New Masta

    Robert White stepped out of his pick-up and shook his head slowly as he looked at the hard, red, Georgia soil pushed to the side of the scalped opening. Even though it was mid-October, it was still warm and dry. The ground had been pretty at one time, full of volunteer pines and scrubby wild permission trees. Strange to Rob, but there was a stand of hyssop anise plants infusing the air with a wonderful aroma.

    The large front-end loader bucket creaked and groaned as it passed through the hardpan. Robert approached the loader, waving his hands above his head. He wanted to yell or whistle but knew the operator would not hear. He was sighted though. The large tractor pulled to one side and the motor set to idle.

    He walked to the side and put his hand on the front wheel. Looking up at the driver, he said, 'Hey buddy, I guess you didn't know you're scraping across the back end of a cemetery. My great-grandfather and other long-lost relatives are buried there."

    Spitting a stream of tobacco juice to the opposite side of the loader, the operator turned back and said, "First off, I ain't your buddy. Second, you don't know what the hell you're talking about. I bought this piece of land and carefully looked at the plat before I started scraping." Pointing to his left, he continued, "The nearest headstones are at least twenty yards over yonder."

    "Look, you may be right about the headstones, but this old cemetery goes back over two hundred years. Some of the folks back then couldn't afford headstones. This used to be part of a large plantation. Most likely there are some slaves buried there. In those cases the gravesite would be marked with rocks, usually the front rock set in the ground upright. I'm looking right at the edge of your scrape, and I can see rocks like I'm talking about."

    "I don't have time to talk to you about slaves or rocks. I'm going to clear this land and put me a trailer right about where you're standing. I guess you better hope I don't put my drain lines over and my septic tank under some of your so-called unmarked graves. I'd hate to think I'd be crapping on your relatives. Now if you don't mind, just move along and let me get back to work." With that, he restarted the engine and moved forward. Robert had to jerk his hand from the wheel and jump back.

    As soon as he got home, he called the County Tax Assessor, Charles Bailey. One benefit of living in a small community is often knowing people who could get you the right information. He and the tax assessor had been friends since fourth grade. They had known each other for fifty years. His friend promised to look into the ownership and boundaries of the site the cemetery was located on. The news, soon received, was not good.

    Charles's phone call gave little hope, "The property search was sketchy at best. The cemetery lines haven't been updated since 1934. What the fellow told you was probably true. It looks like he bought the land and is locating his trailer correctly according to the plat."

    "Look, tomorrow is Saturday. Why don't you come by in the morning and walk to the cemetery with me? It won't take long and then I'll buy you breakfast. We need to catch up with one another anyway."

    Charles arrived at seven a.m. and was greeted with a large mug of coffee. The two got into Rob's truck for the short ride to the cemetery. "You know I don't mind going over with you, but from the records I found, there is little or nothing that can be done. As distasteful as it seems, the guy is in his right to build. I do have a slight argument he might listen to."

    They stopped on the opposite side of the cemetery, so would have to walk through to arrive at the new construction site. The old cemetery was overgrown. In some instances, large trees were growing up through gravesites. Rob finally said, "When my grandma owned all this property, this was all taken care of. Now, look at it. Other than the trees, there was jasmine running all through. Most likely, someone had left some flowering jasmine at the grave of a loved one, and now, it was everywhere. It was almost as if a verdant blanket had been laid out.

    "Do you remember my grandma dragging us over here to help her clean up?"

    "I do remember. Of course, she would always pack us a picnic lunch." Charles pointed to an old fallen-in-stone bench. " She would sit us right there and tell us stories of some of the folks buried here. There was your namesake, Robert White, CSA, who died in 1867. Then there was the sad case of the baby, Ory Smith."

    Rob replied, "My God, you remember more than I do. You were paying attention!"

    "I was. If your grandma thought I wasn’t paying attention, she was apt to thump my noggin! I especially remember her stories of Little Julia. They were spooky ghost stories. As the story was told, at certain times, you could see Little Julia walking around carrying a bucket of cold water. If she asked you if you wanted a drink, you best not take one."

    "I do remember those stories. Little Julia was a slave who died under questionable circumstances. As a younger child, Little Julia couldn't work in the fields. Her job would be to carry a bucket of water around to give the workers a drink. In one instance, an overseer struck out at her from horseback, and in avoiding the blow, she fell and hit her head on a rock and eventually died. From Grandma's story, it was a slow and agonizing death."

    Charles took up from Rob's account and added, "She would have been buried in the section of the cemetery where the guy is putting in his trailer. Maybe all we have to do is pass on the stories of the strange deaths associated with Little Julia. According to your grandma, at least two people saw her walking around the graveyard, accepted her offer of water, and all died horrible deaths. The first got caught up in a sorghum press which crushed his arm and shoulder before they could stop the mule. The second was playing around the barn and jumping off a loft into hay. He didn't know there was a pitchfork in the hay. He was impaled through the eye and head.

    Rob then said, "Don't forget the last one. It got to be a Halloween ritual for some of the high school kids to tramp through the cemetery and look for signs of little Julia. In 1967, a young man claimed to not only see her but also take a swig of the offered water. The following day he was involved in an accident on his motorcycle. He ran it under the back of a dump truck and was decapitated. You know, if I thought it would influence the creep, I'd tell him."

    As they approached the end of the cemetery, they could hear the front-end loader doing its thing. Rob noticed a lot of progress since the previous day. Once again, he waved to get the guy's attention. The guy drove over to where they were standing and turned his machine off.

      "What is it this time? I'm sure you checked and know I'm within my rights on my clearing."

    "Rob replied, "Yes, I checked." Looking over at Charles, he continued, "And this is the guy I checked with. His name is Charles Bailey. He is the County Tax Assessor."

Charles walked over and stuck his hand out. His handshake was reluctantly accepted. He figured, no one wants to piss off the taxman. "The tax records do support your claim. At the same time, I've been coming to this cemetery for years and know what Rob is saying is true. There was a sizable tract with only rock markers. Many of these would have been indigent members of the community and even some slaves. Even they deserve some respect. I've looked at the plat and it looks like if you moved your construction one hundred yards from your site, you should be able to avoid any controversy."

    Perhaps the guy had a spitting problem. He turned from them and spat from the other side of the loader. "They ain't no controversy. I'm building where I'm entitled. I've got too much invested in the current location. This here loader is rented by the day and your request will set me back. Once again, I would ask you to get out of my way. I've got work to do."

    The two shrugged their shoulders and turned to leave. As they neared the end of the cemetery, Rob turned and said, "Watch out for Little Julia."

    Puzzled, the guy wondered, who the hell is Little Julia? He was glad the two didn't look at the front end of his excavation work. He had unearthed a significant amount of bones. He told himself it was nothing. This had been farmland at one time and what he found was most likely old cow bones. He did gorge out a hole, buried the pile of bones, and tamped down the earth.

    Two weeks later, all his work was complete. His trailer was in, and power, water, and septic lines ran. He sat on his small wooden deck, popped a beer, and thought, home, sweet, home. Tilting his can in mock salute toward the cemetery, he said, "Here's to you, ghosties!"

    His first night there, his night was full of strange dreams. He attributed this to the several beers he consumed after dinner. The one common theme was a young black girl who glowed in the dark and was walking around with a wooden bucket of water. A dipper clipped to the side of the bucket. The following evening was Halloween. After sitting down and sipping on several beers, he thought it an appropriate time to walk over to the actual cemetery and introduce himself to his dead neighbors.

    The cemetery was mostly under trees, so, dimmer than the surrounding area. He noticed a faint glow. No one lived close by, so he was curious. Walking through into the cemetery, he paused. He heard a noise sounding like rope scraping on wood. He took a few more paces in and saw a young, black girl carrying a wooden bucket. Just like in his dream. He rubbed and closed his eyes thinking it must still be a dream. He opened his eyes and she was still there.

    She approached him and said, "You be my new 'masta'. Here, take a sip of cool, cool, water." She moved the dipper toward his lips and without thinking, he took a sip. It was remarkable, cool, and sweet. He closed his eyes and rubbed them again. He thought, this just has to be part of a dream. When he opened his eyes, she was gone. Speaking to himself, he said, "This is just creepy. I need to get out of here."

    He turned swiftly and ran towards the opening he came through. His foot got tangled up in jasmine vines. He fell hard and hit his head on an upright rock stuck into the soil. As he lay dying, he saw the young girl again. She looked at him again and said, "Welcome to your new home 'masta'.