Read Online Writ on Water by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page B

wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places,’ ” Chloe muttered, quoting Ephesians as she looked at a stone archangel who brandished an upraised sword.
    â€œIs that the way you think of it?” MacGregor asked with a smile. “Then you will like this next part. Follow me and mind the clematis.” He swept aside a thicket of vine with a large hand that would have looked at home carrying a machete.
    â€œWhither thou goest.”
    The following section showed art typical to NewEngland and among the Presbyterians of Scotland: grim reapers with scythes and winged skulls. This section also was marked with the sort of candid epitaphs that spoke plainly of the deceased’s faults and brought joy to the taphophiles of the world.
    Calum Patrick 1741–1780
He was a terrible man,
Cruel to everyone except his wife,
His sons and his friends
    Moira Patrick, beloved wife
1752–1774
Think on what a wife should be
For she was that and more
    Andrew Patrick 1721–1770
He suffers no more
    Edana Patrick 1740–1771
The angels took her home
    Rachael Ryan Patrick 1723–1775
Ever tardy, even to the grave
    Roderick Allen and James David Patrick 1725–1747
Hanged for seeking treasure that didn’t exist
Here lie the ones responsible for this
    Beloved Kelton Patrick 1791–1862
This stone is placed by a mournful wife who will
gladly join him soon
    Ridiculously, Chloe felt tears gathering in her eyes. She heard a noise and turned to find MacGregor sniffling dolefully.
    â€œHere, girl.” He offered a hankie. It was made of lawn and embroidered with a large mp. “This one always makes me sad.”
    â€œThank you.” Chloe felt like an idiot and was glad that Rory Patrick wasn’t around to see her crying. The memento mori didn’t usually affect her, but the art and atmosphere of this cemetery was overwhelming and should have moved even a Philistine. They stood in companionable silence for a minute or two, enjoying their shared moment of sentimentality.
    â€œCome along. Let’s get to the good stuff.” MacGregor wiped a sleeve over his eyes, and when it was lowered he was smiling again.
    Chloe tried not to gape as she followed him. The cemetery had already rendered up the finest collection of funerary monuments she had ever seen outside of Highgate in London and some of the more famous sepulchers of Rome. The Patrick dead—even the animals—had not been stinted; the death houses were world class. What could possibly qualify as “the good stuff”?
    She had her answer soon enough. The last section, set off by a wall of cedars, was the gothic horrors that Rory had referred to. The term wasn’t entirely correct, as they were mostly in a style of gothic revival, which was even more overwrought than the original had been.
    There was a ten-foot-tall statue of Father Time draped in a shroud, exhorting them to “
cast a cold eye on Death.
” There was a tableau of the sea god, Triton, wrestling with a monster from the deep, an eight-by-eight slab that held a chess board with a white alabaster king checkmated by a black marble queen, and—strangest of all—a full-sized grand piano in speckled gray granite with keys picked out in ivory and obsidian. The lid was mercifully down tight.
    Chloe cleared her throat. “What, no pyramids?”
    MacGregor answered seriously, “I haven’t chosen my own monument yet. Perhaps I should look into that. They must still know how to make pyramids in Egypt.”
    So much for injecting some levity into the conversation.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have it made here?”
    â€œNo. Haven’t you been listening, girl?” he demanded. “No one knows about this place. Just Rory’s boys who do the maintenance, Rory, my nephew and me. This place is