XII. Yielding Technological Insights from Graveyards

This cemetery has been defiled.

Tombstones leaning, cracked in half, heaped upon mounds of discarded soil, each grave gaping wide open in the pocked earth. Caskets lay overturned, splintered and rotted, the wood long since scavenged for fire. The air reeks of putrescent, damp soil and something else, the cloying, acrid stink of burnt hair. When Penelope’s eyes fall upon a pile in the distance, her breath catches: a mound of soot and ash, blackened skulls, ribs, and bones stripped clean by carrion feeders.

A length of thick steel chains hangs from the cemetery entrance, mottled with rust and grime, strangling the gate shut. The lock, heavy and rusted, sags at the center.

“Warded padlock, probably just one tumbler. Do you have a hairpin?"

“Maybe.” Dorian rifles through his pockets then produces a single bobby pin, splayed out and bent at the end. She takes the pin and begins probing the keyhole, holding the padlock to her ear. A turn of the pin, a click, and the tumbler falls.

“We can squeeze in this way.”

“Are you sure we should be here?” Dorian asks. He squeezes through the opening and jogs to catch up to her. “Maybe we need protection amulets or something. We could check Doctor Arthwitte’s bag–”

“This is about the frogs, isn’t it?”

“It’s wasn’t just the frogs. Have you ever peed sand? Have you?!”

“No, but I survived a psychic attack, thanks to Olivia’s protection.”

“What about the vampire that attacked you? The one who got past Olivia’s spell. Who do you think that was?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Penelope sighs. “Crowley said they have powers. Herr Raubtier knows about Olivia’s book. Mami Hrobar had access to his secret library. When we were in the house, I felt a pain in my chest.” Our sister presses a palm to her chest, where the inflamed bite mark still swells. “It was like the attack from my dream was happening again, just for a moment.”

“With Herr Raubtier?”

“When I was arguing with Mami Hrobar. She says she’s the authority on vampires but none of her protections work.”

“You’ve got a point, and her husband, he’s practically her slave.”

“What are children doing in graveyard?” Bapo Hrobar appears behind them, rusty shovel in one hand.

“Vampire,” Dorian yelps.

“Is not safe here,” Bapo Hrobar says. “You could fall in hole, break neck or worse – break leg.”

“How is breaking a leg worse than breaking your neck?” Penelope asks.

“If you break neck, is big sleep, is all over,” Bapo Hrobar says. “If broken leg, is still life, is still work to be done. But now… work is harder. Forever.”

“We were investigating.” Dorian murmurs.

“You are scientist,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Shouldn’t you be in laboratory? Making self busy with beaker and tube?”

“Right now, we need some answers, if you don’t mind,” Penelope retorts.

“You are having questions for old Bapo Hrobar? Is intriguing; very well, I submit to interrogation, child science detective.” He bends down to sit on an old tombstone with a grunt and shoves his spade into the earth.

“Did you wife ever mention a secret library?” Dorian blurts out.

“Secret library?” Bapo Hrobar scratches his chin. “I do not recall such things. Is, maybe true, I would need to ask her. She and General were, how you say, partners.”

“Partners in what?” Penelope asks.

“She was mee-stic-al advisor,” Bapo Hrobar replies with clenched teeth and a shrug. “Family always had way with herbs and old secrets. Wife help General in graveyard with rituals before death.”

“Rituals? In the graveyard? What for?”

“Who can say – commune with dead, ward off evil spirits, is very hush-hush, not for old Bapo Hrobar’s ears.”

“Why did you dig up the whole graveyard?”

“We did not dig up people in beginning,” Bapo Hrobar replies. He retrieves a pipe from his coat pocket and a pouch of tobacco from his trousers. Packing the bowl, he adds, “It was after, when they started to come back.”

“The little girl, Lina,” Penelope interjects.

“Not just Lina,” Bapo Hrobar grimly replies.

Bapo Hrobar nods toward the great pile of corpses burnt to cinder. “Nobody knows about girl until next morning. Mother does not leave house all day, so villagers begin talk.” He strikes a match and lights his pipe. Between puffs, he coughs out, “They think she is, maybe, grief making. But when people go to house, they find mother is happy. Little girl is back, is miracle.”

Once the tobacco leaves glow orange like a coal, he drops the match and stomps it out with his boot. Something catches Penelope’s eye when he turns his heel: a metal pipe, jagged and rusted at the opening, that protrudes three or four inches out of the ground. “But she was already changed by then,” my sister asks.

“Avo, but she is sneaky, is good at hiding. But some of us, the men, we talk. Is not natural, how is little girl butchered and buried then living and whole? We go to house and family is missing. So we come to graveyard, but family is already–”

Bapo Hrobar chokes up, tears welling in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Penelope says. “It must have been awful.” Dorian steps forward and places his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Bapo Hrobar takes a deep snort then spits and coughs with his head turned.

“Is dry throat,” he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Where was I?”

“…the murder.”

“Avo, correct, we find little girl in middle of transformation. Is not like vampire, but has fangs and claws. Is crazy like vampire too. Whole family killed.”

“How did you stop her?” Dorian asks.

Bapo Hrobar hoists his shovel out of the dirt. “Shovel is premier weapon, is shield, sword, hammer, axe–”

“How is a hammer like an axe?” Penelope interjects.

“Is all in swing,” he replies, re-enacting the blow he dealt to the vampire. “Is small, so hard to hit, but also easy to break. Wife insists we burn body, so–”

“Your wife was there?” Dorian asks.

“How did she know to burn the bodies?”

“Is old legend,” he replies, taking three sharp puffs and exhaling a series of wispy rings. “Is why General asked wife to help with ritual making.”

“General Mathers had your wife help him with his rituals?”

“Avo, aye, and was rough going, taking bodies apart and burning. Is unpleasant.”

“For the rituals?” Dorian asks.

Clenching the pipe in his teeth, he says, “Ne, rituals were prayer, mostly. Old Bapo does not play with such things. Was for vampires – to make sure none came back. Dismember, then burn, is surest way. Is almost sun up before pile is ready, and–”

Penelope’s eyes trace the rest of the cemetery while Bapo Hrobar drones on. Strangely, she sees another rusted pipe in the distance, three or four graves down, jutting up out of the earth no more than a few inches. Perhaps one would imply a stray scrap of junk left in the ground, but two implies a design, a will – that someone placed them there.

Perhaps there is more to this graveyard than meets the eye.

“What about the rest of them?” Dorian asks. “Who dug up all these graves?”

“Is following night,” he replies, grim. “Just at sundown. First one, then two, then dozen or so, all crawl up out of graves, as if never dead.” Bapo Hrobar stands up and draws a line across his throat with his thumb. “No wounds, perfect bodies – but changed. We put them down, this time we know what to expect.” He nods towards the expanse of pits, “After that, wife insists we dig up all graves. When wife makes demands you find spare energy, eh?” He laughs so hard at his own joke that he begins hacking.

“Did you find any pipes?”

“Pipes?” Bapo Hrobar pauses, scratches his chin, then holds his pipe up. “Is like this one?”

“No, metal pipes – like plumbing.”

“Eh… no, I do not recall, and we dug up entire graveyard. No pipes, just bodies.”

“What about that,” Dorian says, pointing at the little tube of metal.

“Oh, that – I forget is there. Was put in by General when he came. Part of big renovation, he calls it.” He scratches his head. “Come to think on it, General did lots of digging at night in graveyard.”

“Did he ever say what it was for?”

Bapo Hrobar bends over and peers down into the jagged opening, “Ne, General did not explain much. Was short time after Big War when he came, after fancy men come to village with capes and medals to tell us that we are no longer ruled by such and such king but now by king such and such. General is humble man, this Mathers, with lots of money, makes talk about hiding from some Council back home.”

“And nobody thought that was strange?” Dorian asked.

“Everyone has somewhere they want to forget, own reason for being forgotten, and General, he brings food, medicine, books and toys for children. You ask anyone in village then, he is angel from heaven. And authorities out West? Where is food and medicine from them? Is old Hrobar family motto: kings and countries, they come and go, but people will always need place to bury bodies. Is best to not trouble with too many questions.”

“That’s a long and specific family motto.”

“Family has long and specific history,” Bapo Hrobar replies with a wink. He looks over his shoulder and takes a drag from his pipe. “But is enough chit chat, I have, maybe, work somewhere else.” He lumbers away from the children and waves back at them, “Villagers will be hungry soon, is time for Bapo to be General. You children be careful to not fall in pit, or Mami will make Bapo throw you in pile too.”

“You got it,” Dorian meekly gulps. After the old man is out of earshot, he asks, “What’s so special about that pipe?”

“Right there,” our sister says, pointing. “It looks like it runs deep.” She kicks the little protrusion with her boot. “Solid. It’s definitely connected to something.”

“Where do you think it leads?”

“We’re going to find out,” she says, walking past him and down the ashen path. They cross over open grave after open grave, chunks of stone and rusted tools abandoned in the empty plots.

“There’s one over here,” Dorian says, stooping down to look inside. “Where do you think it leads?”

“That’s what we’ll find out,” Penelope replies, down on hands and knees inspecting another. “Look over there.” She gets up and runs across the way, stumbling over a loose rock. She stops in front of a little shrub by a stone cross. The shrub disguising it has been up-heaved and leans to the side, revealing its once hidden occupant. Strangely, almost as if by design, these pipes are tucked away.

Dorian calls out, “This looks like the last one.”

“It’s a crescent,” our sister replies. Pointing, she traces their layout, “Look how they’re arranged. All the plots are empty, so if they never broke pipe that means it all must run around the plots underground.”

Dorian’s shoulder slump and he sighs, “Does that mean we’re digging them up now?”

“No, we don’t have ti–”

That’s when my sister hears the chimes, the gentle tinkling of brass and glass that guided her through the fog. An opalescent glimmer of golden, pink, and teal flashes in her periphery and she spins around. Thunder rumbles heavy and low in the distance. Grey clouds sit overhead with the afternoon sun struggling to peek through. Then the light catches her eye again, and her gaze stops at a modest statue several feet away.

The nearer she gets, the more the pipes seem to form a deliberate pattern, radiating out and wrapping around the back of the structure. There is no platform, no steps—just a granite block, eight feet across in every direction, rising from the earth. A black marble obelisk juts skyward from the center, cold and smooth, with a golden emblem that glints faintly near the tip: a golden square and compass, set into a diamond shape, edges dulled by years of weather.

Shrubs and ivy have crept over the block, their roots wedging into shallow cracks. A thick hedge encircles the monument, concealing intricate carvings beneath the overgrowth. Penelope pushes aside a tangle of leaves and glimpses faintly etched symbols: cornucopias spilling their bounty, eyes wide and watchful, and honeycombs in orderly rows. The designs spiral in three bands around the cube, almost too deliberate in their precision.

Perhaps these are symbols of fertility and life to lend hope to the grieving, that there is a bounty in the next life that awaits the departed. When she touches the finely engraved lines of grapes, gourds, and grain, a stranger intrudes upon her thoughts. A word, whispered from within, like the memory of a sound so clear it is experienced.

Harvest.

The clouds shift, and sunlight breaks over the clearing, casting the obelisk’s shadow long and sharp across the ground. She notices faint text carved near the base of the spire, just visible in the light. The letters are Latin, worn to the edge of legibility, their meaning obscured. Penelope stares at them, her chest tightening.

Dorian comes running up beside her. “Hey, did you notice these pipes are–”

His foot slams into something hard in the brush with a metallic clang. “Yeargh,” he cries, grabbing his toes and hopping back on one foot. Penelope catches him then looks where he kicked: the shrubs at the base of the statue. Stooping down low to part the branches and vines, she discovers that these metal pipes all come up from the soil and lead into the monument.

“Look,” she says, pointing.

“They all lead into the statue,” our brother replies. “So what? Does it move?”

She circles around the obelisk, her hands trailing around the overgrown rock in search of clues. “Maybe the pipes don’t go into it, they go somewhere else.” She crouches low to tug at the green mass of shrubbery and vines at the base. “Get one of the shovels so we can dig up these bushes.”

Dorian trudges off in search of a tool, leaving Penelope to wrestle with the bushes alone. Planting a boot firmly against the granite base, she grips one of the shrubs with both hands and pulls. Stubborn roots cling tight to the earth but, with a sharp snap and a grunt, she tears it free, dirt scattering around her feet. What she reveals is underwhelming—a smooth continuation of the granite block disappearing into the ground. She crouches and digs with her hands, but the deeper she goes, deeper still goes the stone.

“How far does this go?” she mutters, glancing up at the towering obelisk towering above.

When our brother returns, he has a half-broken shovel with the handle snapped near the end. “This was the best one I could find.” He shakes a lump of clay loose from the spade edge. “You trying to dig up the whole statue?”

Penelope dusts her hands off. “Wouldn’t surprise me if we couldn’t get deep enough. This rock is–” Another tinkling of chimes catches her ear and a shimmering orbs darts behind our brother. “Did you see that?” she gasps, running past him and around the statue in pursuit.

“See what?” our brother asks.

Penelope turns a corner and the ball of light swings left around the next. She peeks her head around the other side and the orb is hovering overhead, dancing from emblem to emblem, making circles that create trails of light that loop together. Shimmering dust the color of an oil slick clings to the stone.

General Mathers and his ilk are a secretive, pastoral breed – solemn men who wield secrecy like a shepherd’s crook. To conquer their deceptions, one would need to know what was hidden. Or to be instructed on where to look. Fortunately for my sister, my light shall serve as her instructor. Leading her around once again, my orb finds purchase on the ground. Circling up and down in a twinkling halo, the light finally disperses in a cloud of sparkling dust.

“There,” Penelope says, pointing where it landed.

Dorian swings the shovel in his hands then brings the end of the spade down on the soil with a metallic clang. “Wait, was that wood?” Stomping on the ground to no avail, he heaves down on the soil again and exhumes as much dirt as he can lift with both hands. “It is wood!”

Buried under two or three inches of dirt, gashed from a recent shovel strike but still intact – a wooden hatch, like the entrance to a root cellar. But why would one build it in a graveyard, and to what end? Penelope hurries in search of another tool and when she returns the two make quick work of unearthing it.

“It’s a door,” she says, wiping her forehead, “and I’ve got a good idea what we’ll find in there.”

“You’re going down there?!”

“No,” Penelope says, throwing the door open. Wooden stairs descend into the darkness, disappearing in shadow. “We are going down there.”

“I don’t know… we should come back with a light–”

Ever the careerist, Doctor Arthwitte insists that his pupil carry a spare flint lighter at all times. “I’ll go first,” Penelope says, striking a light. Flame in one hand, our sister begins her descent. When the flickering orange of her beacon dims, our brother reluctantly follows.

#

At the base of the stairs is a narrow corridor of dirt supported by lacquered wooden beams. The hall stretches out for another five feet and ends at an open doorway. Where it leads, neither can be sure, for the darkness obscures anything within. Penelope slowly leads the way with her lighter, and our brother trails behind.

“Who do you think built this?”

“I have my suspicions,” Penelope replies. Holding the flame a little higher, she illuminates a light bulb screwed into a base secured to the rafter. A long cable extends from it, back down the hall, where it meets another bulb, and on into the abyss. “Do you see that?”

“Yeah, but how would it work?”

“Seems like the General’s ban on electricity had a hold out,” Penelope says. “Maybe there’s a battery or a–” She freezes at the threshold when she sees it: shadows flickering in the dim light may obscure the finer details, but the metal contraption of tubes and motors takes up the entire back of the room. In front of it is a small altar of wood, no more than a long table. “A generator.”

Diesel-electric by the looks of it, although my sister was always more gifted in these endeavors than I. Exhaust pipes lead up from the device and out through the dirt ceiling. Rows of dials and pressure gauges – steam, voltage, RPM – all dead, their glass cases cracked or clouded. Coiled wires snake out of the generator. Fastened to the ceiling, they run out along the beams to the hallways behind her. Pistons lay still, and the rusty lever the size of my sister’s forearm extends from the control panel beside them.

Though she pulls with all her might, using both hands and her legs for leverage, it does not move. Perhaps it is rusted in place, or perhaps this generator has sat cold for so long that it will never run again. Regardless, when her gaze turns to the floor Penelope realizes that there is a third set of footprints in the dirt – they are not the only ones who have been down in this cellar recently.

“Dorian,” she says, “come look at this.”

“Maybe you should see this,” he replies, stepping into her dim light with a book in hand. The tome is old and leather-bound, the markings on the cover weathered and illegible. “I think we found the old man’s secret library.”

“Where did you get that?”

Dorian strikes his own lighter and guides her to the far wall where alcoves carved and reinforced with wood form a series of shelves on the dirt wall. Penelope scans their spines, trailing her finger behind, until she comes upon an empty spot. “Is there where you go your book?” she asks.

“No,” he replies, returning his to the shelf at the end of the room. “Why?”

“A book is missing.”

“Do you think it was… Olivia’s book?”

Penelope doesn’t know what to think. If the missing book is mine, then that would mean the General once had it. That would mean Marcel got it from this library, and that the third set of footprints are his – but how did my book find its way to a cabin out in the forest? Who put it there? And to what end? Frustrated, she raps her fingers against the generator’s control panel, flicking the dials every fifth or sixth tap.

“Look at this,” Dorian says, examining the other wall. “It’s like Arthwitte’s home office but creepier.” Alcoves have been built into this one as well, where glass orbs on podiums, crystals of every sort from quartz to amethyst, cast iron bowls with flint and parchment, all sit. He picks up a little stick, a piece of smooth, polished oak, and swings it around. “You think the General tried to cast spells down here?” Swishing the wand then flicking his wrist, he strikes what – he believes – is a menacing pose. “But that doesn’t make sense – wouldn’t the generator make it not work?”

“Why?”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying, right?” Dorian twirls his hands around then poses again, as if emiting invisible fireballs from the tip. “Electricity interferes with his magic, so why have a generator at all?”

That’s when it dawns upon her. If either of my siblings were blessed with True Sight, they would see a thin beam of light arcing over my sister, a halo that rains a curtain of glittering dust on her shoulders, a crown that shines as her eyes brighten. The divinity of inspiration: it all seems so obvious to her, so simple, yet she had never considered the possibility before.

“We’re getting that book back,” Penelope takes off in a mad dash down the darkened hall before Dorian can call for her to wait. “Follow me!”