Page 33 of Wildwood

“I found an old cemetery. In the woods on Ezra’s, I mean my, property.”

Madeline’s gone quiet and I’m not quite certain she heard me.

“Do you know anything about it?”

Her neck flexes, ever so slightly, and she draws her gaze to mine. “A cemetery? Yes, I think I remember hearing about that.”

“The graves look really old. One name was Lavinia Brown, I think. Hester something was another. Is there any chance there were settlers in Newfield before 1771? Before the Brooks and Bishops?”

“No. I don’t think so. There’s no record of that. Here, let me refill your mug.”

She stands to get the kettle and I feel a flicker of confusion. Why has she shot down the idea so easily?

“There are also unmarked graves,” I press, unsure if I’m revealing too much. “Do you know why those would be there?”

Madeline shakes her head. “No idea. I don’t think unmarked graves were all that uncommon back in the day.” She pauses. “Times were different.”

“But they never mean anything good, right?”

She places my mug back in front of me and sits down slowly, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Why are you so fixated on these graves?”

I’m momentarily taken aback.

“I’m not fixated.” I try and make my voice light though I can hear the defensiveness. “I’m just curious. It’s a cemetery on my land. Wouldn’t anyone be curious?”

Madeline laughs. “Yes. Of course they would. Look, the graves are probably for unbaptized babies or something. It’s nothing nefarious. They aren’t cursed or anything like that.”

Her words slam into my chest, winding me.

“What?” Madeline asks, looking at me strangely, head delicately cocked to one side.

“Nothing,” I mumble, brain spinning. I take another glug of tea, which now tastes of overly sweet water.

“Here, there’s one last special photo I want to give you.”

It’s another framed photo, showing four men standing in a river. Their pants are rolled up and unlike the other somber photos, the men are looking at the camera smiling. One is proudly holding a tray and the others dangle picks and hammers by their sides.

“Are they . . . ?”

“Mining for gold? Yes.” Madeline is smiling fondly at the picture. “And they found some! Can you believe it? I think this was in 1855. Most people don’t know there was a Vermont gold rush.” It’s the most humanizing picture. The men look ecstatic, like . . . like they’ve struck gold, I suppose.

“This one is Thomas Brook,” she points to a broad-shouldered man with dark hair, reminiscent of Julian. “And this,” she points to a man, with more of a boyish build, with light hair, “is Elijah Bishop, your ancestor.”

“Oh my god,” I say under my breath, holding the photo more closely. It should be comforting I think, to see proof that I come from somewhere. From these people. But it’s also strange, a little unsettling. All four men look gleeful, like the world is theirs for the taking. But there’s something else there too. Yes, if you look closely at the eyes, even through the blurriness of such a rudimentary photo, you can see it. The same look that Madeline wore when she told me her company was going public. There’s a hunger in their eyes.

I hand the photo back to Madeline.

“Keep it. I made a copy for us.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Madeline smiles and begins gathering up the rest of the materials from the table, which feels like a signal that whatever time she had cleared for me is up.

* * *

Back in The Forest of the Dead, I pace the room, feet moving over creaking floorboards. Despite the fact it’s August, I feel chilly, and I pull Madeline’s sweater closer around me. I pause in front of the mirror and am struck by my reflection. With the deep crimson of the sweater and my dark hair, I stand out against the muted colors of The Forest of the Dead. I look, almost, formidable.