Where the Dead Talk (7 page)

Pannalancet waved his hand in dismissal.

"Where've they all gone?"

Brewster put down the cutting board after flicking off the last of the potatoes and went over to one of his casks. He told Pannalancet about the militia and the other troops, the officer from earlier in the morning. Pulled down a mug and filled it with a dark ale, brought it over to Pannalancet, who took it with a nod of thanks.

"William with them?" he said. He took a sip of the malty brew, "I need to talk with him."

Brewster shook his head, told him about what he'd seen, what he'd heard.

"Burned?" Pannalancet said.

"The troops mentioned seeing it from the road. Young Thomas was here, looking for help."

"Here?"

"Wouldn't stay – I tried to get him to, but he was overwhelmed, trying to get through to the troops, going on about his house, his father. In all the commotion, he ran off."

The ale suddenly didn't taste of anything in his mouth.

They stood out front a short time later. Across the green, the reverend spotted them, pointed and began saying something to the women out in front.

"He's a sour one," Brewster said.

"Worse than sour. He's dangerous."

A pair of riders came down the way, each with a musket on their backs. They tilted their hats and kept on riding by.

"Been no friend to the village, though many think he's the best they've got," Pannalancet said.

"I wouldn't say many. You would know better than most, too. Yet you've never raised a hand against him."

"I've got more important worries."

"You stuck it out here through some hard years. No one would have blamed you if you'd have moved on."

Pannalancet shook his head.

"Do you know my first memory is of the lake?" he said. "Holding my father's hand, hearing his voice. I can't leave that place."

"Even after everything that happened."

"Even after."

He lifted hat, pushed a stray strand of hair from his face, righted the hat.

"Thanks for the ale," he said. "I need to find the Chases. They're in trouble."

"English soldiers around, they likely are."

"More than that. You see them, send them out to me."

He untied his horse. Brewster came forward, gave the old man a hand up into the saddle.

"Old in spirit's one thing," Pannalancet said, "old in body's for the birds."

"I'll keep my eyes open for William."

Pannalancet pulled the horse around.

"For anything else, too."

"Anything else?"

"Anyone mentions seeing anything odd. You see anything strange, trust your instinct. Especially at night."

A Bruise In The Darkness

They hadn’t been with the militia.

Jonathon kept worrying that thought – worrying it sharp – as he made his way back to West Bradhill. The day faded into cool evening and then darkness as he reached the apple orchards at the edge of the village. None of this was working out. He’d gotten as far as Andover before stopping to rest. To his chagrin, he’d slept most of the afternoon away, waking to the noise of the West Bradhill militia itself marching down the very road he was next to. He decided he’d follow them, then step out when they all reached Boston – his father could hardly have sent him back at that point.

But they hadn’t been there. Not his father, not his uncle. It looked as though old Henry Salter had been leading the men. The thought stung him that his father and uncle were still in West Bradhill, looking for him. With that, he’d turned back.

He came out of the woods near his house, and stopped. The acrid smell of smoke was strong – he’d been smelling it off and on for some time, but he hadn’t thought much of it. His breath caught. The farmhouse was smoking. Red glows brightened and dimmed with the wind, in around the ashen timbers. Jonathon put his hands to the sides of his head. Some cry escaped his mouth.

He ran up the hill. As he got closer, he slowed. The house had burned to black beams. The roof had fallen in, collapsed into charcoal. The smell of burnt wood was so sharp that Jonathon covered his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Words from the week before, from Carolyn echoed in his mind: Father says that he fully expects the garrison at Boston and the garrisons of Quebec to put down the whole countryside, one town at a time. Even West Bradhill will be under their eyes. And they’ll be going after the leaders first.

"No," Jonathon said.

Thomas.

His exhaustion vanished, replaced with fear and anger. He took off in a sprint to the road.

The river dropping down the falls behind the mill was loud in the darkness. The water-wheel was still, the lock before it closed, forcing the water to spill through the opening on the other side. Jonathon stood still as the giant wheel, peering around the corner of his uncle’s mill. He was exhausted. After leaving the grain house, he’d gone north, to the woods that bordered the village, to an old fallen cabin that he and Thomas had often played at, hoping that his younger brother might have escaped to it – it was empty. He’d left his pack there – the straps had dug deep into his shoulders – and went to the river again, and followed it south to his uncle’s.

He ducked back behind the building and followed the wall until he pushed in the back door, slipped inside. Stepping around the gears and large wooden axle that the wheel drove, he found the wall with the tools, hung on pegs. He pulled down a lantern and lit it, then went through to the house. The entryway was all angles and shadows and silence. The hissing of the lantern was loud. He walked from room to room. His shadow spun up behind him on the walls and ceilings, following. It didn’t look as if anyone had been there for days.

He stopped outside of the back study as a piece of glass crunched under his foot. In the room, shattered glass was strewn across the floor; the window was knocked in. He knelt down. A few scratches marred the boards, but he found no blood or signs of what might have happened to his uncle. He went to the stairs. In the lantern light, a clump of soil sat on the second step. It was dry, with a tuft of grass still on one side. He started up and found more bits of earth as he went. The narrow stairway took a ninety-degree turn to the right. Coming up to the floor level above, Jonathon stopped. The hallway led straight back, the far end heavy with shadow. Rooms opened off of the hallway; a bench and a chest filled the landing space next to the top of the stairs. A foul odor hung in the hallway. The doors were all closed, but for the last one on the right.

"Uncle Joseph?" he said.

Silence. A breeze stirred against his face. There was a window at the very end of the hallway, he knew. It was open. The lantern didn’t cut the darkness that far down the hall. Another three steps and he stood at the top. He wrinkled his nose. The smell was strong, wet clay with an unpleasant undertone like rotting meat. Mud was tracked on the floor. He took a few steps down the hallway, the lantern out in front of him.

Something slid across a floorboard behind one of the closed doors.

Jonathon jerked the lantern. The sound had come from one of the rooms on the left. The first room was his cousin Nathan’s; the room was disheveled. Blankets were thrown across the floor, and the bed was flipped on its side. The window was open. Dried dirt smudged the sill. The lantern flickered in the wind from outside. Below, the yard swept down to the slow moving waters after the falls. He turned and looked over the room. Other than disturbed blankets and bed, it was empty. Back at the door, he stopped, listening. A rustle of cloth came from the hallway. Jonathon poked his head out. Nothing moved. He crossed the hall to the door opposite, then bowed his head and listened. Hearing nothing, he opened the door. A narrow closet shared the space with the bricks of the chimney from below. Folded cloth lined a shelf. Boots were arranged on the floor next to a pile of candles.

A thud came from behind him. The skin on his neck began to tighten. He wanted suddenly to get out of the house, to run. Like a swift change in air pressure before a fast summer storm, the atmosphere in the house shifted. He looked toward the stairs. The chest on the landing was open, its lid leaning back against the railing behind it; it had been closed when he’d come up the stairs. Then he saw it: a figure sat with his back to the rail, shoulders hunched, the face a pale dough above dirty clothes. He raised his head and Jonathon yelled. It was his uncle Joseph, dark circles around his eyes and mouth, his skin a drained white. His eyes shone in the light of the lantern with a glimmer of cold quicksilver.

"I had naught to lose," he said, his voice dirt-choked, "because we already lost everything at the burning, when it settled on us. On me, on you."

"Uncle Joseph?" Jonathon said.

The figure began to lean forward, to get slowly to his feet, moving as though he were drunk. The smell of offal hit Jonathon.

"And it was true, that I was a cuckold, and I knew where it come from. I heard."

He got to his feet and began moving toward Jonathon, who backed off, the lantern swinging, rocking his shadow.

"What’s happened?" he said.

"And he begged and wept and swore it weren’t him, but that didn’t stop me. And I killed him, choked him until he turned black, black as the curse that stole our lives."

He came further, blocking the way down the stairs. His uncle’s voice was strained, as though he spoke through a throat full of rocks.

"Buried him out in the woods, just as I buried any hope I’d still had. They were both sick then, dying. But your mother came to me, boy – came to me and treated me right, treated me right half a dozen times, right in the mill, even with her sores weeping, and her fever burning her up inside and out, burning her between her legs…"

He staggered, hitting the wall like he was blind. A sound like a terrible rush of wind rose from the first floor. Jonathon stepped back, sliding along the wall. He dropped the lantern. Something moved on the stairs. A shadow came out of the darkness from below, a bruise in the darkness filling in the hallway behind his uncle. Whatever bravery he'd felt earlier disappeared in a cold wash of terror. He sprinted down to the end of the hallway and turned into the open door on the right, sliding to a stop inside.

Half a dozen pairs of silver eyes broke the shadows. The air was cold and reeked of foul earth. They fell on him.

Hands grabbed him, impossibly strong, pulling him down. He couldn’t swing himself free. His head was smashed down hard against the floorboards and then he was flipped over onto his back. All around him, glimmering eyes moved in and cold flesh pressed against his own, on his hands, on his neck. The eyes suddenly turned from him. Jonathon looked up. The shape of his uncle stood in the doorway, eyes burning cold like distant stars. Jonathon thrashed his arms and legs, to break free. His uncle moved closer, and the shadow he'd seen on the stairs filled in the doorway behind him. Within the shadows was a lanky figure, skin tight over a skull, terrible eyes, black hair in a ghastly fall. The temperature plummeted and the other dead moved away from the door. The figure of his uncle was suddenly hurled past him, thudding into the wall with a grunt. A gravelly whisper came from the doorway. Rough hands wrenched Jonathan’s head upwards, towards the lowering eyes of this new figure. The odor was putrid, overpowering. The more Jonathon struggled, the harder the hands gripped him. The other eyes floating above. Panic took him and he started to scream.

"Help – help! No, no, no..."

After a second, his scream was cut short. The figure in the darkness was on top of him, icy lips clamping over his own. The touch of them was repulsive beyond measure. Jonathon couldn’t get them off. His last breath was of the coldest air he’d ever felt. There was a gagging noise and then a thick liquid filled his mouth. As it began to work its way inside of him, Jonathon could only stare into the eyes, drowning.

And A Bloody Plan

Pomeroy stood on the bank of the brook looking up at the cabin. The horses were gone, the cabin dark. After running and hiding for most of the afternoon, and then stumbling through the darkened woods into the evening in a ridiculous search for the cabin and his horse, he was in no mood for this. He should have tied the boy up, or locked him in. First the child had neglected to mention that armed rebellion had finally begun, then he’d set a bunch of militia on him – and now this.

He kicked the ground in anger and swore.

The door to the cabin was open, a black rectangle. He stepped up onto the porch and paused. In the fireplace inside, the last hints of a fire glowed among ash. He put a hand against the doorframe and looked around. A figure was sitting up on the cot against the far wall.

"Hawkes?" Pomeroy said.

The figure didn’t move. His head hung down, both arms stretched out resting on the knees.

"Private Hawkes," Pomeroy said, more loudly.

A sharp knock came from the against the outside wall. Pomeroy leaned back and looked, but didn’t see anything. The wind must have rattled the trees. He walked inside.

"Well I see you’re awake," he said. "Come on, grab your things, and help me get mine. We’re leaving."

Hawkes lifted his head, and looked terrible. His eyes were black, his skin pale. A wet, rattling cough shook him, and a jet of black liquid spilled from his mouth onto the floor.

"Jesus, man," Pomeroy said.

Hawkes shook his head.

"No good, Major," he said, his voice thick and weak. "He come for me, and knows all of what I did. Every bit. The prison, he knew about what I did – how’d he know about that? Now it’s all inside me. Climbing up behind me eyes."

Pomeroy didn’t move, didn’t want to get any closer to the private. Something was festering in this village, and spreading. All he wanted was his satchel and a weapon.

"Where’s your musket, Hawkes?"

The private groaned, and lay down on his side. He struggled for a breath and then blew out another stream of fluid. It dripped from his mouth and chin, spilling off the side of the wooden cot. There was a sound from the roof, near the back, then a sharp tap came from the small single-paned window at the front. Pomeroy spun. There was a lightning-bolt-shaped crack in the glass. As he looked, there was another light tap, and a small rock bounced off the open door and landed on the floorboards. He looked back at Hawkes, barely discernable in the darkness, then stepped to the door and looked out across the meadow in front of the cabin. On the other side was a stand of young maple.