Page 47 of In the Pursuit of Haven
Haven’s notes about his gravestone having to do with Drake’s death had definitely piqued my interest again. I was checking out the Latin on that memorial for myself.
This girl had to start somewhere to find more clues. The chilly wind picked up my hair while I tied up Haven’s boat at Dolliber Cove. My exposed skin felt numb, my heart even more so when I caught sight of Brown’s Island across the way where Jessie and I both fell in love.
My stomach hadn’t stopped clenching since he’d left me abruptly this afternoon. After talking to him, I had no idea if what we had was worth saving anymore, but Jessie? I still cared about him, and Haven’s notes on him haunted me.
Next to die.
“Please, God, no,”I prayed. Sure, I’d love to get one over on him—without question, that was an added benefit to snatching that treasure from right under his nose—but most of all, Jessie needed to stay alive.
The longer we were separated, the more my anxiety levels ramped up.
Turning firmly from our island, I jumped off the boat. The heels of my boots pressed against one of Marblehead’s oldest pathways, leading me from the docks next to the historic fishermen’s houses. And just like artwork, inelegant crabbing cages completed the feel of how it must’ve been when this town had been overrun by sailors. Many of these homes held plaques with dates and famous surnames of those who’d lived here back in the day.
The murky clouds swirled above me in streaks of milky white paint against a midnight blue canvas. The sky’s restless activity made me feel like I walked directly under the Milky Way in the act of being formed by our Creator’s hand.
I hoped that didn’t mean another storm. I’d checked the weather earlier, and the app had assured me it was supposed to be a clear night, but then again, that’s what it had said yesterday morning.
That was two strikes already… it wasn’t a good sign.
I headed up Orne Street, named after one of Marblehead’s most notable founders. The streets surrounding The Old Burying Hill all had unforgettable names like Pond Street and Gingerbread Hill. I felt like a hungry kid entering Candyland.
A canopy of skeletal branches hung over the narrow road. The deserted area had a different feel than historic downtown last night, and my thoughts immediately swept to Jessie and Divine.
I’d thought she was with those troublemakers, but the way she’d touched Jessie’s arm to keep him from making a scene had bothered me. There might be more than my “scruples” that had kept Jessie from wanting me to tag along.
Hunter had hinted darkly at something I didn’t know, some indiscretion.
These kinds of mysteries made me sick.
Pulling my coat tighter around me, I found the street where The Wizard of Marblehead had lived. The house was still standing. It was called the Old Brig and had a gold mackerel on the door. Dimond’s equally famous granddaughter, Moll Pitcher, a fortune teller, had lived there too. And now our friend Scrooby was just next door.
Waving a greeting aimlessly in the direction of Jessie’s best friend, I scrambled up the hillside to one of America’s oldest colonial cemeteries. The Old Burying Hill in Marblehead was in a word, iconic—they’d shot a breathtaking scene fromHocus Pocusthere, and inside its hallowed ground, the most famous residents of its remarkable history lay buried.
I headed to my aunt’s grave first. She was buried near Redd’s Pond, named after the only inhabitant from Marblehead to be hung as a witch. And yet, good old Edward Dimond ran through these headstones freely, shrieking at the ships to guide them through the storms.
Creepy. My heart skipped uncomfortably. It was one thing telling scary stories from a considerable distance, and quite another thinking about them where they had actually happened. And I was out here by myself.
I’d never felt more alone.
The headstones were clustered together in the decaying ground, the night shrouding any shadow or figure that could be hiding in this place to jump out at me without notice.
If anything happened to me, no one would know about it, and perhaps might even feel some relief I was out of the way.
My aunt cares.
And somehow, not knowing how or why, I felt her comforting love in this place. Taking a deep breath, I skirted around the gravestones, finding my way, even as I felt more caring company buoy my spirits—perhaps from my unknown ancestors, perhaps even because this resting spot was a holy place.
Heading down the pathway to Redd’s Pond, I passed Joseph Brown’s gravestone—a celebrated revolutionary hero. Black Joe’s Pond near Gingerbread Hill just a few blocks up was named after him. A former slave to a Rhode Islander by the name of Beriah, Joseph joined the war as a substitute for the man’s privateer son, and he went on to win his freedom. He’d eventually chosen Marblehead to settle, found a spirited wife here, and together, they ran a tavern.
His was another unforgettable love story.
What had happened to mine? And suddenly, I was in a hurry to find my aunt and pour out all my woes to her.
Her marker was near a cluster of trees towards the back. My aunt’s gravestone resembled the ones already here with its gray granite, height, and perhaps unimpressive width. Even in death, Haven didn’t like to put on airs. She was a planner—always was. Years ago, she’d arranged every last detail for her funeral, so her loved ones wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, and her service was beautiful. We’d all bawled our eyes out. However, I had only seen her burial place in the light of day, surrounded by friends and family.
Now that we were finally alone together, I wasn’t sure what to say, only that I felt relieved.
I dug a penny from my purse and pressed it into the top of the cold stone. Finally, a true relative I could honor. “Auntie… Haven, I wish you were here.” It was all I could get out without feeling the sting of tears. This cold slab wasn’t enough. I just wanted to snuggle against her soft arms and cry my eyes out.
