The Invasive Grave of Elizabeth Washington

1.

The burrower left the dead-fall at the same time as she usually did, at false dawn, as the eastern skies lightened but the cool of the night still lingered. Upon exiting, she carefully replaced the layers of dead and living plants that hid the entrance to her burrow. She made a quick circuit of the clearing, checking that the entrance remained hidden. It was safe, as far as anything could be these days. A dead pine and a thorn bush thicket: home sweet home.

The late fall morning promised significant heat to come, and sweat was already beading on her neck. She stretched her toes inside her boots and headed downhill toward the beach, careful not to step where she could leave recognizable prints. Her boots were slick-soled after three decades and left few treadmarks, but could still leave a clear outline, pointing the way along her route. She reached the deep sand of the beach just as the first rays of the sun broke over the eastern horizon. She closed her eyes and smiled into the sunlight. Another night survived.

She headed north up the beach, with a slight kick at each step that knocked sand back down into her footprints. It was second nature now, to leave no trace. Every few minutes she would pause, check her backtrail, and listen to her surroundings. The birdcalls and the low whistle of wind followed her until the short waterfalls of the river could be heard up ahead. A small freshwater stream too small for a name, it meandered roughly north and east for three miles, with two small pools and some quiet backwaters she'd fished often. The water poured from a small but vigorous spring, so cold it would make her arthritis ache when she held her hands underwater too long. Despite hours spent motionless beside the river with baited hooks in its gentle current, nothing was biting today.

After walking up the river, she cut cross-country to forage at her favorite garden, an overgrown yard she'd found in an abandoned suburb. The small house yellow house still stood, though the neighborhood surrounding it had been abandoned. Windows and doors were all broken, but the broken gate blocked the view of the yard from the rapidly cracking asphalt street. The decrepit building and broken gate disguised a surprisingly deep and sheltered backyard, shaded by cherry, apple, and citrus trees. A great mass of blackberry, raspberry, and strawberry bushes crowded the back half of the yard. Most days she stopped by for an easy meal, but she tried not to pick more than she could eat at once. The backpack was heavier after filling the two gallons of water but still manageable, and she slipped a couple yellow-red apples into the top of the bag before she cinched it shut.

It was approaching late afternoon before she neared the ravine again, the sun was setting golden over the ocean. She kept going south, climbing up the sandstone cliffs. At the top, the plateau flattened out, deep grasses that thinned toward the crumbling edge, a blaze of wild orange California poppies and yellow creosote bushes. The wind was loaded with salt mist from the frothy waves below, beating against the saltgrass bushes choking the coast.

Looking westward, the sunset painted the sky in brilliant oranges, pinks, and purples, but the green and orange wildflower panorama was marred by a long low dark mound. A rough cross nearly 6 feet tall stood at its western end, and a bright glitter caught her eye near the crosspiece. The shock of the grave held her frozen for minutes before she could approach the makeshift monument.

A young manzanita tree had been deeply sunk into the dark soil, both the reddish-brown bole and crosspiece warped and curved. Carved blocks of pale tally marks covered the wide bole of the cross from its top to the ground and possibly deeper. ELIZABETH WASHINGTON was scratched into the young brown bark of the crosspiece, 1993-2037. A silver locket hung suspended from the crosspiece - without thinking she reached for the locket, popped it open, and held it up to the setting sun. Two photos pressed into the hollow halves, one a tiny black and white photo of an elderly couple sitting at a park picnic table, the other a close up color photo of a dark haired child with sad brown eyes. She reverently clicked the locket closed and let go, watching the silver pendant drop down to the the lowest point allowed by the chain.

The broken branching remnants of the manzanita tree were lodged in a deep furrow drug from the south east, and ax gouges marred the turf, a variety of far-flung wood chips and twigs surrounding the immediate vicinity. The silence of the wooded hills surrounding her grew unbearable, and she slipped away as quietly as she could, mind racing in the silence.

2.

She spent an extra hour approaching her home that night, circling the ravine and observing every angle until the birds, crickets, chipmunks, and mice began to rustle well into the evening. The night sounded like a thousand others, a natural symphony of insect, avian, and mammal. Birds, bats, and crickets blanketed the short valley in sound, and a light rustling from the bushes between the burrow and the beach indicated the raccoons had had better foraging luck than she.

With no sign that her home had been discovered, she climbed under the small pine dead-fall quickly, laying the branches back down behind her in a practiced motion. She rolled aside the woolen blanket, thick with mud and moss, that draped the tunnel entrance. A warm draft crept past her into the night. The tunnel felt stale from the long, humid day, and after entering she carefully replaced the blanket, propping open a corner for ventilation. The soft earth dampened the noises she made crawling in the dark, and the soft sounds of the ravine dwindled to the pure silence of underearth as she crawled deeper into the darkness.

The tunnel slanted upward shortly before opening into a larger cavern. Once on the floor she was able to stretch to her full height, and took two wide strides to the opposite wall. A foot-long section of black PVC pipe jutted from the ceiling; she pushed it a few inches forward until a cool breeze from the pipe struck her face. Air flowed through from the vent tube, faintly scented by the wild mountain whitethorn that blanketed the eastern slope of the ravine. The fragrant bushes were coated in heavy short thorns that stung like fire for days if you managed to scratch yourself. Below the thicket, she'd hollowed out as much as she dared.

A long cubby dug into the northern wall held a thin nylon sleeping bag and a heavy home sewn quilt. Instead of a pillow, she had a large stuffed dog she had found in one of the nearby towns. The thing was half her size and made a comfortable snuggle out of the disturbingly coffin-shaped cubby. Her small backpack rested on the earthen floor near the tunnel entrance, essentials always at the ready. Her frying pan, needles, fishing kit, hatchet, what was left of her medicines and first aid kit, and a drinking filter she'd found at an abandoned campsite in northern Nevada. She pulled out the two gallons of water and tucked them into the deepest corner of the room to cool, then curled into her sleeping bag.

The new grave consumed her thoughts. This obvious sign of another human terrified her; more than the occasional night-time sounds of trucks or motorcycles carried up and down the abandoned roadways, more than the increasingly rare gunfire, even more than the sight of another furtive figure skirting the forests and former towns. The grave itself had been not merely a functional burial but a beautiful one. The calendar carved into the young tree spoke of years, the locket of generations. She stayed up for hours,staring into the darkness of her cavern: safe, silent, and empty.

3.

The burrower arrived at the grave hours before sunrise. The nearly full moon hung suspended over its own reflection in the Pacific, brightly illuminating the clearing. The mound itself was a long shadow across the ground, surrounded by a sea of shining silver grass. Closed poppies added dark accents of shadow to the brightly monochromatic vista.

She chose a small pine near the northern edge of the forest and sat firmly against the ground, slouching against the tree until her chin sat easily on her knees. It was evident the gravedigger had returned last evening. The wild tangle of manzanita branches were now trimmed and stacked neatly in a rough pile; handfuls of dried pine needles were stuffed around the branches, and a small bundle of what appeared to be dried flowers wrapped in a threadbare kitchen towel sat near the pending pyre.

False dawn bled into true as the sun rose slowly. The nearby creosote bushes shaded her hiding spot, but the clearing gradually built up a brilliant green and orange heat haze as the sun pressed down, hundreds of poppies opening beneath the oppressive heat of the sapphire sky.

The birds up and down the ravine fell silent, and the burrower froze, chin on her knees, hands tucked under her legs. As the silence stretched, uneven footsteps roughly echoed up the short canyon walls of sandstone cliffs. A small flock of songbirds took wing as the scraping noises grew louder, finally revealing a tall figure in a billowing gray jacket, a shock of dirty blonde hair blowing in all directions by the breeze. The youth shuffled to the grave and collapsed to his knees at the edge of the soft soil, tears pouring down his cheeks to large dark stains on his jacket.

He leaned forward, bare hands reaching down to press into the dirt. Brief jerking sobs still racked his thin frame repeatedly. Obviously struggling to stay quiet, he pressed a fistful of soil against each cheek. She watched as his tears slowly built then rolled down his slender wrists, leaving pale vertical tracks of salt and grave soil.

The burrower felt tears tracing down her own cheeks and slowly stood, taking two steps forward into the blazing sun of high noon. She saw the youth stiffen as she entered their peripheral vision, choking back another sob and standing, already retreating toward the sandstone cliffs.

The burrower hoarsely forced out a single word as she sank to her own knees, arms spread wide, hands empty. Her voice, silenced for over a decade, cracked over the unfamiliar syllables as their eyes met.

“Hello?”