The Ground Where Ancestors Wait

Some places remember who you are before you speak..

During their evening together, Lois must have spoken of her mother’s resting place, because when Hans opened the carriage door he announced,

“Miss, madam, and sirs—we have arrived at the Awaanahe River Cemetery, currently blessed with a rare moment of winter sun.”

Mr. Stoddard concluded, almost absently,

“Be careful with your words, John. Once spoken, words can be forgiven—but rarely forgotten.”

Blazes. Where had the time gone?

They stepped out, righted coats and scarves, and Hans presented Lois with a bouquet of variegated carnations. Mrs. Stoddard nodded toward the winding path ahead.

“We thought you might like to visit your mother’s grave on our way through to New London. Lead on, please, Lois.”

Two mighty oaks marked the entrance.

It was an oak forest, no doubt—yet also a last resting place. Among the usual markers were older oaks that had overgrown statues of seated women: bare stone bodies, middle-aged and older, their hands placed neatly over their laps. The workmanship was unnervingly precise, and none bore a name.

Lois stopped beneath a massive oak at three gravestones.

Frank Ted Templeton, 1872–1910.
Lois Virginia Awaanahe, 1878–1901.
And the third: Lois Virginia Awaanahe Templeton, 1900–1919.

Lois laid the carnations on her mother’s stone. Then she returned to John’s arm, as if anchoring herself there.

She bowed her head for a long moment before she spoke.

“Mother… I graduated at the Boston University of Business as the first and only woman—but I had to be a man again. I fulfilled my promise to your sister, my Pink Lady, Lady Weatherford… and I am ready to join you.”

Mist moved between the trees.

Not weather.
Intention.

Then Hans’s voice came—low, urgent, far too close.

“Sirs, madam, miss… please step this way. Slowly.”

“No, sir,” he added, flatter now. “Wolves.”

Lois did not move.

“It’s all right,” she said gently. “These are the Mist-wolves. Friends to the Awaanahe. This cemetery sits on their territory.”

A white-marked wolf padded from the fog, calm as memory itself.

“Look away,” Lois whispered to John. “Your stare reads as challenge.”