Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (37 page)

Sunday 29 October 1651

Last week was the first time that no townspeople were forced outside the walls. We all suspect this is a sign that O’Neill’s will is breaking. Tho this meant hunger for us, it was worth knowing that the siege might be ending. It also lifted the General’s spirits to the point of risking some men to batter a section of the town wall.

To our surprise, by week’s end, one of O’Neill’s men turned against him and his troops demanded a negotiation with the General. When we entered the town at last, we all fell silent. We knew thousands had lived here at the start, but now less than a hundred remained. A few of the bodies I passed lay face down and I could not help but notice the crescent-shape mark on the back of their necks. This great culling was not only due to O’Neill forcing his citizens to leave but also the Plague.

My only thought was getting home to my wife and, God willing, presenting her with the miracle God had never blessed us with: a son. Dizziness briefly seized me at the thought of a babe surviving the journey, but he hath survived a famine—surely he would survive the journey to his new home. And with the knowledge that home was before me, I touched the boy’s crescent-shaped mark that night and vowed to be a good father, to atone for what we had all done here.

And then the most shocking thing of all—the diary ended there. I stared at the binding for a few seconds and then suddenly recalled where I was. The grandfather clock at the far end of the room read three a.m. I nearly dropped the diary before I realized I had nothing to fear—Dr. Phillips wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

I stared hard at the diary as if I could will the pages to fill themselves with the surgeon’s life after the campaign. Had the child survived the trip? Was he a good father, as he’d promised? Maybe, I thought, maybe I could get a clue to what happened if I read the diary again, more closely. Maybe . . .

And that’s the last thing I remember thinking before I felt a hand on my shoulder.

=[]=

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” Dr. Phillips said, removing the diary from my lap. I wiped the drool from my mouth and swiveled my head painfully, having fallen asleep propped up in the window seat. Fear completely wiped my mind and I stared as the Doctor placed the diary back into its case and settled into the other side of the window seat. Crossing his legs at the knee as he always did, my throat tightened. He’d never sat this close to me.

He looked down thoughtfully at his knee before speaking. “I suppose you have some questions for me,” he began and then looked at me with cool expectation.

I stared at my hands. Was I not going to get punished? Was this a trick question?

I hadn’t spoken in so long that my voice sounded like a croaky whisper. “Is that surgeon . . . are we . . . related?”

The Doctor looked up at the ceiling and seemed to ponder the question. Then he got up and walked across the room to an ornate mirror and turned on the small light above it. He left briefly and returned with something in his hand. He stood in front of the mirror and gestured for me to come to him.

Fearing the punishment was coming at last, my leaden feet dragged as I made the long journey to the mirror. The doctor put his hands on my shoulders and guided me close to the mirror, then pivoted me so my back was to it. He then put a small mirror into my hand, positioning it in front of me but slightly to the left of my face. I looked at him, bewildered. He pointed to the small mirror so I looked into it.

In my shaking hand was the blurry reflection of a small, crescent-shape birthmark on the back of my neck.

I somehow ended up back in the window seat. I spoke the first thought I had. “The baby . . . lived.”

Doctor Phillips nodded.

“And married one of the surgeon’s relatives?”

Doctor Phillips shook his head. “No, but it would be wrong of me to say the child and his descendants were not a part of this family.”

The room began to tilt and I heard myself say, “But I have the mark . . . how . . . “

Never one to miss an opportunity to teach me something, the Doctor turned it back on me. “Well, let’s be logical. Yes, you have the mark. But no, the child never intermarried with the surgeon’s family. The surgeon is related to
my
family. Then what do you conclude?”

I heard myself say, “I would conclude that I am not related to you.”

The Doctor replied, “And you would be correct.”

My voice continued, “And that’s why you’ve always been Dr. Phillips, not . . . not . . . “ I couldn’t bring myself to say
Dad
.

I actually heard the pride in his voice this time. “Nicely done, William.”

He leaned forward and, seeing the deep lines in his face for the first time, I mused on the fact that I didn’t know his age.

“Now,” he said, with an eagerness I’d never heard before, “let’s solve the rest together, shall we? If I am not your father, then my wife . . . “

“Was not . . . my . . . mother,” my voice said.

“Good, William!” the Doctor pronounced. “Then your real mother . . .?”

It’s strange how the brain works under stress. I don’t remember saying anything or even thinking anything, but then I heard my father exclaim, “Excellent, William, excellent!” He was looking excitedly at my hands so I looked down too. My right hand was covering a place on my chest. Sarah’s necklace lay hidden beneath my undershirt, every day.

My face must have shown confusion because he chuckled. He actually chuckled.

“My dear boy,” he said, “Despite what you may think, I too was once a sentimental boy who loved his mother.”

I stared mutely at him, unable to form the question. As usual, he kept one step ahead of me.

“Oh, I’m not a monster, William,” he continued. “Sarah asked me never to tell you. It was her personal request. She was able to be close to you yet felt so grateful that you could be a doctor’s son, that I would be willing to do that for her. And, it was critical that I have a son. It’s part of . . . it’s part of
The Tradition
.”

I was trying not to listen anymore. Instead, I brought out the necklace and looked at the face of my real mother and father. But then I suddenly had a burning question.

“My . . . real father . . . when did he . . . “

“He was 21 when he died of natural causes. You were named after him.”

The name on the headstone flashed in my mind. “Natural . . . ?”

“Yes, William,” and this time the Doctor actually moved closer to me. He reached out and for the first time ever, his hand shook. He placed it on my knee. I stared at his hand, never remembering a single touch from this man I had thought was my father.

“Completely . . . natural . . . causes,” Doctor Phillips’s voice lowered in a conspiratorial tone. “You, William, will be the first outside of the circle of families to know . . . The Tradition.”

I had no idea what he was talking about except that I’d never seen him express any emotion until now. “Why,” I asked in a dead voice.

“Because you are the only child I have and you have turned out . . . perfectly,” he finished. “William, because you want to be a doctor and because you are my only son, I know you can be trusted with The Tradition. I know that you will understand.”

He paused, then continued solemnly, “What I’m about to tell you has not passed outside the circle of families since the seventeenth century. While unplanned, The Tradition evolved into a moral code for the families, one continued solely for the good of humanity, really, for the perpetuation of our very race.”

He cleared his throat. “Quite simply, William,
your
family line has, against all odds, managed just barely to survive despite the genocide of your clan by General Ireton. The Plague, the ongoing war, and sadly, the ah, unfortunate consummation of your people, almost annihilated your clan, William. Except for the baby the surgeon saved. But more importantly, this . . . “ he touched the back of his neck, “your birthmark . . . is the persistent indicator of a genetic defect that guarantees your death before you reach the age of thirty.”

My head suddenly snapped up. “What?”

The old Doctor Phillips returned swiftly. I had interrupted him and his jaw clenched. But then he composed himself. “William, you are . . . you will be fine. I promise you. Now let me continue and you will understand.”

He began again. “Among the families who are related to the surgeon by blood or law,
we
, my family, are the direct descendants. As you know, every male in my family has been a doctor and always had more than one son . . . until me, that is. The surgeon was no exception; he ended up having several sons after adopting the Irish baby. Birthright is everything in England and therefore the land, the house, and all responsibility would always go to the blood-related sons. Not wanting to be cruel, however, your family was always kept on the land as caretakers and treated . . . “

“Like servants,” I finished.

The Doctor stared at me until the room felt frosty. “Like . . .
family
,” he finished at last.

He stared at his knees once more and then cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Perhaps . . . perhaps I’m mistaken. You’ve learned a lot of startling information for a teenage boy. Perhaps that is enough for now.” He stood up, brushed at his pants, and started to leave the room.

“Wait!” I cried, startled at the loudness of my own voice.

He stopped but did not turn around.

I persisted, “Am I going to die?”

He turned around and said seriously, “Not for a very long time, once I take care of things. When you’re ready to know The Tradition, you’ll understand.”

=[]=

The rest of the summer passed quickly, perhaps because I was determined to spend as little time at home as possible. I did everything to forget what I’d learned from Dr. Phillips. The fact that Dr. Phillips was not my father felt like trying on a new pair of shoes that felt stiff and awkward. The fact that Sarah had been my mother and I’d never known my real father felt like my heart was slowly eating itself.

Dr. Phillips set off for England a week before I planned to return to school. Once he left, my restraint against everything he’d told me slowly gave way. The night after he left, thoughts of Sarah, my father, and my genetic curse all overwhelmed me as I tried unsuccessfully to sleep. At some point I gripped the sides of my bed as I realized something: Would any of the servants tell me about my father?

I leapt out of bed and started pacing my room. I had barely interacted with any of them my entire life . . . it was only Sarah that I knew at all. I had never entered one of their houses because Sarah always warned me not to. Now my emotions overwhelmed her warnings.

Not quite sure what I was doing, I got dressed and crept outside. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I made my way toward the forest because I knew the servants’ houses were right behind the first tree line. When I heard the forest floor crunch under the weight of my foot, though, I stopped. It was after eleven at night . . . why did I think anyone would be awake? And even if they were, why would they talk to me?

I’m not sure how long I stood there, but the next thing I recall is a strange sound piercing my thoughts. I tensed, thinking it was an animal, but when I cupped my hand around my ear, I realized it was a woman. Crying.

I half-wished it had been an animal. I’d never seen any woman cry before and just hearing it made me want to run back to the house. When I heard her whimper, “Please God, no!” however, I worried that she might be in trouble and headed quickly toward the source, a dark house no more than twenty feet from me.

A light came on inside just as I was approaching a window. I hesitated, but then peered discretely inside. A man stood over a woman who sat weeping in a rocking chair in front of a cold fire. They both had their backs to me.

“Colleen,” he was saying, “I promise you’ll be okay, it can’t be the same thing Sarah had. That’s not possible.”

She withdrew tissues from a robe pocket and dabbed at her nose and eyes and looked up at him, her lips quivering. “I think we are a cursed lot!”

The man put his lips to her ear and I couldn’t hear what he said.

She blew her nose and then continued. “If it weren’t for Dr. Phillips, I don’t know what would become of us. So many of us suffer so, from God knows what. He’s tireless in trying to help us, but even with yesterday’s injection, I fear that I may soon follow Sarah. I have,” her voice broke, “all the same signs.” And she broke down crying again.

The man drew up a chair beside her and took her hands. William heard him say, “Not contagious.”

“I know, I know you can’t catch cancer,” Colleen said, “but why am I getting all the same signs? I’m so tired I can barely keep up with my duties! But Dr. Phillips, bless him, said not to worry, he would never dream of putting me out, no matter what. And he tends to me and all of us like we were his own. God bless him!” She pressed the tissues to her eyes briefly. “I don’t understand what plagues us. I fear it is a curse because I have no other explanation. Who among us has lived to see thirty? Only Sarah’s child might break the curse . . . thank the Good Lord we have kept him away from us. It has probably saved him.”

I slowly withdrew from the window. I didn’t comprehend what I was hearing, but I became increasingly uncomfortable in my
Peeping Tom
role. I crept silently back to the house.

=[]=

My eavesdropping left me more confused and heartsick. I slept a few hours that night and then tried to actually visit this “Colleen” in the morning, but no one answered to my knock. I glanced at the other houses, all equally quiet.

On my way back to the house, I kept thinking about what she said—all of them were cursed? How was that possible? They weren’t all related, they couldn’t all have the genetic curse Dr. Phillips had described. Wasn’t it bad enough that my people were cursed—how is it that others who came into contact with them were also afflicted with something?