Perpetual Peace
The rain dripping off the brim of Amma's best black hat. Lena's bare knees hitting the thick mud in front of the grave. The pinpricks on the back of
my neck that came from standing too close to so many of Macon's kind. Incubuses — Demons who fed off the memories and dreams of Mortals,
like me, as we slept. The sound they made, unlike anything else in the universe, when they ripped open the last bit of dark sky and disappeared just
before dawn. As if they were a pack of black crows, taking off from a power line in perfect unison.
That was Macon's funeral.
I could remember the details as if it had happened yesterday, even though it was hard to believe some of it had happened at all. Funerals were
tricky like that. And life, I guess. The important parts you blocked out altogether, but the random, slanted moments haunted you, replaying over and
over in your mind.
What I could remember: Amma waking me up in the dark to get to His Garden of Perpetual Peace before dawn. Lena frozen and shattered,
wanting to freeze and shatter everything around her. Darkness in the sky and in half the people standing around the grave, the ones who weren't
people at all.
But behind all that, there was something I couldn't remember. It was there, lingering in the back of my mind. I had been trying to think of it since
Lena's birthday, her Sixteenth Moon, the night Macon died.
The only thing I knew was that it was something I needed to remember.
The morning of the funeral it was pitch-black outside, but patches of moonlight were shining through the clouds into my open window. My room was
freezing, and I didn't care. I had left my window open the last two nights since Macon died, like he might just show up in my room and sit down in my
swivel chair and stay awhile.
I remembered the night I saw him standing by my window, in the dark. That's when I found out what he was. Not a vampire or some mythological
creature from a book, as I had suspected, but a real Demon. One who could have chosen to feed on blood, but chose my dreams instead.
Macon Melchizedek Ravenwood. To the folks around here, he was Old Man Ravenwood, the town recluse. He was also Lena's uncle, and the
only father she had ever known.
I was getting dressed in the dark when I felt the warm pull from inside that meant Lena was there.
L?
Lena spoke up from the depths of my mind, as close as anyone could be and about as far away. Kelting, our unspoken form of communication.
The whispering language Casters like her had shared long before my bedroom had been declared south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It was the secret
language of intimacy and necessity, born in a time when being different could get you burned at the stake. It was a language we shouldn't have
been able to share, because I was a Mortal. But for some inexplicable reason we could, and it was the language we used to speak the unspoken
and the unspeakable.
I can't do this. I'm not going.
I gave up on my tie and sat back down on my bed, the ancient mattress springs crying out beneath me.
You have to go. You won't forgive yourself if you don't.
For a second, she didn't respond.
You don't know how it feels.
I do.
I remembered when I was the one sitting on my bed afraid to get up, afraid to put on my suit and join the prayer circle and sing Abide With Me
and ride in the grim parade of headlights through town to the cemetery to bury my mother. I was afraid it would make it real. I couldn't stand to think
about it, but I opened my mind and showed Lena….
You can't go, but you don't have a choice, because Amma puts her hand on your arm and leads you into the car, into the pew, into the pity
parade. Even though it hurts to move, like your whole body aches from some kind of fever. Your eyes stop on the mumbling faces in front of
you, but you can't actually hear what anyone is saying. Not over the screaming in your head. So you let them put their hand on your arm, you
get in the car, and it happens. Because you can make it through this if someone says you can.
I put my head in my hands.
Ethan —
I'm saying you can, L.
I shoved my fists into my eyes, and they were wet. I flipped on my light and stared at the bare bulb, refusing to blink until I seared away the tears.
Ethan, I'm scared.
I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.
There weren't any more words as I went back to fumbling with my tie, but I could feel Lena there, as if she was sitting in the corner of my room.
The house seemed empty with my father gone, and I heard Amma in the hall. A second later, she was standing quietly in the doorway clutching her
good purse. Her dark eyes searched mine, and her tiny frame seemed tall, though she didn't even reach my shoulder. She was the grandmother I
never had, and the only mother I had left now.
I stared at the empty chair next to my window, where she had laid out my good suit a little less than a year ago, then back into the bare lightbulb
of my bedside lamp.
Amma held out her hand, and I handed her my tie. Sometimes it felt like Lena wasn't the only one who could read my mind.
I offered Amma my arm as we made our way up the muddy hill to His Garden of Perpetual Peace. The sky was dark, and the rain started before we
reached the top of the rise. Amma was in her most respectable funeral dress, with a wide hat that shielded most of her face from the rain, except for
the bit of white lace collar escaping beneath the brim. It was fastened at the neck with her best cameo, a sign of respect. I had seen it all last April,
just as I had felt her good gloves on my arm, supporting me up this hill once before. This time I couldn't tell which one of us was doing the
supporting.
I still wasn't sure why Macon wanted to be buried in the Gatlin cemetery, considering the way folks in this town felt about him. But according to
Gramma, Lena's grandmother, Macon left strict instructions specifically requesting to be buried here. He purchased the plot himself, years ago.
Lena's family hadn't seemed happy about it, but Gramma had put her foot down. They were going to respect his wishes, like any good Southern
family.
Lena? I'm here.
I know.
I could feel my voice calming her, as if I had wrapped my arms around her. I looked up the hill, where the awning for the graveside service would
be. It would look the same as any other Gatlin funeral, which was ironic, considering it was Macon's.
It wasn't yet daylight, and I could barely make out a few shapes in the distance. They were all crooked, all different. The ancient, uneven rows of
tiny headstones standing at the graves of children, the overgrown family crypts, the crumbling white obelisks honoring fallen Confederate soldiers,
marked with small brass crosses. Even General Jubal A. Early, whose statue watched over the General's Green in the center of town, was buried
here. We made our way around the family plot of a few lesser-known Moultries, which had been there for so long the smooth magnolia trunk at the
edge of the plot had grown into the side of the tallest stone marker, making them indistinguishable.
And sacred. They were all sacred, which meant we had reached the oldest part of the graveyard. I knew from my mother, the first word carved
into any old headstone in Gatlin was Sacred. But as we got closer and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I knew where the muddy gravel path was
leading. I remembered where it passed the stone memorial bench at the grassy slope, dotted with magnolias. I remembered my father sitting on
that bench, unable to speak or move.
My feet wouldn't go any farther, because they had figured out the same thing I had. Macon's Garden of Perpetual Peace was only a magnolia
away from my mother's.
The twisting roads run straight between us.
It was a sappy line from an even sappier poem I had written Lena for Valentine's Day. But here in the graveyard, it was true. Who would have
thought our parents, or the closest thing Lena had to one, would be neighbors in the grave?
Amma took my hand, leading me to Macon's massive plot. “Steady now.”
We stepped inside the waist-high black railing around his gravesite, which in Gatlin was reserved for the perimeters of only the best plots, like a
white picket fence for the dead. Sometimes it actually was a white picket fence. This one was wrought iron, the crooked door shoved open into the
overgrown grass. Macon's plot seemed to carry with it an atmosphere of its own, like Macon himself.
Inside the railing stood Lena's family: Gramma, Aunt Del, Uncle Barclay, Reece, Ryan, and Macon's mother, Arelia, under the black canopy on
one side of the carved black casket. On the other side, a group of men and a woman in a long black coat kept their distance from both the casket
and the canopy, standing shoulder to shoulder in the rain. They were all bone-dry. It was like a church wedding split by an aisle down the middle,
where the relatives of the bride line up opposite the relatives of the groom like two warring clans. There was an old man at one end of the casket,
standing next to Lena. Amma and I stood at the other end, just inside the canopy.
Amma's grip on my arm tightened, and she pulled the gold charm she always wore out from underneath her blouse and rubbed it between her
fingers. Amma was more than superstitious. She was a Seer, from generations of women who read tarot cards and communed with spirits, and
Amma had a charm or a doll for everything. This one was for protection. I stared at the Incubuses in front of us, the rain running off their shoulders
without leaving a trace. I hoped they were the kind that only fed on dreams.
I tried to look away, but it wasn't easy. There was something about an Incubus that drew you in like a spider's web, like any good predator. In the
dark, you couldn't see their black eyes, and they almost looked like a bunch of regular guys. A few of them were dressed the way Macon always
had, dark suits and expensive-looking overcoats. One or two looked more like construction workers on their way to get a beer after work, in jeans
and work boots, their hands shoved in the pockets of their jackets. The woman was probably a Succubus. I had read about them, mostly in comics,
and I thought they were just old wives’ tales, like werewolves. But I knew I was wrong because she was standing in the rain, dry as the rest of them.
The Incubuses were a sharp contrast to Lena's family, cloaked in iridescent black fabric that caught what little light there was and refracted it, as
if they were the source themselves. I had never seen them like this before. It was a strange sight, especially considering the strict dress code for
women at Southern funerals.
In the center of it all was Lena. The way she looked was the opposite of magical. She stood in front of the casket with her fingers quietly resting
upon it, as if Macon was somehow holding her hand. She was dressed in the same shimmering material as the rest of her family, but it hung on her
like a shadow. Her black hair was twisted into a tight knot, not a trademark curl in sight. She looked broken and out of place, like she was standing
on the wrong side of the aisle.
Like she belonged with Macon's other family, standing in the rain.
Lena?
She lifted her head, and her eyes met mine. Since her birthday, when one of her eyes had turned a shade of gold while the other remained
deep green, the colors had combined to create a shade unlike anything I'd ever seen. Almost hazel at times, and unnaturally golden at others. Now
they looked more hazel, dull and pained. I couldn't stand it. I wanted to pick her up and carry her away.
I can get the Volvo, and we can drive down the coast all the way to Savannah. We can hide out at my Aunt Caroline's.
I took another step closer to her. Her family was crowded around the casket, and I couldn't get to Lena without walking past the line of
Incubuses, but I didn't care.
Ethan, stop! It's not safe —
A tall Incubus with a scar running down the length of his face, like the mark of a savage animal attack, turned his head to look at me. The air
seemed to ripple through the space between us, like I had chucked a stone into a lake. It hit me, knocking the wind out of my lungs as if I'd been
punched, but I couldn't react because I felt paralyzed — my limbs numb and useless.
Ethan!
Amma's eyes narrowed, but before she could take a step the Succubus put her hand on Scarface's shoulder and squeezed it, almost
imperceptibly. Instantly, I was released from his hold, and the blood rushed back into my limbs. Amma gave her a grateful nod, but the woman with
the long hair and the longer coat ignored her, disappearing back into line with the rest of them.
The Incubus with the brutal scar turned and winked at me. I got the message, even without the words. See you in your dreams.
I was still holding my breath when a white-haired gentleman, in an old-fashioned suit and string tie, stepped up to the coffin. His eyes were a
dark contrast to his hair, which made him seem like some creepy character from an old black and white movie.
“The Gravecaster,” Amma whispered. He looked more like the gravedigger.
He touched the smooth black wood, and a carved crest on the top of the coffin began to glow with a golden light. It looked like some old coat of
arms, the kind of thing you saw at a museum or in a castle. I saw a tree with great spreading boughs, and a bird. Beneath it there was a carved sun,
and a crescent moon.
“Macon Ravenwood of the House of Ravenwood, of Raven and Oak, Air and Earth. Darkness and Light.” He took his hand from the coffin, and
the light followed, leaving the casket dark again.
“Is that Macon?” I whispered to Amma.
“The light's symbolic. There's nothin’ in that box. Wasn't anythin’ left to bury. That's the way with Macon's kind — ashes to ashes and dust to
dust, like us. Just a whole lot quicker.”
The Gravecaster's voice rose up again. “Who consecrates this soul into the Otherworld?”
Lena's family stepped forward. “We do,” they said in unison, everyone except Lena. She stood there staring down at the dirt.
“As do we.” The Incubuses moved closer to the casket.
“Then let him be Cast to the world beyond. Redi in pace, ad Ignem Atrum ex quo venisti.” The Gravecaster held the light high over his head,
and it flared brighter. “Go in peace, back to the Dark Fire from where you came.” He threw the light into the air, and sparks showered down onto the
coffin, searing into the wood where they fell. As if on cue, Lena's family and the Incubuses threw their hands into the air, releasing tiny silver objects
not much bigger than quarters, which rained down onto Macon's coffin amidst the gold flames. The sky was starting to change color, from the black
of night to the blue before the sunrise. I strained to see what the objects were, but it was too dark.
“His dictis, solutus est. With these words, he is free.”
An almost blinding white light emanated from the casket. I could barely see the Gravecaster a few feet in front of me, as if his voice was
transporting us and we were no longer standing over a gravesite in Gatlin.
Uncle Macon! No!
The light flashed, like lightning striking, and died out. We were all back in the circle, looking at a mound of dirt and flowers. The burial was over.
The coffin was gone. Aunt Del put her arms protectively around Reece and Ryan.
Macon was gone.
Lena fell forward onto her knees in the muddy grass.
The gate around Macon's plot slammed shut behind her, without so much as a finger touching it. This wasn't over for her. No one was going
anywhere.
Lena?
The rain started to pick up almost immediately, the weather still tethered to her powers as a Natural, the ultimate elemental in the Caster world.
She pulled herself to her feet.
Lena! This isn't going to change anything!
The air filled with hundreds of cheap white carnations and plastic flowers and palmetto fronds and flags from every grave visited in the last
month, all flying loose in the air, tumbling airborne down the hill. Fifty years from now, folks in town would still be talking about the day the wind
almost blew down every magnolia in His Garden of Perpetual Peace. The gale came on so fierce and fast, it was a slap in the face to everyone
there, a hit so hard you had to stagger to stay on your feet. Only Lena stood straight and tall, holding fast to the stone marker next to her. Her hair
had unraveled from its awkward knot and whipped in the air around her. She was no longer all darkness and shadow. She was the opposite — the
one bright spot in the storm, as if the yellowish-gold lightning splitting the sky above us was emanating from her body. Boo Radley, Macon's dog,
whimpered and flattened his ears at Lena's feet.
He wouldn't want this, L.
Lena put her face in her hands, and a sudden gust blew the canopy out from where it was staked in the wet earth, sending it tumbling backward
down the hill.
Gramma stepped in front of Lena, closed her eyes, and touched a single finger to her granddaughter's cheek. The moment she touched Lena,
everything stopped, and I knew Gramma had used her abilities as an Empath to absorb Lena's powers temporarily. But she couldn't absorb Lena's
anger. None of us were strong enough to do that.
The wind died down, and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Gramma pulled her hand away from Lena and opened her eyes.
The Succubus, looking unusually disheveled, stared up at the sky. “It's almost sunrise.” The sun was beginning to burn its way up through the
clouds and over the horizon, scattering odd splinters of light and life across the uneven rows of headstones. Nothing else had to be said. The
Incubuses started to dematerialize, the sound of suction filling the air. Ripping was how I thought of it, the way they pulled open the sky and
disappeared.
I started to walk toward Lena, but Amma yanked my arm. “What? They're gone.”
“Not all a them. Look —”
She was right. At the edge of the plot, there was only one Incubus remaining, leaning against a weathered headstone adorned with a weeping
angel. He looked older than I was, maybe nineteen, with short, black hair and the same pale skin as the rest of his kind. But unlike the other
Incubuses, he hadn't disappeared before the dawn. As I watched him, he moved out from under the shadow of the oak directly into the bright
morning light, with his eyes closed and his face tilted toward the sun, as if it was only shining for him.
Amma was wrong. He couldn't be one of them. He stood there basking in the sunlight, an impossibility for an Incubus.
What was he? And what was he doing here?
He moved closer and caught my eye, as if he could feel me watching him. That's when I saw his eyes. They weren't the black eyes of an
Incubus.
They were Caster green.
He stopped in front of Lena, jamming his hands in his pockets, tipping his head slightly. Not a bow, but an awkward show of deference, which
somehow seemed more honest. He had crossed the invisible aisle, and in a moment of real Southern gentility, he could have been the son of
Macon Ravenwood himself. Which made me hate him.
“I'm sorry for your loss.”
He opened her hand and placed a small silver object in it, like the ones everyone had thrown onto Macon's casket. Her fingers closed around it.
Before I could move a muscle, the unmistakable ripping sound tore through the air, and he was gone.
Ethan?
I saw her legs begin to buckle under the weight of the morning — the loss, the storm, even the final rip in the sky. By the time I made it to her
side and slid my arm under her, she was gone, too. I carried her down the sloping hill, away from Macon and the cemetery.
She slept curled in my bed, on and off, for a night and a day. She had a few stray twigs matted in her hair, and her face was still flecked with
mud, but she wouldn't go home to Ravenwood, and no one asked her to. I had given her my oldest, softest sweatshirt and wrapped her in our
thickest patchwork quilt, but she never stopped shivering, even in her sleep. Boo lay at her feet, and Amma appeared in the doorway every now and
then. I sat in the chair by the window, the one I never sat in, and stared out at the sky. I couldn't open it, because a storm was still brewing.
As Lena was sleeping, her fingers uncurled. In them was a tiny bird made of silver, a sparrow. A gift from the stranger at Macon's funeral. I tried
to take it from her hand just as her fingers tightened around it.
Two months later, and I still couldn't look at a bird without hearing the sound of the sky ripping open.
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