a coffin," he said. "Or…" he looked at me with a twinkle in his steely grey eyes, "I could bring her back. And she could fly away and be with her family again."
"You can't do that," I said with an indignant frown, knowing that was impossible. I rubbed my itching eyes, tears drying and tummy aching from the wracking sobs. I watched him as he slowly pet the bird, and saw him watching me in return. I shook my head at his nonsense, thinking how silly he was for an adult. "No one can do that. Dead is dead."
"I can," he told me, assuredly. "If you'd like."
My lower lip trembled as I considered, and then nodded, "Yes, please."
He didn't look from my face, even as the dove in his hand, which had been entirely and surely dead only a moment before, suddenly jerked; its head rose and its body twisted as it clambered to its feet. Then, with a bright-eyed flutter, the dove flew from the man's hand, wings beating strongly as it flew off into the cloudy grey sky.
I gaped at the place where the bird had vanished over the trees and out of view, and then turned to stare at the man beside me in wide-eyed amazement. He looked back at me, calmly and contently.
After the long moment it took for my young brain to process what had just occurred, I thought hard and then blinked at him, as he waited curiously.
"Can you bring my grandpa back to life?" I asked, softly.
He blinked, apparently surprised for a moment before gentle sympathy returned to his eyes, and he shook his head, "No. I'm sorry."
The tears returned, my mouth turned sharply downward, "But—"
"What's your name?" he asked, quickly.
"Pierce," I told him, miserably.
"Well, Pierce," he said with a tilt of his head, his wavy brown hair falling over his eyes. "I'm sure your grandpa would be very proud to know how kind you are. But it's best he be left where he is. It might scare your mother and grandmother to see him walking about after he's already been buried, don't you think?"
I looked away with a frown, not having considered this – I realised the man was probably right.
That's when Grandma came looking for me. She saw the man, I'm sure of it – he saw her, and she saw him and I know she did because the man stood smoothly from my side and they exchanged polite good afternoons before he gave me one last smile,
"Goodbye, Pierce."
And then he walked away.
I watched after him until he disappeared amongst the tombs, and then looked down at where the dove had died, and up where it had flown away. He had brought it back to life.
"Pierce," Grandma said, as I stood up, too confused to remember to brush the dirt from the front of my dress. "Do you know who that was?"
"I found a bird, Grandma," I said, not noticing her question, and suddenly bursting with excitement. "It was hurt, and I tried to help it, but it died and then he brought it back to life!"
She watched me then, steady and quiet, before glancing over to the path where the man had disappeared. I was breathless with exhilaration, and wanted to share this feeling with Grandma, but she seemed so calm about my tale.
"And did you like him?" she asked, returning her attention to my bright, red-pink and puffy face.
I was confused by the question, and disappointed that she hadn't been as excited by what had happened as I had been. "I don't know," I said, dismissively.
Grandma smiled then, for the first time all day. "You will," she said.
Then she had taken my hand, holding tight, and walked me back through the cemetery to the carpark, where Mum and Alex were waiting.
I remembered looking back. There was no sign of the man, but now scarlet blossoms had started to fall from the twisting black branches of the poinciana tree that stood tall above, bursting red as firecrackers against the gloomy grey sky. And as we climbed into the car and pulled away from the cemetery, it finally began to rain.
/
Perhaps it was this memory that had so engrossed me that I had suddenly found myself stopped at the large gates of the cemetery. I hadn't realised I'd ridden so far. Perhaps I would have kept going, but something about this place had me stop. It wasn't the first time I had travelled here since I arrived on Isla Huesos two weeks ago; more than once I had ridden here to take a walk through the gardens or read the plaques, out of some morbid curiousity.
Many others, sight-seers coming to tour the island, found it just as interesting – every coffin was placed in above-ground crypts and vaults so that when a hurricane was sure to hit, the resting dead wouldn't rise from the flooded ground and be found strung upon the palm trees, or from peoples' fences, or on the sandy shores. That's why this island had been dubbed Isla Huesos, the 'Island of Bones'. When the Spanish arrived three hundred years ago, they had found the island littered with bones; likely due to storms having disturbed old Indian burial grounds.
I found it quieting, soothing, reassuring, to be surrounded by the dead. The dead who had remained dead. I could have been amongst them, and perhaps I should have been. But I was as stubborn as my father, and as headstrong as my mother. I wasn't ready to die.
But that wasn't what had me stop outside the cemetery gates, I realised. It was the memory of the poinciana tree. I had searched for it, each time I had come here and somehow, I could never find it. But now, as I stopped by the tall black wrought-iron gates, a blanket of red caught my eye. I rested my bike against the tall fence and tried to open the gates, hearing the jangle the thick chain and heavy padlock holding it firmly shut. With a sigh I stood back and looked along the length of the fence in both directions and noticed further down the path, a large green-lidded plastic rubbish bin which lined up perfectly against the cemetery fence. A crypt was situated directly behind it on the other side.
I knew I could climb it, though I was rather anxious about the row of tall spikes lining the top. Nevertheless, I walked to it, wiping my clammy hands, then took a readying breath and clambered on top of the wobbling bin, feeling the lid bend threateningly under my weight. Heart fluttering nervously in my chest but filled with determination, I grasped the nearest spike with one hand and the top of the fence with the other and with a grunt I pulled myself up onto the fence, arms shaking as they held my full mass for a short moment before awkwardly twisting both of my legs underneath me and onto the other side, where I twisted around and looked below me, reaching out a foot to plant on top of the weather-roughed stone roof of the crypt, then with a huff and a hard push backward, I landed solidly upon the cool crypt.
Wincing as I shook my hands, massaging where the metal had dug into my skin, I wandered to the edge, glancing down at the grass not too far below me, then, with hands aching, I sat down, turned my body and carefully lowered myself down, legs dangling in the air for a moment while I considered where exactly I wanted to land. But my now slightly grazed and rather tender hands proved too sore – I lost my grip; slipping off the stone and falling to the ground with a sharp gasp of surprise. But though the impact reverberated violently up my heels to my knees, and I stumbled back with a pained grunt, I kept on my feet.
Wiping my sore hands down the front of my dress I gazed up, for a moment rather impressed with myself; that is, until I realised that I had no idea how the heck I was gonna climb back out of here. But that problem was for later, I decided. Turning away to find the paved and winding path amongst the tombs, I thanked the moonlight which shone brightly above, allowing just enough light to perceive the dark cemetery on my journey toward the poinciana tree.
Somewhere in the distance, the sky growled with thunder, the storm moving closer. I padded cautiously down the paved path toward the tree, which seemed to have shaken itself free of its flowers which now lied dried and withered upon the path, grass and on the roof and stairs of the crypt beneath it; the red stark even in the darkness of the night. All was quiet – the tombs, the air, my mind – but for the distant chirping of the crickets and cicadas, and the rustling palm fronds overhead. I simply stood and stared up at that tree and its black writhing branches, and at the fallen blossoms below, so striking in their contrast. I gazed at the crypt and at the place beside it where the dove had fallen and died, and where he had brought it back. This is the place where we had first met, he and I. Before everything had happened - all so fast.
The gentle wind lifted my hair around my shoulders and disturbed the dried petals; they swirled and moved as waves, whispering to one another as they scattered further down the path. The movement produced a crinkling sound, not unlike that I heard in those first moments two years ago. I blinked, flinched, hissed – but once the memory – any memory such as this – was in my head, all I could do was ride it out.