Death Watch (10 page)

“Please. Do look more closely.”

Uncle watched as Silas rose up on his toes and bent over to examine the contents of all the shelves he could reach. Sometimes he nodded, as if he might know what an object was. With others, his nephew simply turned a particular specimen over and over in his hands, both mystified and apparently fascinated.

“I see you are intrigued by Egyptian funerary sculpture.”

Silas had been looking at a small ceramic statue in the shape of a wrapped mummy. It was no more than ten inches long, glazed bright blue, with a short inscription carved down the front length of its body and a longer text incised down its back.

“I am here,” Uncle intoned.

Silas was amused at this, and replied, “I know. I am here too. We’re both here.”

“Ha! What a wit you have. No, no. That is what the little man
says: ‘I am here.’ The Egyptians believed that when one read the inscription, the figure would come to life in the tomb to serve its master, because in order for some to enjoy eternity, others must perform a service. Reasonable enough, no? Surely you see the wisdom of such a doctrine? The honor of enabling the immortality of your betters. Isn’t that wonderful? Your father, forgive me for saying so, could never see the elegance of such a practical philosophy. If only I could get it to work! This house hasn’t had a full staff for years.”

“Did you collect all these yourself?” asked Silas with genuine interest, ignoring his uncle’s attempts at humor.

Uncle wondered if the boy might not be a little resentful at the cost of adding to or maintaining such a collection while he and his mother were, in essence, homeless.

“Oh, no, Silas. Much of this collection goes back a very long time. And this is by no means all of it. Your father, I think, spirited away a number of intriguing pieces over the years, although I suspect they were sold. What you see here is the work of many generations of Umbers. Some of these specimens were brought over the sea with the first of our ancestors who came to Lichport. And, of course, through my business, I have been able to add many excellent objects to these shelves.”

Uncle walked to the end of the drawing room and opened his favorite cabinet. Here he kept what he called the “experimental” pieces.

“Look here,” Uncle said, as he beckoned Silas over to him with one hand and held up a large bottle of blue glass. “Herein, tradition and the auction record assert, a homunculus was grown in the eighteenth century.”

Uncle could see his nephew was unfamiliar with this term and elaborated.

“Homunculus … a little man. Certain preparations were
made, all very secret, some say involving mandrake root, others insist … well, on even more obscure methods. All manner of ingredients were put into this bottle, which was then buried in dung, for warmth, for the span of thirty days. When that time had passed, a little man would have formed within the glass. Wondrous. Fed on honey and milk. When grown, it would protect its maker and might live forever.”

Uncle handed the bottle to Silas, who held it up to the light and peered inside. Uncle could see him scrutinize its contents. Had the boy perhaps noticed the small pile of dust encrusted on the bottom or that tiny, partially formed bone? Uncle gently took the bottle from Silas’s hands and returned it to the shelf.

“It is my hope you will enjoy studying the objects collected here, Silas. This is your house now. These things were all collected by your relatives. So now, you and I, we are the keepers of these sacred things. It is our job, indeed, our obligation, to learn as much as we can about them and their secrets.”

Uncle saw his nephew’s eyes glimmer with what appeared to be pleasant surprise at being tasked with such a responsibility. “What else would you like to know about?” Uncle asked him.

“Everything,” Silas said, staring at a bowl filled with carved jade cicadas.

“Would you believe that in ancient China, these were inserted into the corpses of the elite to insure their place in the afterlife? The cicada was seen as immortal, the human body merely a cocoon, a requisite prelude to eternity brought about by the metamorphosis of death. Why, did you know, in Persia they …” He paused momentarily, smiled at his nephew’s obvious fascination, and said, “Perhaps we should find you a notebook.”

S
ILAS WAS HUNGRY
. He had spent all day in the drawing room taking notes, listening to his uncle, and making his own small drawings of some of the ancient things. He was still resolved not to like his uncle, but now that Silas knew he was part owner, in a way, of everything in that room, he was determined to enjoy his share of the “inheritance,” even if it all technically belonged to someone else.

His mother hadn’t cooked at all in the weeks leading up to the move, so both of them had made do on canned soup and whatever else they could find in the pantry. Now on the table in front of him, set out on an intricately worked but yellowing lace tablecloth, was more food than he’d seen in one place in a long time. Strange, though, Silas thought, because little if any of it that he could see was fresh or cooked. Maybe this was the custom in Lichport? There were several kinds of pickled vegetables and preserved fruits, olives swimming in little china bowls of brine, salted nuts, some kind of smoked fish, and a silver platter of thinly sliced cured meats. The room smelled like vinegar and melting wax, which was dripping from numerous tall candles set into tarnished silver candleholders. There were so many candles burning that the room felt warm. Maybe his uncle thought his mother looked better in candlelight.

“I hope you are fond of preserves. These days, who knows where things come from or who might have handled them. The
eggs were a bit of a treat for your welcome breakfast, but I think you’ll find our usual fare far more sustaining, in the long run.”

Looking out over the table, Silas’s stomach knotted with appetite, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. More than anything, suddenly, all he wanted was fresh food. How long have those olives been around, he wondered. Everything that comes from the earth must return to it. Everything. Yet here was a dinner of
remains
. So even when his uncle invited him, saying, “Sample anything you like, be at home here, my boy,” it only made Silas feel worse. It was as though eating even a single mouthful would have been the signature on some kind of unspoken bargain between him and his uncle. Although his uncle hadn’t asked anything of him, Silas knew one bite would let some other world inside him, into his mouth and stomach, and the thought sickened him. He told himself he was just tired, that it was too much too soon; that it was all too new. After all, he’d enjoyed exploring the museum in the other room, and breakfast had been good. Why should he feel so differently when it came to this food?
Enough
, Silas told himself,
enough. Give the place a chance…
.

“Do you have any fruit?” Silas asked in a low, queasy voice.

“Oh, Silas!” his mother exclaimed, clearly embarrassed.

“I’m sure there’s something, maybe a jar of peaches, in the kitchen,” his uncle said, as he strained to keep the tight, sharp edges of his mouth pulled upward in a not particularly pleasant smile.

“I think you’re out of peaches.”

“Really? There must be more in the cellar. But I see by your hesitancy we’ve offended you already. Well, we shall all have to become accustomed to one another’s ways, I think. In the fullness of time, in the fullness of time! In the meantime, let me see what I can find for you.”

“Don’t trouble yourself!” his mother called after Uncle, but he was already up from his chair and headed into the kitchen.

A minute later Uncle returned, beaming, holding a small silver tray with a single red apple perched precisely in its center. He set this down in front of Silas with mock ceremony, smiling all the time, and returned to his dinner, which, never having been cooked, had not cooled noticeably in his absence, but smelled as though it had warmed slightly in the heavy air of the dining room.

Silas thanked him and looked down at the apple. He picked it up to take a bite. It felt soft in his hand, and as he turned the apple around, he saw the other side was brown and bruised with rot. Uncle seemed to smile with self-satisfaction as Silas returned the apple quickly to the tray and rubbed his hand on his napkin.

“You see? Preserved is always best. Lasts nearly forever that way. No nasty surprises. Now,” Uncle said, apparently prepared to mount the aforementioned expedition to the cellar for dessert. “Who wants jarred peaches?”

Silas chose to restrict himself mostly to nuts and olives because they seemed somehow safer, more natural than the strips of translucent meat. He had been eating slowly, as he watched the two of them talk for over an hour, and what a script. His uncle appeared almost gleeful as he talked about the other families in town who were dying out, or leaving, as if he wanted the town all to himself. There was an edge to his uncle’s tone that seemed arrogant and a little mean: a note of superiority.

His mom and Uncle then turned to Amos as a topic of conversation. Although they were clearly being careful about what they said, trying to be pleasant, cordial, respectful, every now and again one of them said something that proved neither of them had much esteem for Amos Umber. Silas looked down at
his plate while they spoke, chasing olives around with a fork.

“Always undependable,” one said.

“A little weak when it most mattered,” replied the other.

“Youthful temperament, even later in life.”

“Soft.”

Silas pretended to be distracted, allowing them to continue talking freely as if they were alone.

His uncle and his mother seemed to agree on everything they said about his dad, but there was something different about the tone of their comments. Silas tried to read the rise and fall of their voices, the angles of their necks, the arch of their eyebrows, and after a while, he thought he saw what the difference was. His mother was pretending, trying to convince herself that Amos was dead and she knew what had happened to him. His uncle, Silas suddenly felt, was lying and rather enjoyed doing it. Uncle knew something about his father. And worse, Uncle seemed to take pleasure from knowing things other people didn’t. Silas did not like thinking this about the man who’d given them a place to live, but there was a sort of smirk hidden inside his uncle’s words that made Silas feel like he was being laughed at. He knew that tone. He’d heard it often enough from kids at school, from the ones who’d look at you like you weren’t worth talking to, from the ones who looked at your unfashionable clothes, or the shape of your face, and told everyone else that you were a freak. Silas was scared of those kids, because usually, those were the ones who didn’t think that normal rules applied to them, the ones who thought they could get away with anything.

Eager to be thought a pleasant conversationalist, his mother had been asking a string of questions as the candles at the dinner table burned lower and lower in their tarnished silver candelabras. Uncle answered everything cordially, although Silas could see him
gently steer his mother away from certain topics, like his wife. It was clear to Silas that his uncle didn’t care much for that topic when Uncle said merely, “Oh, I hardly think of her anymore. I mean to say that a man can only endure so much heartache and then must either expire, or do the best he can and not look back.” Dolores looked impressed with his answer and so continued on, obviously enjoying having a man’s attention on her, especially when there was candlelight to improve her complexion.

Silas tried not to look at his mother, because she had this simpering smile plastered across her face every time she gazed across the table at Uncle.

“And what of Adam? Still off at school, is he? You must be so very proud of him. A son at college in Europe! What parent wouldn’t be bursting with pride at such a child?”

Silas deliberately ignored that question, which he knew was as much for him as it was for Uncle. It was going to be one of those nights where she’d sink her teeth into a topic and keep chewing and chewing at it.

Uncle looked up just briefly and then replied, “Oh, goodness yes, though that boy is costing me a fortune in upkeep! Not to mention tuition. But I don’t begrudge it. When he graduates, he’ll have his pick of careers. He’ll move in the best circles. He’ll have a life I never had.”

Silas lifted his head at this. “You seem to have done all right for yourself, Uncle.”

“You mistake me, Silas. Yes, I have done well and am comfortable here, but I have, on occasion, longed for a life somewhere else. Though I have been fortunate in Lichport. I have had several businesses. At one time, as I think you know, I dealt in antiquities, and still sell the occasional piece. There was an excellent market for such things here, once, and I sold to galleries and collectors
all over the country. Again, this was some time ago, but I have invested well and have remained immune to the town’s general decline. Perhaps you are not aware, but this town has seen more vibrant days. I have, once or twice, thought of leaving, wondered,
What if
? But this is my place, and I am at ease with my fate. And now that you have come, we might make a new life for ourselves, together.” Uncle gazed across the room, over both their heads, perhaps at his reflection in the window. Somewhat dreamily he said, “Having you here, Silas, well, it’s like getting to live with the son I never had.”