He laughed. “I told you I just rent a place. And when I'm here I'm not very sociable.”
“What do you do? Lock yourself in your cabin and write poetry?”
“Close. Actually I write music.”
“You're a composer? How interesting. What kind of music do you write?”
“Unperformed operas mostly.” He gave a wry grin and looked over at her. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She was surprised by the question, but he pulled a thermos from his jacket like a conjuror producing a white rabbit. They dismounted in the lee of Eagle Rock, protected from the wind. The thermos had a double top and he filled them both. The coffee tasted good, and they sipped it enjoying the freshness of the air and the silence broken only by the wind and the chink of their horses’ harnesses as they grazed on the short, fibrous grass.
“So,” she said, “I suppose these unperformed operas are subsidized by TV jingles, movie scores, and stuff like that.”
He laughed apologetically. “Not exactly. To be honest, I'm kind of indulging myself. I inherited a little money, got lucky in the market, and now I do the one thing I really enjoy. But I'm hoping to make it pay some day. How about you?”
She told him briefly about her job on the magazine, the kind of thing she wrote, although she didn't mention Camp Starburst or anything about the Adam story. He knew of Around Town, though he didn't read it, but he said he'd make a point of picking up a copy soon and looking for her byline.
After that they were silent for a while, looking out over the valley as they finished their coffee. It was a desolate, dramatic spot, with few signs of civilization, just a scattering of farms, some isolated houses, and a small stone church on a hillside opposite.
As they watched, a congregation of no more than twelve or fifteen people emerged and got into a handful of vehicles parked by the churchyard gates. The priest came out after them, tall and thin in his black cassock, and climbed onto an ancient motorbike that popped and sputtered down the track and out of sight.
“That's a little unusual, isn't it?” Ralph said thoughtfully.
“A priest on a motorbike? Not especially.”
“No-I mean a church made of stone in this part of the world.”
“You'll find them, not that many.”
“Do you know that church?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I've ridden past it, never paid it much attention.”
“Me neither. I'd be curious to take a closer look. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
They remounted, and twenty minutes later, having descended steeply to a stream and climbed the far side, they cantered to the gate of the now empty churchyard, left their horses, and strolled to the tiny building's wooden doors. It was even smaller than it looked from a distance, hardly more than a chapel.
“Mid-eighteenth-century by the looks of it,” Ralph said as they entered. “Yep, there we are-1770.” He pointed to a carving on the inside lintel.
After a few moments Joanna wandered back outside, while Ralph remained interested by some of the interior details. She looked around at the graves, on the whole remarkably well kept, but with their headstones tilted to odd angles as the earth that they were planted in had settled over the years. The inscriptions were all well worn, some of them impossible to decipher. It struck her as odd that so few people seemed to have been buried there in recent years. Then she saw that there was another part on the far side of a dividing wall, empty but for a handful of new graves at one end. The part that she was in, the older part, was long since full.
She became curious about just how far back the earliest graves went. The inscription in the church said 1770, but she had already noticed one headstone bearing the date of death as 1753, or 8; it was too worn by the elements to be sure, but suggested that there may have been a previous, even smaller church on the site before the present one.
The oldest graves were all arranged along one side of the yard. At least a dozen of those headstones were totally illegible, but as she worked her way along she found the names and dates beginning to emerge as though from the mists of time. They were all carved from the same stone, and little prior to 1760 had survived two centuries of wind and rain.
It was then that she saw a name that stopped her in her tracks and took her breath away. Faint but unmistakable beneath a gray-green mossy growth were five letters that spelled “Wyatt.”
Without taking her eyes from the word, she approached cautiously, as though it might be some land of trap. She reached out and dusted some of the encrusted deposit from the stone.
JOSEPH WYATT
1729–1794
Beloved Husband of Clarissa
Below that, obviously added later, she read:
CLARISSA WYATT
1733–1797
Wife of Joseph Wyatt
There was another line, obscured by dirt and grass in need of trimming. Her heart was in her mouth as she wiped it clean, and the words appeared:
Mother of Adam
The whinny of a horse a few yards away made her spin around. Both animals were suddenly restless and stamping their feet as though something had disturbed them-a rabbit or hare breaking cover, perhaps. There was nothing she could see.
She turned back to the grave, but her gaze fell, as though by chance but with such certitude as made her feel it had been guided there, upon another. How she could have missed it before was inexplicable. It seemed, now that she saw it, to obliterate all else in her field of vision.
It had a carved and beveled tombstone running the full length of the grave. The stone itself was darker than the others, a kind of slate gray, finer grained and more resistant to the weather. More than just a simple grave, it was a monument to its occupant.
The inscription on the side was simple and plain to see.
ADAM WYATT
1761–1840
“ Joie de Vivre ”
She felt a sudden weakness in her legs and fell leadenly to her knees. Her hand reached out, unable to trust the evidence of her eyes until her fingers touched the lettering in the stone.
As they did, something happened inside her. It was as though a void had opened up at the center of her being and she had disappeared into it. She lost all sense of who she was or why she was there, even of what had just happened. It was a kind of instant, but total and petrifying, amnesia.
It was shock, of course. Just shock. The word pounded in her mind until she grabbed onto it and used it as a lifeline to haul herself back up from the abyss she had plunged into.
Only then did she become aware of Ralph kneeling at her side, peering into her face, concerned at what he saw there. She had not heard him approach, and now she realized he was trying to ask her something, but his words made no sense. Slowly her eyes focused on him, and with an act of will she spoke.
“I'm sorry…”
The words came out suddenly, as though she was apologizing for something she'd done, though she wasn't sure what. She struggled to get up, and he helped her to her feet. She brushed her clothing automatically and pushed her hair back from her face.
“Something's wrong,” he said. “Tell me.”
She shook her head. It was less a refusal to answer than a plea that he not press the question. She was too confused, she couldn't think.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “I have to go. I have to go now. I'm sorry.”
“Look, if there's anything I can do…”
But she was already striding swiftly from the graveyard. He watched as she mounted her horse, wheeled about, and rode off at a gallop. She didn't look back once.
