“Look at this!” Will gathered up the remains of several long-stemmed roses that had been scattered over the plot. The blackened petals spiraled gently back to the ground as he lifted them. “Is there still family around here?” Will asked, looking over his shoulder as if one of them might appear at any moment to challenge him.
“I don't know.” Jack shook his head. Even if there were, Susannah had died a long time ago. There couldn't possibly be anyone still alive who would remember her. He thought of the laughing young woman in the photographs, gone but not forgotten. She looked like someone who would be hard to forget.
“Now what?” Fitch shivered and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “I feel like a grave robber.”
Jack knelt and unzipped the duffle bag. He pulled out the two short spades. “Now we dig. Aunt Linda said we should look for something buried behind the stone.”
Will took one of the spades from Jack and chose a spot about a foot in back of the marker, far enough away to keep the stone from toppling.
“Couldn't your grandmother have kept her heirlooms in the attic like everyone else?” Fitch asked, leaning against Susannah's stone. “And how does your Aunt Linda know there's something here?”
“I don't know,” Jack replied, sinking his spade into the dirt a few feet away from Will. “But I guess this was something that my grandmother didn't want falling into the wrong hands.”
“Like ours, maybe,” Fitch said dryly. It felt like the earth behind the stone had not been disturbed for a century. Or ever. It was clay and shale and full of tree roots. Fitch kept watch while the other two handled the shovels. Once in awhile they could see the lights of a car along the chapel road. The trees in the woods on either side complained as the wind moved through them. Otherwise the only sound was the clink of shovels against stone and the labored breathing of the diggers.
Eventually they'd dug a fairly large hole, three feet long and perhaps three feet deep. Despite the cold air, Jack was sweating from the exertion. And then his shovel hit something with a dull clunking sound that was different than before. And then again. He continued to dig, lifting away smaller amounts of dirt until they could see a rough rectangular outline. Will dug with renewed energy, enlarging the hole, trying to find the other end of the box, if that was what it was.
Jack cleared the earth away from the sides, so they could see how deep it was. Now they had all four of the top corners exposed. It was about three feet long, and narrow.
Jack leaned wearily on his shovel. Something strange was going on. His head was spinning, and there was a murmuring in his ears, the sound of a thousand urgent voices. He sat down heavily on the edge of the hole, his legs dangling, and put his hands over his ears.
“Hey, are you all right?” Fitch shone his flashlight in Jack's face. “Why don't you just sit there a minute? You've been doing most of the work.” He turned and rumbled in his backpack, and pulled out two water bottles. He tossed one to Jack and the other to Will. “Drink that.” Fitch picked up the shovel and set to work with a vengeance, making the dirt fly. Will drained his water bottle noisily and threw it aside, continuing to work, motivated by the prize that seemed almost within their grasp.
Now Jack could make out some of what the voices were saying. "Who comes to claim the blade?” There was a rumble of drums, at first far away, and then growing louder, coming closer, pounding inside his head. Jack closed his eyes and leaned back against Susannah's stone, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, his heart beating wildly. Sweat poured from him. He thought of the forgotten medicine. Maybe he was having a heart attack.
“Do you hear something? People talking? Drums? Anything?” Will and Fitch stopped digging to stare at Jack. “Never mind,” he said hastily.
The drums and voices grew to a crescendo. And then a woman's voice, cool and quiet, broke through the din. “Be at ease. He is the heir,” she said. The voices and the drums fell silent. Jack wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and breathed easier.
The box itself was only about eight inches deep, and Fitch and Will soon cleared the dirt from three sides. Will worked the tip of his shovel under it, and attempted to pry the box out of the dirt. The earth was reluctant to yield what it had held for so many years. It took several tries, but at last one corner came up, and Will carefully propped it against one side of the hole. It didn't seem too heavy. He climbed down in the hole and pushed the box over the rim. Fitch grabbed the leading edge and hauled it out onto the grass.
“They must have buried it in a leather bag,” Will said. The bag had nearly disintegrated, and the leather fell away when they turned the box over. It was encrusted with dirt and sand. Will spat into his hand and wiped some of it away.
“It's covered in jewels!” he exclaimed as the light reflected back. “You don't think they're real, do you?”
Jack had recovered enough to lift himself away from the gravestone and lean forward to look.
“Who would bury valuable jewels in a graveyard?” Fitch ran his fingernail over one of the stones. It was bloodred and faceted and about the size of his thumb. “This is probably the closest I'll ever come to buried treasure.” He leaned down, fumbling along the side of the case. It took Jack a moment to realize what he was doing.
“Fitch, no, don't!”
Too late. There was a bright flash and a boom. Fitch flew backward, landing flat on his back several yards away on the grass. A pale cloud of smoke drifted skyward.
Will leaped after him, but Fitch was already sitting up, shaking his head. “What the hell was that?” His face was smudged with soot, and he spat blood out of his mouth.
Will and Fitch regarded the case with grudging respect. Somewhere close by, a dog was barking. Jack wondered if the noise would bring any curious neighbors. Or worse.
“Maybe we should take it to a safer place,” Will suggested.
“Maybe we'll be blown to smithereens if we try,” Fitch replied warily.
“Let me do it,” Jack said. The other two stared at him. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled over to where the box lay, and cradled it carefully in his arms. He carried it a safe distance away and set it on the ground. “Why don't you two fill in the hole, and clean up this area as much as you can, and I'll try to figure out this locking mechanism.”
“Be careful, Jack,” Fitch warned him. He and Will grabbed the spades and began pushing dirt back into the hole. It was hard to tell in the darkness how much of a mess they'd made. Jack suspected it would be pretty obvious in the morning that someone had been digging.
Jack ran his hands over the ornate lid until he found the tiny latch, right where he knew it would be, as if he'd opened the case a hundred times before. The words of the old speech came back to him, and he whispered them as he pressed his fingers against the lock. The case snapped smoothly open.
Inside the velvet-lined case was a sword in a scabbard. The scabbard was ornate, worked in gold and silver, and the hilt that protruded from it was cast in an elaborate, swirling gold design. A brilliant ruby was set in the end of the pommel. When Jack brought the flashlight close, he could see inscriptions faint against the burnished metal, symbols and words he didn't understand.
He set the flashlight on the ground, gingerly grasped the hilt, and drew it out, noticing how the grip fit his hand without slipping. The sword created its own light as it emerged, a silver flame that ran along the blade. It was double-edged, and the metal appeared rippled in a way that meant the steel had been folded and refolded to strengthen it. How he knew this, he couldn't say. After a century in the ground, it bore no trace of rust, but seemed ready for immediate use.
Will and Fitch, drawn by the light, looked over Jack's shoulder. “Wicked,” breathed Fitch.
“No,” said Jack. “Not wicked at all.” He lifted the weapon before him with two hands and knew that it was his, although it had been forged long before he was born. It was lighter in his hands than he expected, lighter than one would expect from the size of it. “Shadowslayer,” he whispered, as if the weapon spoke to him. And the power in the blade ran into his hands and up his arms as if, somehow, the sword were wielding him.
“Jack …” It was Will, sounding dismayed, uncertain. The sword flamed in Jack's hand as he brandished it, a marriage of man and metal, flesh and steel. Fierce and primitive. He grew, extended himself through the reach of the blade, and the sword sent light and shadow racing across the grass, illuminating the leaning stones. The blade sang as it sliced the darkness, once, twice, three times, dividing it, trailing light. Shadowslayer. He pivoted, seized the hilt with both hands, and swung the blade, severing a two-inch sapling with a whisper of effort. He saw blood before his eyes and it was not the blood of trees. It took considerable self-discipline to end the dance. When he lowered the blade, its light subsided to a soft brilliance.
“It's so sweet,” he said, swallowing, trying to control his voice. “I … I had no idea….”
“Be careful with that. I mean, don't go weird on us.” Something in Fitch's voice said he sensed something more dangerous here than the edge of an ancient blade.
Will eyed the scabbard in the case, as if half afraid to approach it. “Is that some kind of belt?”
Jack thrust the blade into the ground momentarily and lifted the scabbard with two hands. It was mounted on a light belt of cleverly wrought linked metal. It was designed to fit two ways, about the waist or over his shoulder, as a baldric. Baldric. Where had the word come from? Somewhere inside him, a door to knowledge had opened. He put it about his waist and clasped it tight, positioning the scabbard on his left hip so he could draw across his body with his right hand. It lay comfortably across his hipbones. Aunt Linda had said to put the sword back in its case, but…
“What's that?” Fitch spoke quietly, but in a way that got Jack's attention. He was staring back toward the church, hands on hips. Jack followed his gaze. A strange glow bled through the back windows of the building, spinning out crazy shadows. Someone was walking along the far side of the church with a light, and it was reflecting through the back windows.