the bottom of the coffin, by the false feet. “This is Ma’s cloak. The one Nanna Ellen wore that night we followed her out to the bog.”
Before I could argue, she pushed her finger through the small hole on the right sleeve. The same hole I identified it by all those years earlier. The material was matted and worn but familiar nonetheless.
“How can that be?” I heard myself say. “Wasn’t he buried before we saw her that night?”
“I’ll have to confirm the dates, but I think so, yes.”
We both stared at the cloak for some time, neither sure of what to say next. None of this made sense. Matilda worked the material nervously with her fingers. “There’s something in the pocket.”
She reached inside and withdrew the most stunning necklace, a gold chain with a heart of shimmering diamonds surrounding a red ruby of an unimaginably large size.
“That is extraordinary. May I?”
Matilda handed the necklace to me. The jewels had heft in my hands, more so than I expected. And they sparkled so! I daresay, I could barely drag my eyes away. The jewels were of exquisite quality and had been mounted by a skilled hand, for I couldn’t determine what held them all together in place. The ruby was a deep red, and as I stared at it in the palm of my hand I couldn’t help but think of a drop of blood afloat on a sea of light. I couldn’t begin to imagine what such a piece would cost.
I returned the necklace to Matilda. She placed it carefully back into the coffin atop the cloak. “What of the book?”
Although I had been taken by the jewels, her thoughts were still clearly fixed on Ma’s cloak, her fingers continuing to work the material nervously. She let go with some trepidation and reached for the small book—old as well, I could see that much from where I sat, the pages yellowed. Matilda opened to the first page, her eyes scanning the text, first going wide, then narrowing as she flipped to the next page and the next after that.
“What is it?”
“It’s in Nanna Ellen’s hand, but I don’t recognize the language,” Matilda said.
“May I?”
She handed me the book and I studied the text. I, too, recognized the handwriting as Nanna Ellen’s, there was no mistaking her carefully executed swirling script. I had seen it as a child on many notes and letters, but the language of origin escaped me as well.
I thumbed through the pages, finding that nearly half the book was filled. Turning back to the first page, I paused and took in the very first line, for even in an unknown language I could figure out what it meant. It was a date:
12 Október 1654.
LETTER FROM MATILDA to ELLEN CRONE, DATED 11 AUGUST 1868
My dearest Ellen,
Oh my, where to begin!
Tonight, Bram and I did what I would have considered unthinkable only a few weeks ago. We dug up the grave of Patrick O’Cuiv! Not only did we accomplish such a ghastly task, we did it under the cloak of darkness long after the cemetery closed. We were in a state of acute apprehension for fear of being discovered by the guard, who, I must admit, executes his office most poorly, for we saw neither hide nor hair of him, not even once. I found all the stealth quite exhilarating.
Dare I say it, we found the most irregular assortment of items within the confines of that pine box. I will touch on these in a moment, but first I would like to point out what we did not find in the coffin—the body of one Patrick O’Cuiv. As I suspected, Mr. O’Cuiv was quite obviously missing from his own burial plot! Someone took the time to place rocks in the coffin as a crude substitute for the body and wrap them in a shroud, but that is all it was. Anyone with half a mind could plainly see this was not a man. The only reason to insert rocks in a coffin in such a manner would be to fool those burying it initially—the men shouldering the coffin to the grave and lowering it in