Everville (4 page)

Whitney was praying.

"Our Lord, who art in Heaven-,, Maeve moved her head a little, in the hope of glimpsing the trio without drawing attention to herself. Whitney was on his knees, Sturgis was cowering against the tree, and Pottruck was staring up into the canopy waving wildly: "Come on, you fucking shit! Come on!"

Certain she was forgotten, Maeve got to her feet cautiously, reaching out to grab hold of the nearest tree trunk for support. She looked back to her father, who had raised his head a couple of inches off the ground and was staring at Pottruck as he fired up into the thrashing branches.

Sturgis yelled, "Christ, no!," Whitney started to rise from his kneel, and in that same moment, a form that Maeve's bewildered eyes could not quite distinguish from the branches-it had their sweep and their darkness swooped upon Pottruck.

Whatever it was, it was no angel. There were no feathers here. There was no gold or scarlet or blue. The beast was naked, of that she was reasonably certain, and its flesh gleamed. That was all she had time to grasp before it picked Pottruck up and carried him off, up into the canopy.

He screamed and screamed, and Maeve, though she hated the man with a passion, wished he might be saved from his torment, if only to stop his din. She covered her ears but his cries found their way between her fingers, mounting in volume as a terrible rain fell from the branches. First came the rifle, then blood, pattering down. Then one of Pottruck's arms, followed by a piece of flesh she could not distinguish; and another. And still he screamed, though the patter of the blood had become a downpour, and the snaking part of his innards dropped from the tree in a glistening loop.

Suddenly, Sturgis was rising from his hiding place, and began to fire into the tree. Perhaps he put Pottruck from his misery, perhaps the beast simply took out the man's throat. Whichever, the terrible sound ceased, and a moment later Pottruck's body, so mangled it looked barely human, fell from the branches and lay steaming on the ground.

The canopy stilled. Sturgis backed away into the shadows, stifling his sobs. Maeve froze, praying that Whitney would go with him. But he did not. Instead he started towards her father.

"See what you did, calling the Evil One?" he said.

"I-didn't-call anybody," Han-non gasped.

"You tell it to go back to the pit, O'Connell. You tell it!"

Maeve looked back in Sturgis's direction. The man had fled. But her gaze fell on Pottruck's rifle, which lay beneath the dripping branches a yard from his corpse.

"You repent," Whitney was saying to Harmon. "You send that devil back where it came from, or I'm going to blow off your hands, then your pecker, till you're begging to repent."

With Sturgis gone and Whitney's back turned, Maeve didn't need much caution. Eyes cast up towards the branches, where she was certain the beasts still squatted, she started towards the rifle. She could see no sign of the creature-the mesh of branches was too thick-but she could feel its gaze on her.

"Please... " she whispered to it, the syllables too soft to attract Whitney's attention, "don't hurt... me."

The squatter made no move. Not a twig shook; not a needle fell.

She glanced down at the ground. Pottruck's body lay sprawled in front of her, a nonsense now. She'd seen corpses before. Dead in Irish ditches, dead in Liverpool gutters, dead along the trail to the promised land. This one was bloodier than most, but it didn't move her. She stepped over it and stooped to pick up the rifle.

As she did so she heard the thing above her expel a sighing breath. She froze, heart thumping, waiting for the claws to come and pluck her up. But no. Just another sigh, almost sorrowful. She knew it wasn't wise to linger here a moment longer than she needed, but she couldn't keep her curiosity in check. She rose with the rifle, and looked back up into the knot of branches. As she did so a drop of blood hit her cheek, and a second fell between her parted lips. It was not Pottruck's blood, she knew that the moment it hit her tongue. The drop was not salty, but sweet, like honey, and though she knew it was coming from the beast

(Pottruck's aim had not been so wild after all, it seemed), her hunger overcame any niceties. She opened her mouth a little wider, hoping another drop would come her way, and she was not disappointed. A little shower of drops struck her upturned face, some of them finding her mouth. Her throat ran with spittle, and she could not help but sigh with pleasure at the taste.

The creature in the tree moved now, and she briefly glimpsed its form. Its wings were open wide, as though it was ready to swoop upon her; its head-if she read the shadows right@ocked a little. And still the blood came, the drops no longer missing her mouth but falling directly upon her tongue. This was no accident, she knew. The beast was feeding her; squeezing its wounded flesh above her face like a honey-soaked sponge.

It was a moan from her father that stiffed her from the strange reverie that had overtaken her. She looked away from her nourisher, and back through the trees. Whitney was crouching beside Harmon's body, his rifle at her father's head.

She started towards them, lighter and fleeter than she'd been in weeks. Her belly no longer ached. Her head no longerspun.

Whitney did not see her until she was six or seven yards away, Pottruck's bloodied rifle pointing directly at him. She had never used a weapon like this before, but at such a distance, it would be difficult to discharge it without doing some harm. Plainly the tormentor made the same calculation, because his face grew fretful at the sight of her.

"You should be careful with that, child," he said.

"You leave Papa alone." "I wasn't touching him."

"Liar."

"I wasn't. I swear."

"Maeve, my sweet-" Harmon murmured, raising his head with no little difficulty, "go back to the wagon. Please. There's something-something terrible here."

"No, there isn't," Maeve replied, the blood of the beast still sweet on her tongue. "It's not going to hurt us." She looked back at Whitney.

"We've got to get my Papa fixed up, before he dies. You put down your rifle." Whitney did so, and Maeve approached, keeping her own weapon pointed in his direction while she looked upon her father. He was a pitiful sight, his jacket and shirt dark with blood from collar to belt.

"Help him up," she told Whitney. "Which way is it back to the wagons?"

"You go, child," Harmon said softly. "I got no life left in me."

"That's not true. We'll get you to the wagons and Mrs. Winthrop can bandage you up-"

"No," Harmon said. "It's too late."

Maeve came to her father's side, and looked directly down into his eyes.

"You've got to get well," she said, "or what'll happen to Everville?"

"it was a fine dream I dreamed," he murmured, raising his trembling hand towards her. She took it. "But you're finer, child," he said. "You're the finest dream I ever had. And it's not so hard to die, knowing you're in the world."

Then his eyes flickered closed.

"Papa?" she said. "Papa?"

"He's gone to Hell-" Whitney murmured.

She looked up at him. He was smiling. The tears she'd held back now came in a bitter flood of sorrow, and of rage-and she went down on her knees beside her father, pressing her face against his cold cheek.

"Listen to me@' she said to him. Did she feel a tremor in his body, as though he were still holding on to a tiny piece of life, listening to his child's voice in the darkness?

"I'm going to build it, Papa," she whispered. "I am. I promise. It won't be just a dream-"

As she finished speaking she felt a feather breath against her cheek, and she knew he had heard her. And having heard, had let go.

The joy of that knowledge was short-lived.

"You're not going to build anything," Whitney said.

She looked up at him. He had reclaimed his weapon, and was pointing it at her heart.

"Stand up," he said. As she did so he knocked Pottruck's rifle from her hand. "Your tears don't impress me none," he went on. "You're going'

the way of your Daddy."

She raised her arms in front of her as though her palms might deflect his bullets. "Please@' she murmured, stumbling backwards.

"Stand still," he yelled, and as he yelled he fired, the bullet striking the ground inches from her feet. "You're coming with me, in case that devil your Daddy raised comes calling again."

He had no sooner spoken that there was a disturbance in the branches a few yards behind him.

"Oh Lord in Heaven-" Whitney breathed, and rushed at Maeve, spinning her around and pulling her back against his body. She sobbed for him not to hurt her, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and hauled her on to her tiptoes. Then he started to back away from the spot where the canopy was shaking, with Maeve obliged to match him step for step. they had taken maybe six paces when the shaking stopped. The wounded beast was not prepared to risk another bullet, it seemed. Whitney's panicked breaths became a little more regular. "It's going to be all right," he said. "I got the Lord watching over me."

He'd no sooner spoken than the beast erupted, moving through the trees overhead with such speed and violence that entire boughs came crashing down. Maeve took her chance. She reached up and stabbed her nails into Whitney's hand, twisting her body as she did so. Her greasy hair slipped from his fist, and before he could catch hold of her again she was away, seeking the shelter of the nearest tree.

She'd taken three strides, no more, when what she took to be two branches dropped in front of her. As she raised her arms to cover her face, she realized her error. The limbs grabbed hold of her, their fingers long enough to meet around her waist. Her breath went out of her in a, rush, and she was hauled off the ground and up into the shelter of trees.

Whitney fired, and fired again, but her wounded savior was as quick in his retreat as he'd been to snatch her away. "Hold on," he told her, his hands hot against her, and even before she'd even found proper purchase went off through the canopy, his wings slicing the branches like twin scydies as they labored to carry the beast and his burden skyward.

She had forgotten the trumpets. But now, as her savior bore her up through the trees, the music came again, more splendid than ever.

"The Lady comes," the creature said, alarm in his voice, and without warning began to descend again with such speed she almost lost her hold on him and was spilled from his arms.

"What lady?" she asked him, studying the shadows that hid his face from her.

"Better you not know," he said. The ground was in sight now. "Don't look at me," he warned her as they cleared the lower branches, "or I'll have to put out your eyes."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Oh wouldn't I?" he replied, his hand coming up over her face so swiftly she didn't have time to catch her breath before mouth, nose, and eyes were sealed. She drew what little The air was trapped between her face and his palm. It smelled like his blood had tasted: sweet and appetizing. Opening her mouth, she pressed her tongue against his skin.

"I think you'd eat me alive if you could," he said. By his tone, it was plain the thought amused him.

She felt solid earth beneath her feet, and again he spoke, his mouth so close to her ear his beard or his mustache tickled her lobe.

"You're right, child. I can't blind you. But I beg you, when I take my hand from your face, close your eyes and keep them closed, and I will go from you whistling. When you can no longer hear me, open your eyes. But for your heart's sake@n and only then. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and he took his hand from her face. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way while he spoke again. "Go back to your family," he told her.

"My Papa's dead."

"Your Mama, then?"

"She's dead too. And Whitney'll kill me as soon as he sees me. He thinks I'm the Devil's child. He thinks you're a demon that my father conjured up."

The creature laughed at this out loud.

"You're not from Hell, are you?" she asked. "No, I'm not."

"Are you an angel then?"

"No, not that either."

"What then?"

"I told you: Better you not know." The trumpets were sounding again. ceremony's about to begin. I have to go. I wish I could do more for you, child, but I cannot" He laid his fingers tightly upon her eyelids.

"Eyes closed until I'm gone."

"Yes

"You promise me?"

"I promise." His fingers were removed, and he began to whistle some pretty little tune, breaking it only to say: "Say nothing of this, to anyone," then picking up the melody again to mask his departure.

A promise made with fingers crossed was no promise at all; Maeve had known this from the age of five. Uncrossing her fingers now, she waited until the sound of whistling retreated just a little, then opened her eyes. Their flight had apparently taken them some considerable way up the mountain, because the ground around the rock on which he'd set her was steeply sloped. Far fewer ums grew here; and there was consequently far more light. She could see the sky overhead snow had stopped, the parting clouds tinged a delicate pink by the setting sun-and when she cast her eyes up the Mountainside in pursuit of the whistler she found him readily enough. At this distance, she could make out almost no detail of his appearance, but she was determined not to be denied it long. Climbing down off the boulder, she started after him.

It was hard going. The dirt and rotted needles slid away beneath her feet and hands as she climbed, and several times she had to scrabble for a root or a stone to keep herself from sliding back down the slope. The distance between herself and the beast grew steadily wider, and just as she began to fear losing sight of him altogether the same roseate light that had tinged the clouds overhead came between the trees, and with it a balmy air the like of which she'd not felt on her face in a month or more. The trees were more widely spread than ever, and between them she could see something of the slope beyond. It rose in a snowy sweep up to the top of the mountain, where the clouds had cleared completely, so that the peak stood against a sky pricked with the first of the stars. Their glimmer, however, could not compete with the lights shed on the snow field below, the source of which Maeve did not discover until she was a few yards from the edge of the trees.