Chapter 7: Cemetery of Lost Dreams
Christopher Dawson
Everyone I know is dead… and this is where they roam now. I swore to never come back to this sorrowful place, not after the last time, when I tried joining the men buried deep underground. All the grass is dead, only dirt and headstones spread out for two miles. Some of the stones I sculpted out of granite myself. Engraving names, and what details I knew about who lay underneath—’ This is not a place of rest though.’
“Well, this is not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect, Mary?”
Her honey-amber eyes reach mine.
“I expected danger.”
She takes off, giggling, crossing over the graves of old friends, fellow soldiers … all the ones that died here on Belzaar.
Mary-Allison stops at a headstone. I’m behind her.
“It’s almost too crumbled to read…Dra…Drake?”
“Drake Gossimeur, born 1594, died 1612 in the Battle of Twilight.”
“Battle of Twilight?”
“This whole island was a war zone once.”
Pacing out, the air still smells of wet grass, dank dirt, and the stench of death.
“Was your family a part of it? Are some of them out here?”
Mary-Allison looks around cautiously.
“My family?”
Which story did I tell her—Fishermen, I come from a family of fishermen who made a living off the seas of Belzaar, yeah that’s the one.
“No, no they came afterward.”
“Ah… well, do you know anything about the war that happened here? There are so many graves.”
I remember more than I’d like to. After living four hundred and forty years, nothing in my memories has receded. Somewhere inside my head, everyone here is still alive. They died senselessly. A war that should have never been waged.
“I know the legends, but… I don’t think anybody knows the truth.”
Mary-Allison leads us to the burial sight of General Treaux. He was a decorated officer, and his giant headstone confirms he was someone of importance. This general wasn’t a friend of mine, but he did have the fortune of dying during battle. He was one of the lucky ones. He, Drake, and hundreds of others died before we were all cursed. Before the island suffocated during the fire.
“What are the legends then?”
She’s so beautiful wearing the moon. Her pale skin reflects the light perfectly—’ pale?’ Her skin was red a few hours ago, burned from the overcast.
“Are you going to tell me?”
Mary-Allison sits on the general’s angled giant slab of marble. His name has since washed away with time.
Leaning back, Mary-Allison props on her elbows. Her curls have fallen, unwinding from the day, causing her hair to reach her chest which she pushes forward. She intertwines her legs, causing her cut-off shorts to rise further on her thighs—It takes everything in me to not embrace her, kiss her and never stop.
“Well…?”
I sit on the edge of someone’s tombstone who died by having a spear stuck through the bottom of their skull. Facing Mary-Allison, she’s lit up fully, like the moon has chosen her to be the star on the stage of the night.
“Legend has it… this island, Belzaar, was founded by a coven of witches.”
“Witches?”
Her eyebrows arch in disbelief.
“Yeah, it’s a legend, it has peculiar elements within it—That’s what makes it a legend.”
‘Her smile…a giggle.’
“Continue…”
She kicks her shoes off and inches further up the general’s headstone, stretching her legs as she does.
“A coven of witches made Belzaar their home because of persecution from the church where they originated. Except they didn’t call it Belzaar, they named it the Island of Light. Apparently, they were hunted by a group called, God’s Shadow. The group started out as a small band of believers to investigate anything supernatural, or whatever they deemed evil. God’s Shadow were the judge, jury, and executioners.”
She nods and her eyes show me she is giving me all her attention.
“They didn’t have to abide by the King’s laws, they only reported to the church. So, if they came across anyone who acted out of their perimeters of ordinary, they were dubbed a witch or possessed. God’s Shadow would slay them where they stood and continue on, believing they were doing the messy, but necessary work of God.”
“They sound like a fun bunch.”
“When they found out about the coven that escaped to Belzaar, the church called upon them to make it their mission to save the island from the damned that began populating it. As they put it, it was out of duty to commit genocide. And when they arrived on the shores of Belzaar, they didn’t waste time. At that point, the witches welcomed anyone who felt like they didn’t belong anywhere else. Unfortunately, their hospitality was misguided. Before they knew it, their homes were set on fire. Blood ran through the spaces between cobblestones.”
I’m standing, a call to Mary-Allison, my need to feed suddenly arises as I’m telling the events that started a war, events I know to be true because I was there. Mary-Allison uncrosses her legs when I approach, bending them at the knee, close to her chest. Her arms remain flat, her elbows locked in place.
“And that was it? Did they wipe out all the witches? Why are there so many soldier gravestones then?”
Her position locks me in place–I want more but shouldn’t. I place a hand on one of her knees. My vision becomes hazy, heat rises from underneath my face. She’s so tender, smooth. If we only stared into each other’s eyes all night, it would be enough.
She catches on, she doesn’t look away when I answer her.
“No, that was only the beginning. Eventually, the witches fought back. And that changed everything.”
She leans back fully. I step on the gravestone, inching further up. My arms stretch out so I hover above her. Why is her energy so familiar?
“What happened next?”
She’s confident, irresistible. Her fingers crawl up my tense arms. She finds every indention in my taught muscles, and I find a heartbeat racing through her soft chest. Her breath becomes rapid. ‘Is she in control?’
I refuse to allow my instincts to steal any more of her energy.
“Next?”
Closer to her lips. Pink mixed with the spotlight above. Honey-amber eyes glow and become large when I brush an uncoiled strand from her face.
‘I’m not sure who kisses who first, but we don’t stop.
She’s passionate, gabbing me, pulling me down fully on top of her. Both legs arch up further, squeezing my ribs, holding me in place. Her hips move up and down, connecting with me as I grind into her. I accidentally rip her shirt as my hands move all around her—She slides the rest of the shirt over her head. My pants are kicked off, her shorts tossed to the ground.
So much intensity radiates as we become one. Energy connects with energy. I pull away when she bites my bottom lip. A drop of blood splashes her cheek. But she only smiles and pulls me back in. Blood mixes with saliva.
‘Christopher….’
The air becomes colder. A fog surrounds us. Steam wafts off our interlaced warm bodies. Something is happening, something is wrong, but we don’t stop—I don’t think either one of us can. She breathes harder, the cold air becomes smoke when she exhales.
‘Christopher….’
My name. My name is being called from somewhere. I look up to hopefully find where it’s coming from—But I’m with Mary-Allison again. She squirms more as I go deeper.
‘Christopher Dawson….’
I can’t stop, I won’t. Mary-Allison screams with pleasure.
‘CHRISTOPHER DAWSON….’
And now I can’t distract myself from the voices. All at once, different tones from all around all saying something different, yet, at the same time all whispering as one.
‘She’s pretty, Christopher…’
Mary-Allison digs her nails into my back, I feel blood trickle down.
‘So pretty, don’t kill this one, Christopher…’
Again, I try searching for the voices, but no one is around. Just me and the girl beneath.
‘You will join us, Christopher, you can’t run forever…’
The voices’ tune turns sinister—And I know it’s all the ghosts trapped on these bare naked grounds.
‘You’re a coward Christopher. You don’t deserve her…’
Mary-Allison becomes verbal,
“Christopher, oh…Christopher…”
‘What about Allison, Christopher….’
“Christopher! Don’t stop…”
‘CHRISTOPHER!’
“Christopher!”
‘CHRISTOPHER!’
“Christopher!”
‘STOP!’
Mary-Allison opens her eyes. Her head and body jolt up. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
Silence.
“I…I don’t know…” I whisper breathlessly.
“Your pulse is racing.”
Her hand holds my wrist. I yank it away like she’s done something offensive.
“Did I do something—“
“No… I…”
The air loses some of its chill. I roll off Mary-Allison and pick up my shirt. The scratches on my back have already healed, so I button up, concealing them.
“Tell me, what’s wrong?”
Mary-Allison also begins to dress. Asking all the questions I can’t answer. This is why I don’t come here. Every person I’ve failed wants me to join them in their graves. And I swear I would if only I could.
“We should go.”
I’m already walking away. The atmosphere has changed—I knew this would be a mistake. And what does Mary-Allison think of me now? Does it matter?
“Can you just stop and tell me what’s wrong?”
“I told you we shouldn’t have come here.”
I’m harsher than I mean to come across but it shuts her up. She ceases her questions. We enter the tunnel, I’m dragging her by the hand so we can escape quicker.
‘Goodbye, Christopher.’
‘We’ll be seeing you real soon…’
‘Soon, Christopher…soon…’