Cedar Ravine: 4.3

I dropped flat on my stomach.

Ow. The ground was cold and hard, smashing against my forehead and stomach. I winced, pressed the side of my face hard to the earth. For fear of being heard, I kept still. And held my breath.

There were footsteps, thudding slowly. Jackson's light darted around, flashing among the tombstones. "Who's there?" His tone was cautious.

Another light suddenly flashed in the dark, moving toward Jackson.

"Well, I asked ya first." I thought I heard a chuckle. "It's only Al, son. It's only Al."

Something about his voice was reassuring. I took a breath, noticing a large gravestone a few feet ahead of me, and began to inch towards it.

"Wait a minute now..." The man's voice had gone thoughtful. "You're part of that family that moved here, aren't ya?"

Jackson didn't have a chance to respond.

"Sorry, son. I didn't mean to scare ya. I've just found Tim out here a few times, passed out drunk on a tombstone. Thought it might be him again." There was that gravelly chuckle again.

I slid up behind the gravestone and peeked carefully over its ridged top.

A man stood a few feet away from Jackson, flashlight pointed at the ground. I couldn't make much out of him from the darkness and shadows, but Jackson had his light pointed at Al's chest, revealing a plaid shirt and vest covering a round, protruding stomach.

"So, you're the caretaker, I'm assuming?"

"That I am." Al sounded proud of this fact. He tilted his head to one side. "Exactly what are ya doing out here, anyway?"

Jackson hesitated a second. "I like... to think here. I know that may sound strange, but I've been finding myself coming here a lot lately." He looked around. "It's peaceful."

And you're insane.

"But in the middle of the night?" Al sounded amazed.

Now Jackson chuckled. "I've done stranger. Besides, the symbols were driving me crazy. What's the point of them?"

"Symbols?"

"Yeah." Jackson flashed his light around. "Only some of the gravestones have them." He shone the light on a tombstone a few feet away from him. "Like that."

I couldn't see anything from where I crouched, no matter how hard I squinted. It was just a flat, plain gravestone.

"Oh," said Al. "The wreath, you mean." He tapped his chin. "I think it's made of cedar. To represent all that stuff that believed in."

Jackson looked at him. "They?"

"Yup, that was their symbol. The Fellowship Association, or whatever fancy name they went by." He shrugged. "I just call them The Fellowship."

"The Fellowship?" Jackson was intrigued.

I pressed against the gravestone as if that would somehow bring me closer to them and their conversation. I was intrigued, too.

"That's how this town began, son." Al was ready to give a history lesson. "A group of people moved up here to 'stablish their own little community a long, long time ago. All about peace an' harmony an' nature. Most people will say they were a cult, but they wouldn't, of course." He waved his hand over the surrounding area. "Anyway, that's why all these gravestones with the symbol are pretty ancient."

"So, it doesn't exist anymore?"

"Well..." Al scratched his head. "Some people act like it does. Tryna keep all the old beliefs and such. But it pretty much died out when the town started to grow."

"Is that why," said Jackson, "that symbol on his grave?" And he pointed his light at the gravestone he stood before.

"Mmmm," Al squatted down. "Jonathan Anderson... Now, who was he again?"

Jonathan Anderson? My heart skipped a beat.

"Oh, oh, yes I remember. Died of a heart attack, didn't he? He pastored that little church down the road, didn't he?" Al shook his head and added softly. "Sad, sad story there."

Jackson didn't seem to hear that last bit. "Why does the former pastor of the church have a wreath on his grave?"

Goosebumps were beginning to form on my arms and legs. But it wasn't just from the cold around me.

Al looked at him and looked at the grave. He scratched his head again. "I guess, um. Well, I don't really know. I never stepped foot in that church, so I can't say I know how he preached."

Jackson only looked at him. "If they were like a cult, I don't see what that has to do with Christianity."

Al only shrugged. "I don't know too much about it, but I'm sure there's a reason that's on his grave. Anderson was a smart kid." He stood, and shined his flashlight on his wrist. "Now I enjoy long talks but not at midnight." He chuckled. "You best be heading home, son. It's getting late."

Jackson stood as well. I could see his reluctance, the resistance to ask more questions.

"Come see me if ya'd like," Al offered, holding out a hand. "I'm not the town's historian, but I can tell ya what I know."

I couldn't see Jackson's face, but I was sure he was grinning. "Thank you. I will."

They shook hands, and parted ways, with little more than a "goodnight".

I waited until their lights disappeared in opposite directions before standing. My legs tingled, and ached. It was so very cold. I could almost feel it seeping into my bones.

Jackson was far ahead of me. I could see his bobbing light.

I crossed my arms tightly against my chest, and trudged through the grass. There were questions racing through my head, nagging at my brain. The Fellowship? Who was The Fellowship? Why did they feel the need to start their own little community? Why did it end? And why the heck did Anderson have a wreath on his gravestone?