Chapter Five

Part I

Elsa leaned against a large Celtic cross marking one of the graves in the old churchyard, wondering what to do next.

She’d been through the graveyard twice, peering at each tombstone and taking special care to double-check the fading ones for the names she may have missed.

Elsa knelt before the last one and studied it again, even though she knew the faded writing read Charity Faulkner, and not Katie or Katherine or anything that could link it to the graves she was looking for.

She stood and sighed. They weren’t here. So where were they? Harrison had said that there was another graveyard, but he’d also said that more recent relatives were buried there, not those from the 1800’s.

Elsa tucked her notepad back in her jacket pocket and walked out of the graveyard. The weather had turned sunny, with clouds moving like fluffy sheep across the blue expanse of sky.

The Land Rover groaned and bucked all the way back to the farm, and after parking Elsa walked to the front and popped the hood, wondering how much it would cost to fix it. As she was pondering the question, Harrison approached.

“You’re back,” he said. “Find out anything?”

“Well let’s see. I discovered that a retired Cambridge professor works at the town library,” she said, turning to him. “He directed me to a treasure trove of local faery lore. But it’s what I didn’t find out that has me puzzled.”

“Which is?”

“Neither Terrance or Katie Faulkner are buried in the cemetery by the old church.”

“Really?” Harrison sounded oddly disinterested.

“Yes, really,” Elsa replied, crossing her arms. “Don’t you find that odd?”

“Maybe the graves are unmarked,” he offered.

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” she said. “There are markers for your ancestors before and after the dates that they should have died.

“And that’s not all.” Elsa reached into her pocket and pulling out a list of the Faulkner family record she’d Xeroxed from a book in the library.

“I didn’t look at this until I got back in the car after visiting the cemetery, but there aren’t even dates of death listed for Terrance and Katie.” She paused, looking at him. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

Harrison studied the paper then shrugged. “There’s probably a reasonable explanation. Maybe whoever was recording records got sloppy, who knows. Really, Elsa, at this point I think it may be best for you to just drop it.”

His words stunned her. “Drop it?” she asked. “I don’t want to drop it. Besides, you were the one who told me to research it, remember?”

Harrison turned and began to walk away. “I was wrong,” he said.

Elsa gave an exasperated sigh and ran to catch up with him, catching his arm as she did.

“How can you say that, Harrison?” she asked. “These people were your relatives and it’s as if they vanished into thin air? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Not particularly,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed we’ve undertaken a huge project with this farm. Rather than chasing silly speculation, perhaps you could put some effort into helping me get things in order.”

Elsa stepped back, feeling deeply hurt. She wanted to remind him again that he had been the one who had recommended that she do the research. She was a writer, not a farmer, and this mystery was the first thing that had really excited her since she’d come to Dorset. Now to be told that she should just drop it?

“I’m not going to drop it, Harrison,” she said. “I don’t mind helping you with things and I think I’ve shown my support just by moving here, even if I never lift a finger to help. But I’m not going to give up my career for this farm, and I feel that there’s a story here – a story that needs to be told – and I want to find out what it is.”

He frowned. “And if I forbade it? What then?”

Elsa found herself momentarily speechless. “Why would you do that?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, but just turned away and in that moment Elsa knew that her husband knew more something that he wasn’t telling her. And it infuriated her.

“I’m not dropping it,” she called after him. “I’m not. I don’t care what you say. In fact, I’m going back to the library.”

Harrison turned around and walked back over, his face stern. “No,” he said quietly. “Not today. There’s a storm coming in. I heard it on the radio. It’s getting late, and that vehicle isn’t in the best of shape. You could get stuck on the road after dark, and I don’t want that to happen. You can go in the morning. When it’s safe.”

She started to insist that she was going now, today. But something in her husband’s tone told her not to push it. It was similar to the same resolute one she’d heard recently, in her dreams, coming from Terrance Faulkner to his wife Katie.

But she got another impression, too, from what he said. Harrison knew more than he was letting on about this place and she began to wonder if he really had completely dismissed the lore of Faulkner Farm after all.

Part II

“It’s possible the graves were moved.” Harrison’s statement came unexpectedly over breakfast. Since their exchange in the yard, neither had mentioned Elsa’s investigation or the strange happenings. In fact, despite her upset over Harrison’s criticisms, she’d had the first deep and dreamless sleep in days.

“Do you think?” Elsa asked, taking not of her husband’s hopeful tone. She knew then she wasn’t imagining things. He was becoming unnerved, too, and wondered if it had been finding the coat that had done it.

“I don’t know what to think,” he replied. “I just know there has to be a…”

“Yes, yes, a reasonable explanation.” Elsa finished his sentence. “And I really want to pursue this, Harrison. Really. But I don’t want it to cause tension between us. You’ve been so cold to me lately.”

“Well you haven’t exactly been on your best behavior, Elsa.”

Elsa felt her face flush as she recalled breaking the china – and the subsequent result.

“I guess the move has been harder on me than I thought it would be,” she said. “I’ve really been on edge.”

“If you feel that way, you know you can always talk to me,” Harrison said, and Elsa looked at him, looked at his warm brown eyes. Now this was the man she knew. She smiled.

“I know. You’ve just been so busy and I feel like a fifth wheel. I don’t know the first thing about being a farm wife, Harrison.”

He sat back. “Maybe Katie’s diaries can help. Maybe instead of focusing on where her body is you should focus on how she lived.”

“He left a diary, too,” Elsa said. “Her husband, Terrance. There is a lot of information in there. Lots of observations about the weather, lore about planting.”

“Well there you go, then,” Harrison said encouragingly. “There’s your next article or even your book – the daily life and wisdom of an early 19th century farm family.”

“Would I include spanking in that wisdom?” Elsa hadn’t meant to ask he question; it had just kind of come out and was surprised when her husband just shrugged.

“If that was part of their life, then yes,” he replied. “Perhaps it will inspire a return to a time when more than one simple method worked best.”

“Harrison…” Elsa began.

“I know you’re still angry with me,” he went on. “But you must admit that having your bottom smacked a bit settled you rather quickly.”

Elsa knew he was right, but couldn’t bring herself to say so. Instead she sat in silence, staring into her tea cup.

“I would not have done it if I did not love you, Elsa,” Harrison replied. “And to be honest I don’t know what on earth possessed me to turn you over on my lap. I’ve never even thought of doing that before, even back in the city when we had far worse rows. But somehow, yesterday.” He paused, as if struggling to find the words. “It seemed as natural as could be, as if that’s how I was used to handling things.”

She stared at him, thinking now of how quickly the tantrum had overtaken her that morning. Harrison was right; they’d had some pretty big fights in the past. They were rare, but during the worst of them she’d never broken anything and he’d never spanked her. It occurred to her how the way they’d both behaved had been like….like other people.

For a moment she started to raise the point to Harrison but stopped herself. He already thought she’d gone overboard with her suspicions about the odd goings-on in the house. This was the first civil conversation they’d had in days, and she didn’t want to do anything to foul the mood.

“It is odd,” she said, and left it at that. Then she stood to put the breakfast dishes in the sink.

“So I’ll go to the church in town today and look through the records to see if Terrance and Katie were exhumed and reinterred there. And I’ll double check for death records, too. There has to be something.”

Harrison stood. “Yes, do that,” he said agreeably. “But if you find nothing, promise me that you’ll drop this nonsense and do what I suggested and just focus on something else, all right? Promise”

Elsa forced a smile. “Promise,” she said.

“Now there’s a good lass,” Harrison replied, but Elsa didn’t feel like a good lass. For even as she made the promise, her hand was deep in her pocket, the black hair of the pookah’s mane curled between her crossed fingers.

Part III

The churchyard in town was a picturesque and serene mix of old gravestones and new. Elsa walked around for about an hour, reading the inscriptions on the stones before going in the church to find the rector.

Reverend Gerald Fairfield was younger than Elsa imagined he would be, and remarkably handsome. He was tall with broad shoulders and thick, wavy hair. Despite being new at his post – he’d replaced the retired reverend a year earlier – he was apparently a quick study and was quite knowledgeable about the graveyard and the records.

He told her right away that the graves she was looking for didn’t exist.

“Are you sure?” she asked, spelling out the Faulkner name. “Their first names are Terrance and..”

“Yes, Katherine. Or Katie.” He shook his head, waving his hand towards the window which looked out over the two acre graveyard. “As macabre as it sounds, I love this graveyard. It was one of the attractions of coming to this church; even as a child I was a bit of a taphophile.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Perhaps it was my joint fascination and fear of death and graveyards that led me to the ministry. Now I can enjoy the two things I love, constant assurance of an afterlife and the quiet beauty of a well-stocked graveyard.”

Elsa couldn’t help but laugh herself. “That is quite possibly the most curious statement I’ve ever heard coming from a man of the cloth.”

“I’m not your average man of the cloth,” he said.

“Obviously,” she replied. “But Rev. Fairfield..”

“Please, call me Jerry,” he said.

“Jerry,” Elsa corrected herself. “What about records. This church holds records for its members, correct? Weren’t the Faulkners members of this church before it even stood at this location?”

“Yes, the whole family as been – even your husband – which makes me wonder why I’v never seen you here in God’s house.” He shot her a disapproving look, but there was humor in his brown eyes.

Elsa smiled. “We’ve only just moved in. I promise we’ll start attending once we’re settled.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he replied. “You know. It’s an extra big sin, after all, to lie to one of God’s own.”

Elsa followed the reverend through a side door that led down a long, spiral stairway lit by sconces. As she had in the library, she felt transported back in time as she descended, keeping her eyes on the broad back of Rev. Fairfield.

“Here we are.” They were in a room now, half of it organized and half unkempt.

“My predecessor never really cared about keeping things in order. He was more interested in attending dinners with parishioners. But there’s a real wealth of information down here, and I can easily see the church archives becoming an asset for genealogists or historians.”

“My background is in historical research,” Elsa offered.

“Is it now?” he asked with a smile. “Been published?”

Elsa rattled off a few of her top accomplishments, feeling a bit flattered by how impressed the handsome minister seemed to be as he listened. Her friends were always more interested in her personal life than in her dry research. And Harrison, well, he’d lived with her so long he seemed to tune her out when she became excited about something she was studying. In truth, both she and her husband were scientists in their own way, but Harrison was a botanist more interested in coaxing things from the ground than in digging up the past. It felt nice to have someone show a genuine interest in her work.

They spent the next three hours poring over records, even checking possible misspellings of one or both names. In desperation they even looked through the old church building records in case information had been logged in the wrong place.

“Perhaps they moved away and died somewhere else,” the reverend said as he and Elsa carefully shelved the books.
“No,” she replied. “I haven’t completely read the diaries all the way through, but the last entries of both seem like ordinary days. No mention of moving or leaving whatsoever.”

“Maybe they moved away and started new diaries?” he offered.

But again Elsa thought unlikely and said so. “The family would have known of that, for sure. But there’s no mention of moving, either, from what I read. Terrance and Katie had no children and the next document owner of the house after them were Terrance’s brother Albert and his wife Lacy.”

They were climbing the stairs now, and when they re-entered the sanctuary the light from the window hurt Elsa’s eyes.

“It is indeed odd,” Rev. Fairfield said.

“Yes,” Elsa agreed, then thought back to the library and Archibald McNab who’d showed her the documents on faerie lore.

“Jerry,” she asked. “Are the churchgoers here superstitious? I mean, do they believe in ghosts and fairies and the like?”

“Hmm,” he said. “The older ones do, some of them. You know, of course, that it’s rumored that your farm is haunted.”

She looked down. “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” she replied, deciding to keep her own experiences to herself. For now.

“And what’s your take on that?” she asked. “You’re a reverend, so I assume you believe that when people die they either go into the grave until resurrection or to immediately to their reward.”

“Actually I believe neither.”

Elsa was slightly dumbfounded. “How can you believe neither? Isn’t it your job to assure people of an afterlife.”

“I consider it my job to humor them,” he said. “Personally I don’t know what happens, and I don’t really care. I used to. I used to obsess over it in fact. That is, until I realized how much time I was wasting in the here and now worrying about what would happen after I died. That seemed a bigger sin than any other, so I stopped doing it.”

“You are an unusual minister,” Elsa said, feeling a sense of admiration of her own now. “Do your parishioners know?”

“Only one. You,” he replied. “I still give the standard reassurances of a better place and a heavenly reward to those who feel comforted during time of loss. I still give last rites to those who want to feel guaranteed of something more after that final breath. But I try to focus on the here and now – the quality and beauty of the time we have with ourselves and God at this moment – as much as I can.”

Elsa considered this. “So do you believe in ghosts?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. I believe we’ve a spiritual part, and that it may go somewhere. Whose to say it doesn’t stick around.”

“What about fairies?” she asked, and he laughed.

“That’s a whole different story,” he replied. “And I can’t confess to any extensive knowledge on the topic, so I’ll only tell you what I know.”

Elsa straightened up, eager to hear more.

“It’s been speculated that the fairie folk – the fey –are, in fact, the cast-down angels whom God rejected when he warred with Satan in heaven. Their punishment – aside from separation from Heavenly Father was to be stripped of what humanity had been given.”

“Which was?”

“Why a soul, of course,” he replied. “That makes them resentful and the fey are portrayed as being like humanity in other ways, expressing their jealousy in ways ranging from simple tricks to far more sinister acts such as kidnappings and even murder of humans.”

“You’re kidding!” Elsa said.

“Not at all,” he went on. “Many people think of Satan’s cohorts as dark and demonic, and some may indeed be just that. But Satan – or Lucifer – was described in the Bible as an angel of light and beautiful. All angels were, in fact, described as beautiful. So if the theory of fairies were real, and there are these beautiful creatures who could walk between this world and ours, or are part of this world but unseen – then the lore would make sense from both a religious and historic perspective.”

“Does the church have a stance?” Elsa asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “The church rejects faeries. But ironically it accepts fallen angels and demons, which I’ve always found a bit hypocritical. Personally, I think they reject faeries because there’s an element of beauty and whimsy associated with them. It’s inconsistent with the darkly evil image they use to paint the devil.”

Again Elsa found herself laughing. “Don’t tell me you’re a sympathizer.”

He waved her off with a smile. “Well, all the books have been written by followers of God, so we only have one side of the story, don’t we? If the devil needs anything, it’s a better press agent.”

Elsa giggled. Reverend Fairfield was turning out to be more of a delight than she’d even anticipated and she hated to part company but remembered her promise to Harrison to be home by dark, and she still had to stop by the library to report to Archibald McNab about what she had found out.

So after a reluctant goodbye she got back into the Land Rover, which was no better behaved than it had been the day before, and began the drive to the library on the other side of the village.

Elsa noted that the sky was turning grey again; the storm Harrison had warned her about was moving in, but later than had been forecasted. She turned on her windshield wipers as the first drops of rain began to fall and got to the library just before the spray turned into a downpour.

Inside the library door, she shook off her umbrella and put it in the stand with the others before setting off to search for Archibald McNab. She found him helping some children select books for a school project and hung back, waiting until he finished.

He nodded and smiled when he saw her.

“Welcome, my dear,” he said warmly. “You’re back, so I assume you went to the cemetery and looked for the final resting place of your husband’s relatives?”

“That and more,” Elsa replied. “I not only went there, I also went to the another churchyard where members of the family were interred after the old church burned. The records show that Terrance and Katie remained members in good standing without requesting a transfer, which in my mind means they didn’t move. Apparently they were regular churchgoers. But there’s no death record at that church, and no sign of their being buried there either.”

She threw up her hands. “It’s as if they’ve disappeared into thin air,” she said. “But people don’t just disappear.”

“Really?” he looked at her over his glasses, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, not without some sort of explanation or proof. A body or something.”

“True,” he replied. “When humans abduct other humans some proof of the crime eventually outs, even if it’s bones in a well years later.”

“You said ‘humans,’” she repeated. “Who else would do the abducting?”

McNab didn’t respond but instead turned, gesturing for Elsa to follow him. Right away she knew they were going back to the old records room, and she followed quietly, trying to find the hidden meaning in his cryptic words.

He went to a glass cabinet, and with shaking hands unlocked the door and drew out another hand-bound book similar to the one she’d viewed the days before. Again, Archibald leafed through this one, the skin of his hands looking as dry as he parchment pages.

“Ah,” he said, when he’d obviously found what he was looking for, and motioned for Elsa to sit down at the library table and laid the open volume in front of her.

“Following is a letter received by Rev. Jules Winslow on Aug. 12, 1843.

Dear Rev. Winslow,
I am writing this letter in lieu of requesting last rites on hope that God will shew mercy on my soul as I am not long for this mortal life.
I have not been in church since the loss of my daughter Lilly forty years ago. By loss I do not mean death for I believe the girl I raised as Lilly was not my child.
The Lilly I birthed was fair and rosy but one stormy night in her second week of life the nursery window sash blew open during a violent storm that carried sounds of voices on the wind.
I shut it and checked my babe who appeared to sleep but in the morning I found her to show signs of an unusual sickness. Her skin was greenish and her face pinched. She looked like my Lilly but different. She was drawn and her eyes showed no recognition at the sound of my voice.
She was fretful and recoiled at my touch. She rejected my breast and would only drink the milk of goats. When she was alone in her bed I would spy upon her from the door and was in horrors to see her sit up one night a week after the storm and smile out at the moon. A babe that age does not sit up. I stirred in the hall and she lay back down. I knew then this was not my baby but something left in place of my baby.
It grew slowly, this thing, and my husband would not hear of my suspicions that it was not Lilly. Twice he had me sent away for insisting our child had been taken.
“Look,” he would say. “It is right here.” But he never cared anyway because he wanted a boy child.
After he threatened to send me away for good I settled in to do my duties as this thing’s mother and raised it.
Others praised me for teaching it to talk by a year, to read by the age of three but I’d done none of that. But physically it did not thrive and in its fourth year declined in health and died.
I did not want to bury it in the churchyard but my husband insisted. It was my first time back in church and it made me sick to hear the preacher talk of the death of a bright child I knew not to be my own.
 “She is in shock, poor dear,” my friends said as they put the casket in the ground. I could not shed tears for I had already shed them for her.

I have not been back to church since, but from what I understand no grass ever grew on the grave where they put the thing I raised.
May God forgive me for whatever I did to deserve such horror.
With deep regrets,
Alma Henley