Archive of Our Own

It was dark in the graveyard on the hill, but it was the kind of dark that enveloped you, like sleep. The man with silver hair, still showing small patches of mouse-brown, passed among the headstones with care and confidence, his feet remembering old paths. The ground had shifted a little, as land will with time and weather, but by and large the graveyard remained unchanged.  An October breeze tried to creep under his jacket, but he didn’t mind. The chill was familiar, welcoming.

On he walked, down the hill, past the headstone of Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish, and his wives Marion and Joan, to the Potter’s Field by the old apple tree. Reaching the rusted iron fence, he stopped and smiled. As a child he had pushed through those bars, or climbed the apple tree, but his aching joints would not allow such activities now. Adjusting his round spectacles, he examined the fence, walking down its length. Presently he discovered a section of rusted railing that had been split and bent back by some enterprising hand, and he carefully stepped through it.

Coming to the apple tree, he looked up at it, smiling as he remembered his first tumble out of its branches and into the nest of needles below, and of the events that followed. Kneeling down, he brushed through a pile of dead leaves and, somewhat to his surprise, found what he’d been looking for. A large crystal paperweight twinkled where the moonlight illuminated its colors. The brown paint on its surface should have been scraped or washed away, yet the initials remained as fresh as if they’d been written the previous day: “E.H.,” and beneath them the words, “we don’t forget.”

Smiling, the man got to his feet and looked around.

“Hullo?” he called. He tried not to feel foolish. He had grown up speaking to people who weren’t there, strictly speaking, but he was a bit out of practice.

“Hullo?” he called again. “Liza? It’s me. It’s Bod…Nobody Owens.”

An owl hooted in the distance, and small critters scuffled in the underbrush, but no voices answered. Bod looked down at himself.

“I know I must look a bit different,” he said, smiling. “That’s what growing older will do to you, but it’s still me.” He paused.

“I don’t know if you can hear or see me – I couldn’t see anyone up the hill – but I thought maybe you might still be here, and I wanted to come and say hello, you know, since it’s been so long.”

Again, nothing answered him. Sighing, he turned to face the Old Town.

“Either way, I hope you don’t mind if I just come and talk for awhile. When you get to be my age, you have all these stories you want to tell, and no one who really wants to listen. I also thought you might like to know how it went – my life outside the graveyard. There’s a lot to say, not sure where to begin…”

He considered.

“I saw Silas again,” he said. “We cleared an army of ghouls out of a graveyard in Isleworth – apparently His Lordship the 9^th Earl of Northumberland was trying to reclaim it as a colony of Ghûlheim.” He laughed to himself. “That was one of the more…absurd moments.

“Well,” said Bod after another moment of silence, “I’ll tell you what. I’m staying down in the Old Town. Not doing much during the day anymore, so how about I come up for a visit each night and tell you about my grand adventures?”

A gentle breeze brushed the branches of the apple tree and scattered some of the leaves in the nettle patch.

“That settles it then,” Bod said.

And so it went. Each night, the Bod would return to the apple tree at twilight with a sandwich wrapped in paper, or a steaming bag of chips. He would sit, and eat his supper, and talk until the first rays of light came over the hill, though he received no reply.

He told stories, speaking to Liza as if she were there, listening. He told her about mining for diamonds in Africa, only to discover they were being sold for guns; about swimming with dolphins in tropical reefs off the coast of Florida, and boating down the Amazon river, which contained giant snakes and meat-eating fish. He described the ancient sites of Chichen Itza, Machu Picchu, and the heads of Easter Island, and did his best to describe the civilizations that had built them.

He told her about the Great Plains of North America, and the Rocky Mountains, and the deserts and canyons of Arizona and New Mexico. He talked about the funeral he had witnessed on the Ganges River, the temple of Angkor Wat, and the Great Wall of China. And as best he could he described all of the natural wonders he had seen – the strange and beautiful animals, plants, insects, mountains, rivers, and oceans of the world.

He also told her about the dull times, and the hard times – about not having enough money to pay rent or buy food, about feeling trapped, as if he would never again be free to roam the world, but always these times had eventually passed, and someone or something had helped him through them.

“I got married,” he said one night. “Her name was Sarah. She was a schoolteacher in Cardiff.”

There was no answer, but a sudden sharp breeze blew into his face, scattering chips into his lap. He picked them up carefully and went on.

“We had two children, and she had one by her previous marriage, so I’m also a step-father. Robin lives with his wife and children in Minnesota – that’s in America – and Jenny and her girlfriend live in New York. Carol’s in Cardiff with her own family. It was funny, being a dad. Took awhile to get used to.” He paused, and his face fell.

“Sarah died eight years ago – breast cancer...er, a tumor in her breast. I think they had cancer in your day didn’t they? We still haven’t cured it. I suppose every age needs that seemingly unstoppable thing that’s impossible to explain, no matter how hard you try.”

Again, no reply came, but the wind seemed to die down, and a heavier silence fell in the Potter’s Field.

He talked about helping to rebuild Silas’ home in a place called Bosilegrad, and of finding relatives of Miss Lupescu in a country called Romania. About Kandar the mummy, who still clutched a piglet to his side wherever he went. He told her about finding the living members of his birth parents’ family, the Dorians. That had been nice, but ultimately Bod felt that they hadn’t had that much in common. Most of all, he told her about all the people he’d met, the endless, diverse masses of them: men, women, children, poets, artists, academics, construction workers, firemen, flight attendants, custodians, farmers, bakers, bankers, beggars, truck drivers and librarians – and all of them breathing.

One morning in early December, the first rays of sun rose over the graveyard on the hill and fell on an elderly man who sat cross-legged against the apple tree in the Potter’s Field. His hands held the remnants of the previous night’s meal, and his eyes stared into nothing.

In one of the shadows near the tree, a pearlescent figure with mousy long hair appeared. She looked down at the old man, and then floated down to kiss his forehead.

“Too stupid,” she whispered, and closed his eyes.

****

Bod woke to find himself in grey space. There was no ground or sky – just grey, all around. Examining himself, he discovered he was 15 again, dressed in a grey jumper and blue jeans. Before he had time to wonder where he was, or even if “where” was the right word, he heard a gentle clopping behind him, and looked around.

A large white horse with a long, serious face walked towards him with stately steps. On its bare back sat a woman, dressed in a dress that shimmered as if spun from cobwebs.  Neither horse nor rider seemed to blend with their misty surroundings, though they should have. Slipping from the horse’s back, the woman came to him, smiling.

“Hello, Bod.”

“Hello,” he said, returning the smile. “It’s you. I mean, we danced together. We danced the Macabray, all those years ago. Your horse is still so big!” He stopped himself, feeling foolish. But the lady only smiled again.
“He will always be big, no matter who looks on him,” she said. “And he will always be strong enough to carry you.”

“You promised,” Bod said. “All those years ago, you promised me I could ride him.”

“I did,” she said, smiling sweetly. “And that day has come. Are you ready, Nobody Owens?”

And then Bod knew where he was, and what had become of his body, and of his life.

He looked at the Grey Lady. “Where will we go?” he asked.

“Different people to different places,” she said. “For some, like your parents, it is a very short ride. They choose to rest where their remains are laid. Others take a longer path.”
“And where do they go?” Bod asked.

The Lady’s eyes twinkled. “On,” she said, simply.

Bod thought about this. “And I can choose?” he asked.

“Yes, Bod. You can choose. Where would you like to go?”

Bod was silent for a moment, and then broke into a grin. “I know exactly where I would like to go,” he said. The Grey Lady smiled.

“Then climb on, Nobody Owens. It is time to go.”

Feeling awe and wonder, Bod clambered onto the grey’s back, sitting behind the Lady. A rush of wind blew against his cheeks as the horse’s powerful hind legs propelled them smoothly forward, into the mist.

*****

Liza Hempstock floated in the air midway up the apple tree in the Potter’s Field, staring down through its nearly bare branches. She was thinking of the boy who’d tumbled from those branches into the compost atop her grave, and of how he wouldn’t tumble ever again. That was the trouble with the living, she thought. They always disappointed you in the end. If they didn’t disappoint you by being something other than what you hoped, if they were brave and noble and good, then they disappointed you anyway by ceasing to be altogether, eventually.

They had found his body that morning. The coroner, a fusspot of an old man, declared that the gentleman had died of a stroke, minor but fatal, and that an autopsy would not be necessary. When a young inspector inquired whether they oughtn't to do one anyway, given that the man appeared to have no identification or individual markers of any kind, the coroner said the inspector could speak to City Hall about granting his department more funds if he wanted, but until that time, the cause was a stoke, and that was that. A brief investigation turned up no records or next of kin for the John Doe. He was simply nobody. Nobody at all.  

The town paid for his remains to be cremated and buried beneath the apple tree where he had been found. The location was recorded, but no marker was placed. The economy had been bad that year.  

 Liza stared angrily at the place where his ashes lay, placed with little more ceremony or care than her own body had been, when a voice, very close by, said

“Hullo Liza.”

She turned, saw him, and after a brief moment, scowled.

“And what,” she said tartly, “are you a doin’ of here, young Nobody Owens?”
“Um,” Bod said, scratching his ghostly head. “Floating? I’ve never tried it before. It’s fun! Look, you can see through me!” He swirled in the air, demonstrating.

The witch girl only frowned harder. “It’s no jest, you lummox. You are dead. Properly gone and done for. You should be long away from here.”

“Why?” said Bod, genuinely confused. “I’m dead, and I’m in a graveyard. I fit in better here now than I ever did.”

“T’aint proper!” she snapped. “You’re no coiner, nor cutpurse, nor suicide, Nobody Owens. You belong in a proper tomb, with a proper headstone, and people to come and lay flowers an’ suchlike at your grave. Mrs. Owens would cry for days to see you here!”

“Mother will understand,” Bod said. “If she doesn’t, well, we’ll have a long time to talk about it, now that I’m buried here.”

Liza looked at him sharply, suspicious. “You wanted to be laid here?” Before he answered, she plowed ahead. “You made them forget. You left nuffink to mark who you were, and you slipped from their memories like water from a washtub.”

Bod nodded.

“For Heaven’s sake, why? You should be on to a new life now, young idiot, or decently settled with your family up the hill, not drifting in a Potter’s Field where no one knows you, and there’s no one as cares.”

“You know me,” Bod pointed out. “And you care.”

If Liza’s cheeks could hold color, they would have flushed, in anger or embarrassment. Her lips tightened.  “I never,” she said, pertly.

Bod sighed. “Maybe you’re right – maybe I should have moved on, or been buried with my parents. But, when I came to it, when I spoke to the Grey Lady and she asked me where I wanted to go, I realized…well, I realized that where I most wanted to go was here.”

The girl said nothing.

“I grew up in this graveyard, and it will always be my home, while I’m here, alive or dead. But I spent the first 15 years of my life unable to leave, so I didn’t want to rest up on the hill. So the other option was here, in the Potter’s field. And I thought,” he fumbled, looking for the right words. “I thought I could stay here…with you.”

For a moment, Liza was silent. She watched him, her face unreadable.  Then she scowled again. “And what about your family?” she said. “What about your grandchildren, your children – your wife?” she snapped. “Will you abandon them, Nobody Owens?”

“Sarah will be alright,” Bod said. “She’s happy with her first husband – I went to see them before I came here. As for my children,” his face softened in an expression uncharacteristic of a 15-year old boy. “We said our goodbyes before I left to come here. Well, none of us really quite said it, but I think they all knew.

“Besides,” he continued, “a witch once told me that there’s rules for people buried in graveyards, but not for those in unhallowed ground. No one will tell me where to go. So…maybe I can go and visit them sometime. Maybe we could both go.” He smiled.

There was a pause. Then the witch girl’s mouth twitched, and then spread into a goblin smile.

“Nobody Owens,” she declared, “per’aps you aren’t too stupid after all.”

She took his hand.

If the denizens of the graveyard on the hill had any opinions about the odd pairing of the once-Live Boy and the witch from the Potter’s Field (and it is safe to assume they did), they didn’t remark on it – at least not where either party could hear. For years afterward, the couple could be seen (by those who could see such things) sitting together in the apple tree, or wandering the streets of the Old Town, hand in hand. Sometimes, they disappeared from the graveyard all together, and were gone for months or years at a time. This was the cause of much speculation among the folk of the graveyard, who were accustomed to very little change, but they privately enjoyed it. Alonso Tomás Garcia Jones surmised that they traveled the world. Whatever the truth, only the pair of them knew.

What is known is that for years afterward, any wandering children, lost pets, or groundskeepers who made their way into the Potter’s Field under the old apple tree, stumbled on two crystal paper weights, which seemed somehow never to wear, and which always mysteriously returned to their places, if moved. One was painted over in red-brown color with the letters E.H., and beneath them, the words “we don’t forget.” Beside it, an identical crystal was painted over in blue paint, with the letters N.O., and beneath them, the words "who nobody owns."