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third sto-ne I' ve se-en li-ke that to-day. Not to men-ti-on how the gro-und
is sin-king. Ha-ve you no-ti-ced it?"
Timmy nod-ded. "Ye-ah, it's hap-pe-ning all over the ce-me-tery. We think
the-re's a ca-ve un-der-ne-ath."
Reverend Mo-ore arc-hed his eyeb-rows. "Re-al-ly? Well, it wo-uldn't
surp-ri-se me. This who-le area is rid-dled with li-mes-to-ne. But I wo-uld
think Mr. Smelt-zer wo-uld ha-ve let the church bo-ard know. To be ho-nest,
I'm di-sap-po-in-ted in the ce-me-tery' s ge-ne-ral ap-pe-aran-ce la-tely.
Af-ter all, it's not only a pla-ce for our lo-ved ones, but a ref-lec-ti-on of
the church, and of God him-self."
Timmy wasn't su-re of how to res-pond, so he tri-ed to lo-ok tho-ught-ful
and con-cer-ned.
Laughing, Re-ve-rend Mo-ore grip-ped his sho-ul-der and squ-e-ezed. "I' m
sorry, Tim. The-se are mat-ters for adults, not for you. The-re will be plenty
of ti-me to worry abo-ut things li-ke this when you 're ol-der."
"Reverend Mo-ore, can I ask you so-met-hing be-fo-re you le-ave?"
"Of co-ur-se you can. What is it, son?"
Timmy po-in-ted at the bro-ken tombs-to-ne. "Well, Ka-tie and I we-re
won-de-ring what that me-ant. It's we-ird lo-oking."
The pre-ac-her knelt be-si-de the mar-ker and stu-di-ed the fa-ded symbol
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and wri-ting. "Why, it's an old pow-wow charm. I didn' t even re-ali-ze we had
anyt-hing li-ke it he-re on the gro-unds. You don 't see many of the-se
any-mo-re."
"Powwow?" Timmy had vi-si-ons of In-di-ans dan-cing in a circ-le to the
be-at of drums.
"I sup-po-se they don' t te-ach you abo-ut that in scho-ol," Re-ve-rend
Mo-ore sa-id. "Pow-wow is so-met-hing our an-ces-tors be-li-eved in. I gu-ess
so-me of the ol-der folks in the co-unty still be-li-eve in it to-day, too.
This part of Pen-nsyl-va-nia was mostly set-tled by the Ger-mans, Eng-lish,
and Irish. When they ca-me he-re, they bro-ught the-ir own cus-toms and
folk-lo-re and be-li-efs.
They we-re all go-od Chris-ti-ans, of co-ur-se. But in many ca-ses, they
had no pla-ce of wors-hip, and no mi-nis-ter to see to the-ir fa-ith. So-me
towns had a pre-ac-her li-ke myself tra-vel thro-ugh on-ce a month, but he had
many ot-her towns to see too, and so the set-tlers we-re pretty much left to
the-ir own de-vi-ces.
Sometimes they stra-yed from the Lord's te-ac-hings. That' s how pow-wow
ca-me abo-ut. It was a mix of Chris-ti-anity and the-ir own folk-lo-re. So-me
folks call it whi-te ma-gic, but you know what the Bib-le says abo-ut that."
Timmy, who spent most ser-mons wri-ting sto-ri-es in the mar-gins of the
church bul-le-tin, didn' t know what the Bib-le sa-id abo-ut whi-te ma-gic,
but he nod-ded as if he un-ders-to-od be-ca-use he wan-ted Ka-tie ' s fat-her
to li-ke him. It had ne-ver mat-te-red to him be-fo-re, but now that they
we-re of-fi-ci-al-ly go-ing to-get-her, it se-emed very im-por-tant.
"Thou shall not suf-fer a witch to li-ve. Of co-ur-se, pow-wow isn't
re-al-ly witchc-raft, at le-ast not by my de-fi-ni-ti-on. It' s mo-re
su-pers-ti-ti-on than anyt-hing. I only know of one per-son in the area who
sup-po-sedly still prac-ti-ces it, and that 's Nel-son Le-Horn over in Se-ven
Val-leys. And he se-ems li-ke a ni-ce gent-le-man. Do-esn' t at-tend our
church, of co-ur-se, but we can hardly cast do-ubt on him just for that.
My in-te-rac-ti-ons with him ha-ve al-ways be-en ple-asant. He se-ems to
know God 's lo-ve."
Timmy shif-ted un-com-for-tably, and the pre-ac-her se-emed to re-ali-ze
he'd got-ten off su-bj-ect.
"Anyway, the-re's an old wi-ves' ta-le abo-ut our church-yard. The old
ga-te over the-re, the one you boys play on, is all that re-ma-ins of the
ori-gi-nal Gol-got-ha Church. Ours was bu-ilt af-ter the first one bur-ned to
the gro-und." He chuck-led to him-self. "I ha-ven 't tho-ught of this story in
ye-ars. Sup-po-sedly, our an-ces-tors-Gol-got-ha' s first cong-re-ga-ti-on
-we-re be-de-vi-led by a de-mon that had fol-lo-wed them he-re from the Old
World. They' d cal-led upon the Lord to help them de-fe-at the be-ast, and
bu-ri-ed it in a cham-ber so-mew-he-re be-hind the church, which, of co-ur-se,
wo-uld be so-mew-he-re in this por-ti-on of the ce-me-tery. A tombs-to-ne was
erec-ted on the si-te, so that no one wo-uld dis-turb the earth, and it had
pow-wow symbols car-ved on it to ke-ep the gho-ul trap-ped. Li-ke I sa-id,
it's just a story. The-re's no such thing as mons-ters. They' re
ma-ke-be-li-eve, un-li-ke the very re-al evils in this world."
Timmy sta-red at the crac-ked mar-ker with re-ne-wed in-te-rest. He
tho-ught the story was just abo-ut the co-olest thing he' d ever he-ard from
Re-ve-rend Mo-ore, and won-de-red why he didn 't talk abo-ut things li-ke that
du-ring his Sun-day mor-ning ser-mons. If he had, Timmy wo-uld ha-ve pa-id
mo-re at-ten-ti-on.
"Well, Ka-tie, we'd bet-ter be go-ing. Yo-ur mot-her is still wa-iting.
She's very ti-red.
We all are, I gu-ess."
"Okay, Daddy." She cast one mo-re glan-ce at Timmy, and her exp-res-si-on
was a mix-tu-re of sad-ness and ex-ci-te-ment. "Bye, Timmy. See you on
Sun-day?"
"You bet. Wo-uldn't miss it for the world."
Her fat-her ga-ve them both an odd, puz-zled lo-ok. His sta-re lin-ge-red
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on Timmy a mo-ment lon-ger. He se-emed perp-le-xed. Then, wit-ho-ut a word, he
led Ka-tie back up the hill.
The sha-dows grew lon-ger as the sun mo-ved to-ward the ho-ri-zon.
Timmy wal-ked ho-me, and tho-ugh the day had be-en long and un-set-tling,
his step was ligh-ter. He was he-art-sick abo-ut Barry and wor-ri-ed abo-ut
Do-ug and fu-ri-o-us with Mr.
Smeltzer and shoc-ked over Pat Kemp 's fa-te, and the pos-sib-le fa-tes of
the ot-her mis-sing pe-op-le-but he was al-so exu-be-rant. Ka-tie li-ked him.
Ka-tie had sa-id they we-re go-ing to-get-her.
Katie had held his hand. So-me-how, the ot-her things pa-led in
com-pa-ri-son.
Life was not end-less. He knew that now. But sum-mers we-re. Or, at le-ast
it se-emed that way.
Fear was a strong emo-ti-on, but so was lo-ve.
He lo-oked at his open hand, and mar-ve-led over how, just a short ti-me
ago, it had be-en hol-ding Ka-tie Mo-ore's.
Chapter Eleven
When Do-ug got ho-me and went in-si-de, his mot-her was spraw-led out in
her rec-li-ner, watc-hing a syndi-ca-ted re-run of Three's Com-pany.
The vo-lu-me was tur-ned up lo-ud and the so-und of a can-ned la-ugh track
fil-led the ho-use.
She ba-rely ack-now-led-ged him as he wal-ked in-to the li-ving ro-om.
Ca-rol Ke-iser wo-re the sa-me night-gown she ' d had on two days be-fo-re,
and her ha-ir was tang-led and un-was-hed. An empty bag of Utz po-ta-to chips
lay be-si-de her, and crumbs dot-ted her lap. A bot-tle of vod-ka sat on the
flo-or, snug aga-inst the cha-ir.
"I'm ho-me," Do-ug sa-id.
Her eyes flic-ked to-ward him. "Whe-re you be-en? I hol-le-red for you
ear-li-er. I wan-ted you to ri-de yo-ur bi-ke down to Spring Gro-ve and pick
me up so-me things."
Her spe-ech was slur-red, her mo-ve-ments jerky. Do-ug glan-ced down at
the bot-tle and saw that it was al-most empty. He knew from ex-pe-ri-en-ce
that it wo-uld jo-in the ot-her empty bot-tles tos-sed abo-ut all over the
ho-use, and then she'd start a new one.
"I wasn't he-re, Mom. I spent the night over at Timmy's."
"You we-re go-ne last night?"
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