Little Timothy stood beneath a willow tree staring blankly at the pale headstones that surrounded him. He was lost. The raven he had chased was perched in the branches above his head. Its caws rang like laughter as the sun began to set. Timothy snatched up a twig and hurled it defiantly at the big black bird. The raven, unconcerned, watched the twig pass helplessly several feet below. Timothy sank down in desperation against the tree and pulled his knees close to his chest. His heart beat rapidly with fear as he recalled what his older brother had told him.
“We are going to the place that holds dead people,” Richard had maniacally said. “You better be careful or they will come out of the ground and grab you.”
At the time he had not believed Richard, but now he was beginning to wonder. Timothy’s Uncle Fred had passed away; those were the grown up words for ‘he died.’ Timothy had a goldfish that had ‘passed away.’ Its burial consisted of a few words over the porcelain headstone, and pulling the lever down. His mother assured him that Goldfinner was going to a better place. Timothy knew what else was flushed down the toilet and did not believe her. Uncle Fred was supposedly going to a better place too. It had to be better than wherever Goldfinner ended up.
The raven cawed, and Timothy shivered. His eyes darted from tombstone to tombstone. So many names and words that Timothy could not read. The only legible word that seemed common among the stones was “RIP.” Timothy agreed. The cemetery was a ‘rip’. Your favorite people died, and were buried, and you never got to go with them on their fishing boat again. And just when you found something interesting to take your mind off of all the crying, you got lost. And you had to go to the bathroom.
“God,” Timothy muttered, “If you could get me out of this one, I’d be really thankful. I’d even admit to Mom and Dad that I let Richard’s gerbil out of his cage to play with the cat, and you know how that ended.”
“Caw!” Timothy glanced at the raven and noticed it was intent on his every move. “And I’d give you the ten dollars I found under Richard’s bed if you’d zap that crow once real good.” Timothy shouted at the raven. Its only response was another mocking ‘Caw!’
A shiver ran through Timothy, and he could feel the tears welling up inside. He was a big boy, but everyone has his or her limit, and Timothy had reached his. As the first salty droplet ran down his left cheek, Timothy heard a faint whistling. The tune was unrecognizable, but it sounded friendly. Timothy got to his knees and looked around the trunk of the tree. An old man wearing blue overalls and a red flannel shirt was coming up the path. In his left hand was a pair of gardening gloves. His right hand held a red and white handkerchief, which he used to wipe his wrinkled brow. He paused on the road and looked around. After a moment he called out, “Is there a little boy named Timmy around here?” Timothy’s hand rose involuntarily, and he looked at it in wonder. The man saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled. “It’s alright,” he said. “Yer momma sent me to find ya’.”
Timothy swallowed hard and replied, “No offense mister, but I ain’t supposed to talk to strangers, unless they know the password.”
“Yer a wise lad, son. Your mother said ya’ might ask fer the password. She told me it was Goldfinner, though I can’t imagine what that means. If that don’t appease yer fears, I’ll walk several feet in front of ya’, and you can just follow behind ‘til we get back to yer parents.” At this the old man turned and walked back down the path.
Cautiously creeping from behind the willow, Timothy followed the old man. He had given the correct word, but Timothy figured he was better safe than sorry. The raven chattered loudly from behind him. Timothy turned and gave the bird one last glare, stuck out his tongue, and hurried after the old man.
After a while Timothy broke the silence, “Mister, what’s your name?”
“My friends call me Paul.” At this the old man chuckled, “Imagine that,” he called over his shoulder, “Paul leading Timothy.”
Timothy thought the old man was a bit goofy, of course Paul was leading Timothy. He decided to try another question. “How do you know where the exit is?”
“Well, do ya’ know how to get out of yer backyard?” the man quizzed.
“Sure do, that’s easy!”
“This is my backyard. I live in the house at the entrance to the cemetery.”
Timothy’s footsteps ceased, and Paul turned to see Timothy gaping in wonder. “Aren’t you frightened to live here? Bad things happen here. I’ve even seen dead people,” Timothy whispered.
Thinking a moment, Paul nodded, “Yep, bad things can happen here, and yeah there are dead people, but I reckon I’m not overscared none. Not everything that happens here is bad. There are many peaceful days when nothing goes by. Sometimes people come here and remember good things. But occasionally people do go through some pain and suffering here. I figure it’s my job to remind ‘em that they don’t have to stay here. I help people find their way out of the graveyard, even though it means I have to live here and see some bad things happen.”
“Why would you choose to stay here?” Timothy implored.
Smiling, Paul replied, “Well if I weren’t here to remind living folks like yerself that they can leave the graveyard, and show ‘em the way out, then where would you be?”
The wheels in Timothy’s head turned, “Still sitting under that tree praying that God would zap that old crow.”
“Yep. And soon it would get dark and cold, and you’d miss yer mam and pap. Old Paul is here to show ya’ the way out so ya’ don’t have to stay here forever. Now come on before they overworry.”
They walked in silence, Paul a few steps ahead. When they came over the last hill, Timothy saw his mom and dad at the gate of the cemetery. “Hey Paul. Thanks for living in the graveyard and helping me find my way out.”
“That’s what I’m here for Timothy, now run along.”
