“Burial mounds?” I asked.
Cliff stood slowly. His knees popped and he gripped my shoulder until he stood tall.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you. They’re in the oldest part of the orchard.” While we made our way along the path, Cliff continued to speak of the garden trolls. “They never came all the way to the house, least not in my memory, and I was always too tall to follow them into the tunnels. They could cover themselves—glamour, it’s called—and work undetected by the neighbors and other curious folk who’d stumble onto the property.”
We were in the dry season, so most of the grasses growing around the trees were tan and crunched underfoot. The few apple trees within view were branch-bound, with inedible fruit, but off to the left, between the orchard and ridge of fir trees that followed the shape of the rising mountain, were a series of burial mounds. At least three of them were ringed with local boulders and looked like those made by First Nations peoples.
Two low, conical mounds stood out. They were covered with grass, and the grass was green and well-tended.
“I found the bodies tossed some distance from the heads, but I didn’t tell my wife. I felt it would put too much sorrow into Abigail’s heart, and I didn’t know if she could withstand it. So I came out here myself and buried them in that one,” said Cliff, gesturing to the closest conical mound. “They were given full rites and sent off with prayers.”
“May I bring Tanner here?” I asked. The solemnly quiet air wasn’t inviting further discussion.
“Of course. Any time. No need to ask first.”
I took one more long look around before pulling out my phone. “May I take a couple of pictures?”
“You can, but the mounds won’t show up,” he said. “You’re here with me, and I’ve made them visible to you, but they’re invisible to modern technology and the uninitiated.”
I tucked my phone back into my bag and took hold of Cliff’s elbow. “Thank you for protecting this place.”
Cliff gazed at the mounds for a minute longer, made a series of gestures with his hands, and shuffled his feet in a box-like step.
“We can go now.” He turned and led me out of the sacred area and along a path that cut through the ‘happy humming’ ground. The closer we got to the house, the more the air filled with the scent of Abigail’s soap.
Clifford stopped us at the bottom of the porch stairs.
“Calliope, there’s one more thing.” He pulled a blue-bordered handkerchief from one of his pockets, lined up the corners of the fine cloth, and blew his nose. “I used to be diligent about keeping up the protective wards on this property, and I am sorry to admit I’ve been remiss in my duties—to this land and the hidden folk who’ve helped us keep the trees safe. I feel…” He lifted his head, and I couldn’t tell if his eyes were seeing the land and sky around him or if they were looking back to some other time. “I feel horrible. If I hadn’t been derelict in my duties, those dear souls might still be alive.” He blew his nose once more and re-pocketed the wadded up square of fabric. “And now I have to live with the consequences of my neglect. If you could ask Tanner and River to come back as soon as they are available, I could use their help fortifying the old wards.”
“I will do that, Cliff, and I’m willing to bet at least one of them will be here first thing tomorrow.”
After leaving Cliff and Abi, the call of an old roadside cemetery was too strong to drive by without stopping. A wrought-iron railing defined a roughly square plot, and the stones were uniformly splotched with lichen and moss. I pulled over, intent on meandering until I could find words to honor the murdered hidden folk.
For whatever reason, I assumed stones as old as these would be neglected; they weren’t. Many were adorned with necklaces of small white shells or garlands of wild flowers and tiny roses. Smoothed rocks, fist-sized or smaller, sat at the base of a few headstones, stick-in-the-ground vases for flowers and votive candles near others. When I’d last stopped at this plot in June, a riot of lilacs had perfumed the air.
Even with the walk through the old cemetery, I returned to my house with a heaviness in my heart. Mourning was both solitary and communal, and Cliff and Abi deserved to have support. They had carried the secret of the Pearmain ancestors long enough. I promised myself I would reach out to them once things at the Jones house had settled down.
Tanner and Kaz had been busy. Bright neon pink and orange surveyors’ ribbons fluttered from some of the trees ringing the house. Evenly spaced at five feet apart, more or less, they were close enough that one person standing between two adjacent trees could touch both.
“What’s with the decorations?” I asked, pausing at the base of the porch stairs. A table had been set up for what looked like Magical Craft Hour, and my fingers itched to join in.
“Kaz is teaching us to carve runes,” said Harper, holding up a slab of wood the length of a dinner knife and about the width of his palm. “We’ll attach these wherever he put a marker.”
“But Tanner and I will be the ones to activate them,” Kaz piped up from the shed underneath the deck.
“And Aunt Busy called. She’s so excited that I’m a witch, Mrs. Jo—Calliope.” Leilani was beaming. “She’s going to visit soon, like maybe tomorrow. And she’s bringing ingredients for one of her special spells too. Enough for all of us.”
“That’s very generous of her, Lei-li. I’d like to see her again,” I added. “She shared her tent at the ritual and took very good care of me afterward.”
My phone buzzed. The gynecologist’s office. “Rowan, hi.”
I ran up the
