Authors, in order of appearance: Rhett Kaya, Elsa Cormier, Shanlla Remtulla, Rue Murray
There’s a collection of hills somewhere. Past the woods, through that one valley with the clusters of half-dead lavender and yellow grass, there’s a collection of hills, and behind those hills; a graveyard. Throughout the years, historians have tried to tie the cemetery to a town, to a civilization, to a group of people, but no one has successfully defined the root of this anomaly. The people buried here, are figments of a greater culture and society unbeknownst to the outside world. While few have found the graveyard or even the purple hills and black woods that are rumored to surround it; those who have, claim its inhabitants can speak. Some call them ghosts, others will say spirits or just voices fluttering in and out of the wind. Their stories, however much they choose to disclose, are the only evidence of humanity within this barren landscape amongst the clouds.
Toddy McDaniel, 1945-2005. “What a bloke.” It’s a stereotypical Celtic phrase but it was also Toddy. He traveled to the hill crest town after his wife kicked him out of their place in Cashel. He was drunk when he arrived, flustered, said he’d been on a few boats, and cars, and walked a bit. He had some clothes, a flask, another bottle of liquor, and a bunch of hats. “I’m here to die, ya know, not right now but, somewhere calm.” He fit himself into the local bar and claimed a seat in the corner by a window. That was his seat, every evening, watching sailboats off the coast and passersby. He never spoke of his wife, just said she wasn’t done. He never told anyone what ‘done’ meant. He liked to talk, and tell stories. People struggled to pinpoint if anything was true. It didn’t matter much, he would entertain visitors in the bar and ask any and everyone to humor him with their own stories. There was something warm about his presence; his accent, his crooked grin. He called himself The King of Ireland; everyone else was a ‘bloke.’ On his deathbed, he wore his favorite hat; a navy wool aviator cap. “If my wife ever finds here, tell her I finished strong.” With that, he took one last sip of his flask. “I might have just been the biggest bloke to ever live.”
A crooked, weathered headstone just from the earth, the name Malcolm Hayes barely visible through the thick moss that has swallowed the grave. He was a man of ambition, once, a wealthy merchant who thought the world could be bargained with, and everything had a price. The details of his life are muddled by time, but one fact stands clear—Malcolm sought power through forbidden means. He made a pact, an offer to the unseen forces that linger at the edges of reality. In exchange for the ability to control the winds and tides of fortune, he promised to give up his soul, though he never believed they'd take him at his word. For years, he prospered. Ships he sold goods on never sank. Coins fell into his pockets from the most unlikely places. But one evening, as the twilight crept in and he counted his latest fortune by candlelight, Malcolm realized too late that his riches came with a price—his life, his will, and soon his very body, which began to rot before his eyes. He felt a coldness creeping through his limbs, his flesh turning soft, putrid as if the world itself had begun to reclaim him. He tried to break the pact, tried to flee, but the air thickened around him, suffocating with the weight of his own greed. Now, his grave is said to shift when the wind blows, and travelers who wander too close may hear the distant sound of a ship’s bell tolling, calling them toward the bargain Malcolm made—and ultimately broke.
Kneeling to the left of a grandiose limestone slab, the girl with maraschino cherry hair holds up a piece of tracing paper to the midday light. She tilts her head as her eyes form half-moons, squinting to watch the rays of sun catch on graphite. As her trusty pencil dangles lopsidedly from one side of her lip, cigarette swinging idly on the other, she admires her work. The text, a tasteful block-script chipped like an eggshell reads Mirabelle Davies, 1830-1850. David loves you forever. A bundle of two adjoined roses, weathered by time, sits below the script. From countless hours spent in solitude, tracing graves in this cemetery, she knows that an etching of two roses adjoined signifies eternal love. But there is only one plot, for Mirabelle, with David nowhere to be found. She has always been a lover of the odd— among other gravestone etchings on her kitchen table sit countless framed shadow boxes of insects, taxidermied rodents, and a freshly bleach-treated bird skull. But she has always loved tracing the gravestones, above all else. As she sits, she wonders where David might be. Maybe he’s buried directly under Mirabelle, obliged to feel the profundity of her weight in eternity. Perhaps this is why she enjoys spending her afternoons here, crawling from stone to stone. Perhaps it is the most profound responsibility to honor all the love gone lost and to wonder where it goes.
Six paces to the left and anyone would stumble upon a small ivy-covered mound. The earth creeps far up the headstone almost consuming it in entirety. Etched into the stone are the words To live life well is to love it and leave it, followed by Elsbeth Jones. Elsbeth was a calm and gentle soul. She lived a long life from 1820 to 1902, always occupying her time tending to her garden. She spent many hours of the day in between iris, lilies and roses. She loved nature and believed any ailment could be healed by the soft and tender touch of the earth. She was gentle but striking and never let anyone tell her what to think. Her favorite flowers, though, were daffodils. Her garden was always half full with white and yellow daffodils. All of them would lean towards the sun and absorb its warmth. She would sit and preen her daffodils whenever she could, almost considering her flowers to be her children. Speaking of children, Elsbeth never had any but any child that stumbled upon her garden was welcome to come and enjoy the petals and leaves. Elsbeth cared deeply for her community and the colorful choir of foliage in her backyard added life and charity to her local town. Her passing was peaceful and even in her final moments a small gentle smile graced her face. Her final wish was that her garden would be well-kept and tended to. Even now in the spring, her grave is surrounded by a thick mass of beautiful flowers and greenery that generations after have continued to plant year after year.
This graveyard carries history, emotions and stark whispers of the past. Every person who lay here was put to rest among the calm green, mossy hills. It is tranquil and peaceful but holds the weight of all of the lives that once were. Many say that after sunset the voices of those before drift up and over the headstones and flow into the wind. The voices are never hostile but they do not shy away from being heard. Anyone who wishes to wind between the grey stones covered with moss must understand the years and years of life now celebrated here. There is no doubt that many spirits still linger even now. But it is certain that their stories all compile into these hills, leaving their mark among the trees and on the engravings of the stones. The few short sentences embellished in the granite, marble and slate do not even begin to describe the experiences of those who lay here. So even now as the wind waltzes through the limbs of every tree that hangs over the graves, there seems to be more life here than death.
Comments