The Legend of Burial Island: the third Bean and Ab mystery

The Legend of Burial Island

David Crossman

Copyright 2012 by David Crossman

Smashwords Edition

Are You Ready for the Possible?

Prologue

The Wendigo

"There is an ancient legend among the Algonquin Indians of a mysterious, malevolent creature that inhabits the dense, uncharted evergreen forests of northern Maine. Before the Loch Ness Monster; before Big Foot or Sasquatch; before the Abominable Snowman, there was the Wendigo—the ice-hearted soul-eater. A cannibalistic creature, skeletal and gigantic, it follows travelers through the woods, making its presence known by the crack of branches and crunch of leaves underfoot. However, when the traveler turns to confront his fate, there is nothing to be seen.

But Wendigo is there, sniffing the traveler’s soul. Drooling for the taste of human flesh. Driving him insane with fear . . . and feasting on the remains.

The class sat in rapt attention as Mrs. Windquist closed the book. That’s Maine History, she said. Still think it’s boring? Now, your assignment for next week is…

Chapter One

Fog and Shadows

It was high tide, so Spooky had no trouble tying his painter to an overhanging spruce bough. Like every day lately, the fog was thick and wet, clinging to everything. It dripped from the sprills of the branches and down the back of his neck. He shivered mightily.

Doggone fiddleheads, he said to himself.

It hadn’t been his idea to row across the Reach to this deserted island, that was his aunt Sophie’s doing.

But it’s too foggy, what if I get lost? he’d argued.

Lost! It’s only a hundred yards out to the island, Sophie had reminded. I was rowin’ out there when I was six years old in fog so thick you could spread it on toast.

Spooky mimicked her last sentence as he took his nylon jacket down from the coat rack; he’d heard it a thousand times.

Don’t you be a smarty pants, said his aunt, giving his fanny a sharp flick with the dish towel. Lost. What would your father say?

Spooky’s father, Sophie’s brother Kip, was in the merchant marines, and had been in the Navy before that. He’d been on all seven seas at one time or another, in weather that would make a haddock seasick.

Them fiddleheads will all be gone by in a day or two, she said, handing him a net bag. Fill that up I’ll be able to can a few quarts for later, and maybe we can sell some to Lonnie down at the restaurant.

There was no point arguing. Spooky took the bag, grabbed his baseball cap from the phone shelf, pushed open the screen door and, with a quick glance up and down the Reach - where visibility was no more than fifty feet - headed down to the float where the little plywood skiff he’d built over the winter was waiting.

Now he was high-stepping his way through the thick evergreen forest of Burial Island to the familiar little clearing where the fiddleheads grew. The tall grass and wide-spreading juniper bushes - heavy with fog and rain - lapped at his pants legs like a drooly old St. Bernard with a scratchy tongue.

Maybe he wouldn’t have minded so much if his mission had been to pick blueberries, or raspberries - which wouldn’t be in season for six weeks yet - but he hated the taste of fiddleheads.

Nevertheless, he bent to his work and, in less than ten minutes, he’d picked all the fiddleheads fit for eating. In that time the fog had gotten even thicker. He couldn’t see more than fifteen feet. He propped the bag against a dead tree and stood up, stretching his weary back.

There wasn’t a breath of air, and the ocean was still - but the green bell buoy out by Heron Ledge was clanging irregularly. A boat must have gone by and left the buoy rocking in its wake.

But if that were the case, he’d have heard an engine.

A sail boat? he wondered incredulously. He knew no self-respecting captain would be attempting to sail in this fog. Besides, he said aloud, no wind.

He picked up the net bag and was just about to begin the descent to the shore when something moved up ahead.

Or did it?

He squinted, trying to stare holes in the thick fog, and leaned forward slightly in an attempt to draw whatever it was into focus. Just an old stump, he said quietly, but he didn’t sound too sure. It was impossible to tell what it was--just a shapeless shadow in the soupy mist, a vague smudge on the surrounding curtains of gray.

You’re seeing things, Spooky old boy. He hitched the bag up onto his shoulder, even so it brushed the tops of the juniper as he picked his way back toward his boat.

All at once a branch broke behind him. Startled, he spun on his heel just as the fog parted violently, as if sundered by an on-rushing wind, and a half-decomposed creature that might have risen from the grave burst into being not five feet away, splitting the silence with a chilling fingernail-on-the-chalkboard wail that fused Spooky to the spot. In that sickening instant he saw it in all its horrible splendor…covered with stringy, wheat colored hair that billowed wildly about it in a thousand fingers of menace, from which leaves and branches protruded at wild angles, as if they were growing from it. He gathered his wits just in time to throw up his arms, but it was too late. A second later, with a sickening thud, he was on the ground. Everything was going dark, but the darkness was spangled with a painful chorus of stars that traced uneven orbits on his eyelids. As the world closed about his senses, he saw the hazy image of the banshee leaning over him, still making its piercing squeals, bending closer, and closer, so that he could feel its hot breath on his face. Then he passed out.

When he woke his hands went immediately to his head, as if he half expected to find an ax buried in his skull. No such luck. His head hurt so bad he was sick to his stomach, and a few seconds later he threw up. He remembered hearing somewhere that you should never let the victim of a blow to the head fall asleep. Why was that? he wondered. Being dead couldn’t feel any worse than what he was feeling now. He fell asleep.

The second time he woke his head was throbbing, but his brain was clear. He couldn’t say the same for the sky. The fog still crowded low and cold, embracing him with clammy ghostfingers. That’s what Aunt Sophie called the fog’s caress. Ghostfingers.

Why did he have to think of that now? In the dark. And the fog. On Burial Island. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to think of something else, but he knew what was coming: vivid memories of the whole sad history of Burial Island. He could even envision the owlish eyes of Hinky Parmenter, curator of the Island Museum, enlarged to three times their normal size by his thick glasses and his excitement as he told him and Bean and Ab the story last summer.

"The year was 1719. There was lots of trouble with the tribes in those days. The British - which is what we all were at the time-built forts up and down the coast to try to protect the settlers, but what with night raids and setting fire to their crops, the Indians forced folks behind those gates for survival, so the crops and the homesteads just went to ruin.

Well, three of the families decided to come out to the islands, where the Indians only came now and then to fish, to start again. They numbered nineteen souls, all told, men, women, and children. The Sawyers, the Blankenships, and nobody knows the name of the last family, ‘cause it couldn’t be read on the headstones.

Headstones? Bean interrupted. What headstones?

Well, Mr. Parmenter replied, they aren’t there anymore. Over the years, between the vandals and the weather, they were pretty much the worse for wear. But they were there when I was your age.

That long ago, said Ab.

The curator lobbed a glance over his spectacles.

Oh! I didn’t mean...I mean...you’re not...that old. She wanted to shut her mouth off, but it just kept running.

Yes, I am, Mr. Parmenter replied with a smile, but only on the outside.

Sorry, said Ab, wondering what he meant.

There were three headstones? Bean asked.

Yes, said Mr. Parmenter. But you could only read the writing on two of them.

Spooky wanted to know whatever happened to them.

Well, said Mr. Parmenter. The two with legible writing are right over here.

The kids exchanged amazed glances. Here?

Come this way, said the Curator, carefully picking his way through a few hundred years’ worth of island knicknacks, bric-a-brac, curios, mementoes, souveniers, trash, trinkets, oddments, and treasures. Mind the locomotive wheel.

That must’ve come off the train that ran from East Boston quarry, said Bean. As far as he knew that train, carrying granite from the quarry to the harbor on the first leg of its trip to Boston, was the only one that had ever run on the island.

That’s right, said the Curator absent-mindedly. He began rummaging through a stack of hand-made quilts.

Were those the tracks that ran by the slag heaps...where we found the pirate ship? Ab asked.

Yeah, Bean replied.

Ah, the pirate ship! said Mr. Parmenter, his eyes lighting with excitement, though he didn’t take them off what he was doing. "I’d love to have seen that. If only you could have picked up a few odds and ends. They’d have made a wonderful exhibit, but then, what with the cave in and all...

They should be over here somewhere, he fussed, unless Isobel moved them.

Isobel was Hinky’s wife and, weighing in at about twice his size, did most of the heavy lifting.

No! No! Here they are. Here! He pushed aside an old, cracked-leather ottoman and its burden of ancient magazines, as the kids gathered ‘round. The tiny headstones, each nothing more than an engraved boulder of beach stone, were nested in a huge cast-iron skillet and surrounded by small pillows with faded cross-stitched pillowcases. He bent to pick one up, but when he tried to stand, it stayed where it was.

Perhaps you’d best bend down here for a look, he said. The kids got down on their hands and knees and clustered close. See? he said, swiping his ever-present dusting cloth at the stones. He traced the letters with a gnarled finger. S-a-w-y-e-r. Sawyer. He turned his attention to the other stone. This one is more weather-worn, but you can still make out some of the letters ‘B-L’ then some squigglies, then ‘E’, another squiggly, then ‘S-H-I-P. Blankenship.

So, what happened to the other one, asked Spooky.

Other what?

The other headstone. You said there were three.

Oh, yes. Well, it was left there, said Mr. Parmenter. No discernable writing on it, you see. So it’s...well, it’s just a rock.

Then how do you know it was a headstone? asked Ab.

Very good question, young lady, said the Curator, then proceeded to explain. The three of them were arranged in a line, you see. One, two, three. One for each family grave.

Then, there’s nothing there today to mark those graves? Bean asked.

No, no. I shouldn’t think so, said Mr. Parmenter. Except the one stone, of course. Unless somebody’s gone off with it. Disgraceful, really, what some people do. He stood up. Kids, don’t you know. They don’t appreciate all that has gone before. He swept a long, loving gaze around the room, seeming to take in, with his wise old owl eyes, not only the artifacts themselves, but the stories they held, and the hands long gone that had once made them useful. Anyway, nobody knows exactly where the grave is anymore.

Grave? said Ab. You mean graves, don’t you?

Parmenter seemed to be recalled from a distant memory. Pardon? Graves? Oh, no. No, there was just one. Sad, he said. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the name of the third family. It’s as if they never existed.

Can I interest any of you in coffee? A doughnut? He didn’t wait for them to answer, but plowed gingerly off toward the cluttered little office. Izzy! Four cups and saucers...

Several minutes later, each with his own cup of coffee, trying to balance the saucer with one hand and eat the stale doughnut with the other, the kids were arranged on an old horse-hair loveseat, ready to hear the rest of the story.

Where was I? said Mr. Parmenter, taking a bite of doughnut, much of which fell unattended among the folds of his sweater. "Oh, yes. Well, things seem to have got off to a pretty good start. They built their houses - two of them stand to this day - and scraped a living from the land and sea that first winter. Come spring, they cleared land and planted crops out between the rocks and boulders, and it looked like it was all going to work out after all.

"But it wasn’t to be. In late June a party of Indians raided the island, one homestead at a time, rounded everyone up and moved ‘em out to Burial Island. Of course, it wasn’t called Burial Island then. It was just a place that afforded a good view up and down the Reach, all the way to the mainland.

That was part of their plan, you see. They held seventeen people hostage and sent two of the men to the mainland to collect the ransom--weapons and ammunition. But before they sailed away, the Indians warned them that if they saw more than two men in the boat when it returned, then, well... he glanced apologetically at Ab, there would be no survivors.

Ab was aghast. Not the women and children, too! Surely they wouldn’t...

Those were violent times, said Mr. Parmenter with a shake of his head. "That kind of barbarity was something practiced by all sides, I’m afraid. Whole villages were often...well...

One day went by. Then two. The Indians began to get nervous, and they kept a sharp eye on the Bay. Then, on the morning of the third day they saw a sail on the horizon. They watched carefully as the boat made its way in amongst the islands, and it wasn’t long before they could make out that it was packed with Redcoats.

That’s what they called British soldiers, Spooky offered, for the benefit of anyone who didn’t know.

Just so, nodded Mr. Parmenter. Or Lobsterbacks, but that was during the Revolution. Well, the Indians assumed they’d been betrayed, so they dragged all the settlers to a rock not a stone’s throw away and... He let the thought trail away, not wishing to alarm the kids to much. Especially Ab.

That’s why they call it Murder Rock said Bean, breathlessly. Funny, he’d never thought about those strange names, Murder Rock and Burial Island. That was just what they were called. He’d never wondered why.

Ab often had a hard time knowing if Bean was telling the truth, though she’d known him since her family first started coming to the island summers when she was four. She looked from him to Mr. Parmenter. Do they? said Ab, her eyes wide with the horror of the story.

The Curator reached out to a nearby pile of printed matter and, after thumbing briefly through it, produced a dog-earred map of the Bay. He opened it and spread it out on the floor between them. There they are, he said, bending way over so his knees were nearly in his ears.

Ab read where he pointed. Burial Island and Murder Rock. She looked up. They’re real.

Mr. Parmenter looked at her sadly. This old earth is covered with bloody stains, I’m afraid, he said. This, he tapped Murder Rock on the map, is one of them. He sighed heavily. Having done the deed, the Indians watched in horror as the British turned down through the reach between Hurricane and Green’s island, and sailed off toward Matinicus. They’d been mistaken, you see. It wasn’t the men they had sent at all. Just a patrol boat.

How horrible! said Ab.

Bean and Spooky agreed, but they didn’t say anything.

Horrible indeed, said Mr. Parmenter. They paddled away in their canoes, and never returned. They felt they had cursed themselves, you see. Even today, no Indian will set foot on either place. Bad karma.

Spooky was perplexed. But, what about Burial Island? How did the bodies...

Oh, when the two men came back with the ransom, later that day, and discovered what had happened to their families, they began the long, sorrowful task of moving them to the little island for burial.

I can’t imagine having to do such a terrible thing, said Ab, putting herself in the place of those two men whose hearts must have broken helplessly with every pull of the oar, every turn of the spade. Their wives and their children were gone. Their dreams dashed on those cruel shores. She was nearly in tears, which she didn’t try to hide, and Mr. Parmenter respected her for that. Perhaps there was hope for the younger generation after all.

Bean saw a flaw in the story. But, if there were no survivors, and if the Indians ran away, how do you know about what really went on?

Mr. Parmenter took a long sip of coffee. One of the Indians converted to Christianity many years later, when he was an old man, and he confessed, for the good of his soul.

There was a long silence. And they’re all still buried there, said Bean.

With only one stone left to mark their graves, Ab concluded.

Not necessarily, said Mr. Parmenter, leaning back in his chair, cradling his cup between his hands.

What do you mean? said Ab.

Well, that depends on how superstitious you are, the Curator replied enigmatically. Over the years, many people have reported seeing lights out on the island.

Lights?

Like lanterns, winding slowly through the woods. Especially on foggy nights.

What are they? Ab demanded.

Mr. Parmenter shrugged. Nobody knows. Some say they’re the souls of the dead, looking for their menfolk to return. Just one of nature’s little oddities, if you ask me, put there by Providence to remind us we aren’t as smart as we think we are. He stood up and slapped his knees. There are still more things unknown than known. You can write that down.

That was the memory that echoed in Spooky’s throbbing brain as he struggled to his feet. Why hadn’t anyone come looking for him? Aunt Sophie knew where he was, surely she’d have sent help when he hadn’t returned.

And who...or what...had run at him out of the fog? Sure wasn’t any ghost, he said, massaging his shoulder.

He stood slowly, moving his head as little as possible to keep his brain from rattling, and listened carefully. The wind had picked up out of the northeast and was dragging itself mournfully through the branches overhead. The bell buoy haunted the vicinity with its mournful, irregular clang, which told him that the seas had picked up. He’d have a hard row back against the wind and the tide.

He squinted through the fog and the gathering darkness, half-expecting to be surrounded at any moment by the lanterns of the dead. Stop thinkin’ like that! he scolded himself. He picked up the net bag, slung it over his shoulder, and began groping his way down to the shore. All the time he had the feeling he wasn’t alone. What was that thing? he wondered aloud, trying to paint a memory from the fleeting glimpse he’d had of...whatever it was...in the instant before it trampled him. He wished Bean was there. He probably couldn’t make any sense of it, either, but at least, well, Bean was the kind of guy you wanted to have around at times like this.

That reminded him that Abby was coming back to the island for the summer on the morning ferry, and he and Bean were supposed to be there to meet her. The thought hastened him to the shore where he found his punt still tied to the tree, but now sitting high and dry on the shore a good twenty feet from the water.

He scrambled across the rocks, tossed the bag aboard, untied the line and began pushing the boat toward the water’s edge. Fortunately most of the boulders on the beach were covered with seaweed which, though slippery underfoot, made pushing the boat a lot easier. Easy or not, though, the effort didn’t help his headache.

Once or twice he seemed about to go blind, except for tiny smudges of light in the center of his sight. He’d close his eyes, shook his head a little, open them, and he could see fine. He figured he had a concussion and, if the pain in his head was any indication, it was a bad one. Aunt Sophie would make him go to the doctors and, the way he was feeling now, he wouldn’t complain about it.

By the time he’d gotten some water under the boat, he was surprised how tired he was. He felt like he could lay down and sleep for a week. Waves beat the shore in advance of the rising tide, and the wind was wanting to push the punt back onto the rocks. With effort, he straightened it so the stern pointed toward open water, put one foot in the bow and pushed off as hard as he could with the other.

Quickly, before the waves could push him back to shore, he sat on the bench seat amidships, slipped the oars in the locks and turned the boat with a couple of deep, strong strokes. The bow broke the waves cleanly and in a moment the little boat was free of the island’s tidal pull, but was now subject to the riptide which was flowing southeast - toward the open ocean.

Under normal conditions, Spooky would have had no problem gaining control of the punt and guiding it across to the big island. But things weren’t normal. He was weaker than he imagined, dizzy, and on the verge of passing out again. He told himself to sit up, to keep his eyes open, and to pull the oars toward home, but his body wasn’t listening. As the world once again went black, he slumped forward and fell to the floorboards. The oars slipped from his grasp, down through the locks, and out into the deep, black water of the Reach.

With the last of his strength, Spooky closed his eyes, shook his head slightly, and raised his chin for one last look above the gunwale. The boat was caught sideways to the current now, pitching steeply in the troughs between the waves, and being swiftly swept out to sea. Behind him, the nearest edges of Burial Island were being sucked into the fog.

What was that he saw in the forest as it disappeared from sight, weaving in and out among the trees. Lights? And who were the people carrying them? There hadn’t been anyone on that island but him ... and the dead.

The fog absorbed the sight. Unable to keep his head up any more, he closed his eyes and slipped down to the floorboards. Night closed in, bringing with it a rising wind and a cold rain.

Chapter Two

Return of the Redhead

Bean woke early the next morning. He didn’t remember what time he’d finally fallen asleep, but it must have been one or two. He did remember the thrill of excitement at the thought that had kept him awake, tossing and turning as if it was Christmas Eve: Ab was coming.

Of course he’d rather have had his teeth pulled and his nose filled with quick-setting concrete than confess he’d been thrown into such agitation by some girl, but at least he was honest enough to admit it to himself.

He dressed as he ran down the narrow kitchen stairs, half-killing himself on the landing as he tripped on his bluejeans, which he’d only managed to pull up as far as his knees. He riccocheted off the wall at the turn and careened down the last four steps, hopping from foot-to- foot as he tried to pull his pants on the rest of the way.

Bean? said his mother from the kitchen. Are you all right? She wasn’t too alarmed. Life with Bean was a long succession of loud, unexpected noises. She looked up from the sink as he assembled himself at the bottom of the stairs. Where’s the elephant?

Elephant?

You mean you made that racket all by yourself? she said, smiling.

Bean tilted his head sideways and smirked. Ha, ha. I just . . . tripped a little.

Well, come sit and have some breakfast.

He was too excited to eat. I’m not really hungry.

"I didn’t ask if you were hungry. You come sit and eat some breakfast. It’s the most...

...important meal of the day, Bean interrupted facetiously.

Well, it is, said his mom. Besides, it says on page 117 of the Mother’s Guide to Frustrating Your Child that we’re supposed to make you eat your breakfast.

Bean pulled out a chair at the table and dropped into it. I bet that’s the thickest book on the planet.

And I’m only on Chapter Six, ‘How to Make Your Child Miserable First Thing In the Morning.’ She put a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him. A lump of brown sugar, still in the form of the tablespoon that scooped it, melted in a puddle of butter and oozed through the crevices of the oatmeal landscape in thick, sweet rivers.

Bean laughed. I thought you had it memorized! He tucked in to his breakfast.

His mother, leaning against the little half-wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area, crossed her arms and watched him. Don’t choke yourself. The boat doesn’t get in for another forty minutes yet.

Boat? said Bean, pretending to be thinking of something else. What boat?

You know, that big white object that shuttles back and forth between here and the mainland, said his mother, uncrossing her arms and heading toward the kitchen, delivering trinkets for the natives . . . and pretty little red-headed girls from New York.

Oh, come on, ma! I wasn’t even thinking about her!

Of course you weren’t.

No, really . . . I just was wantin’ to get out and mow the lawn before it gets too hot. Then I was going to go swimming. Why did his mouth keep talking? He knew he was lying. She knew he was lying. He knew she knew he was lying. She knew he knew she knew he was lying. What was the point? But it just kept on and on. Now that you mention it, though, I think she is coming today.

Well I’m glad I brought it up, or you might have forgotten.

Might have, said Bean. He bent his head closer to the oatmeal and consumed the remainder in silence.

Main Street of Penobscot village was built on a man-made isthmus of granite that separated the inner harbor, a shallow, brackish body of tranquil water, and the outer harbor, home of the world’s largest lobster-fishing fleet. The harbor was mostly empty now…nearly eight o’clock…and had been for three or four hours. Boats generally headed out early to take advantage of the calm before the winds built up, and returned with their day’s catch anytime after noon.

For the most part, the village shops bordered the inner harbor side of the isthmus. From there, their big rectangular windows stared across the parking lot opposite, across the harbor, and out toward Matinicus, the distant island that might seem, depending on the refraction of light from the moisture in the atmosphere, to float above the horizon, or be much taller than it had been the previous day, or to have disappeared altogether.

During