Where the Dead Talk (25 page)

Nothing a little fire couldn’t take care of…

That’s what the Major had said. It had to be.

Never Coming Back

The road curved up between a rolling orchard and a tended field. Pomeroy turned and looked behind them. The smoke from the church rose in a black column. Morrill rode on a ways ahead of them. Once they reached Ipswich, he had every intention of offering Morrill the wad of pound notes he’d kept tucked in his breeches in exchange for the horse. And from there, who knew? Out west perhaps, towards the reaches of the Adirondacks. Or maybe head south, see Philadelphia, or even Richmond – someplace where rebellion hadn’t taken hold. All he’d need was a change of clothes and he’d be as anonymous as he wanted. In any event, a new life was in his hands, and almost within reach now.

Morrill stopped at the high point of the rise in the road, silhouetted against the afternoon sky. Pomeroy pulled up on the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop.

"What is it?" he said.

"Look," Morrill said. He pointed.

The edge of the road sloped down into a small valley of sorts, with a stream twisting a path at the bottom. Beyond was a wall of trees, the start of the thick forest north of the village. A great blackness roiled in the sky over the trees, from deep in the woods.

"Good Christ, what is that?" Pomeroy said.

Behind him, MacGuire’s boys scrambled to that side of the wagon, gawking out at the mass of swirling darkness that towered into the blue.

"Don’t look at it."

It was the tavernkeep. He was in the back of the wagon, lifting himself up..

"Elizabeth, boys," he said, "don’t look at it. Not even you, Major. It’s dangerous, just looking at it."

It certainly was different. Despite the admonition, he didn’t look away. It was no thunderhead, that was clear. The edges of it shimmered, full of motion, thin strands of black spreading out like a web of broken veins. Within the heart, blurry points of light shone through, turning slightly. It was like looking at a patch of night sky through water. Between and around the lights, faint colors shifted and pulsed. The colors were different, and sent something akin to despair running down his neck and scalp. Suddenly, hands were on his shoulders, shaking him, turning him away from the vision in the sky.

"Major."

He tore his eyes away. It was Carolyn.

"Of –" he started to say.

The world shifted out from under him in a terrific wave of vertigo. He slammed his eyes shut and leaned forward. It was like he was tumbling down through empty space.

"Major?"

He opened his eyes and gave his head a shake. The horizon was still spinning. He took in a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Opened them again. The spinning slowed.

"Are you alright?" she said.

He nodded.

"Remind me not to look over there again. Ever."

"The hell is it?" Morrill said.

"Further reminder that we need to get as far away from here as fast as we can, and straight away," Pomeroy said.

He snapped the reins.

Morrill rode along next to them on the right side, keeping the boys distracted from the darkness. The road crested a small rise and cut its way through the thick woods of the eastern half of West Bradhill.

"I don’t think it’s darkness," Jude said. He was sitting up in back with his legs stretched out in front of him. He shifted his weight, grimacing as he did.

"I think it’s emptiness," he went on. "Like we’re seeing through to someplace else."

"You know," Pomeroy said, "as ludicrous as that sounds, I believe you’re right."

Carolyn laid a hand on Pomeroy’s arm that held the reins. She pointed up ahead of them. A horse appeared at a gallop, with a small rider. Pomeroy slowed the wagon.

"Morrill?"

Morrill rode on ahead.

"Can’t tell, Major," he said.

The rider got closer.

"It’s Thomas!" Carolyn said.

The boy rode up to them, the horse breathing hard. He looked half ridiculous up on such a big horse – but no worse for the wear since the day before.

"They were out of ponies?" Pomeroy said.

The boy lowered his eyebrows and glared at him, looking him up and down.

"They were out of soap?" Thomas said.

"Where on earth have you been?" Carolyn said.

Thomas was having difficulty keeping the horse still. It kept wanting to turn and walk. Morrill nudged his own horse closer and reached over and grabbed the halter, steadying the animal.

"Thomas Chase," he said. He spoke slowly to him, letting him see his lips moving, "Is your father here?"

Thomas looked at him, then shook his head.

"No. They got him. They got all of them."

His horse tried to turn, but Morrill held tight.

"But I know where they are, and we can get them," Thomas said.

He pointed to the darkness in the sky beyond the woods and started to tell them what he’d seen. He was talking fast. After a few moments, Pomeroy held up a hand.

"Not likely. You're coming with us. Now," Pomeroy said.

"He’s about to fall off that stallion and break his neck," Carolyn said.

She climbed down from the wagon and walked over to him. She reached up and tried to get him down from the horse. Thomas shook his head.

"Thomas," Carolyn said, looking up at him, "are you hurt?"

"We need to hurry. It’s getting late," he said.

"My feelings exactly," Pomeroy said, "Carolyn, get him into the back of the wagon."

"Come, Thomas –" she said.

He kicked the horse over to his side of the wagon.

"You can help me. I helped you."

"And I helped you right back," Pomeroy said. "And I’ll even do it again and help you get out of here with us."

"No, I mean with the lake. It’s all at the lake – the one we were at. The bodies are there, and the shadows. You need to help. Help me and Nashoonon."

"Far too late for that, boy. It’s too big. We’re leaving. You’re coming with us. What’s-his-name is going to have to help himself."

"He can’t, there are –"

"And we can?" Pomeroy said. "Look at us. I’ve a wounded leg, the tavernkeep a broken shoulder, Mrs. Reverend a bruised everything. Beyond Morrill here, we have two children – not counting yourself – and two women. Not exactly a crack fighting force."

"But –" Thomas said.

"Look – I’d love to march in there at the head of a strong battalion of troops and send every last one of those things back to Hell, but it’s not going to happen. We don’t have much in the way of options, boy."

"But we need to do something," Thomas said, "and I can’t leave without Jonathon."

Carolyn turned her face up to him.

"Thomas," she said, "you’ve been very brave, ever since this started. I know you don’t care for me, for my family – but you need to listen. Jonathon is gone."

"But I found his –"

"I saw him, Thomas. At my house, and later. He’s one of them. I’m very sorry."

"No, he’s not."

He looked to Pomeroy for support. Pomeroy looked away.

"Don’t say that," Thomas said.

She took the reins from his hands.

"Jonathon would be proud – you did what he would have done, everything. But we can’t do anything about what’s happened here, and the longer we stay, the more danger we’re in. We have to leave."

The boy deflated. He certainly had shown some gumption, and Pomeroy was glad to see Carolyn treating him with some care.

"But the others," Thomas said, his voice thickening, "they’re gone, but not Jonathon. I don’t want to be all alone. I don’t want them never coming back."

Carolyn leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. Tears of her own began to roll from the corner of her eyes. Pomeroy frowned – two fine people, and they’d just lost all they had.

"I know, Thomas," she said, "I know."

He watched the boy begin to sob into Carolyn’s embrace and said nothing. Something hardened in his chest. A minute went by, nothing but the wind rising and falling in gentle waves. The boy cried.

"Carolyn," Pomeroy said, softly.

She looked up at him and nodded. She gave Thomas a final squeeze, then stood up and took his hand, leading him around to the back of the wagon. The sun was low enough to start sinking behind the trees that bordered the side of the road as it curved before them. Darkness wasn’t far off – they needed to be away from here before the sun went down.

"Right," Pomeroy said. He flicked the reins and the wagon rocked forward. The wagon bounced on the rutted road.

"Morrill," Pomeroy said, after a time. Nobody had said a word.

"Major?"

"Did you recognize that name, the one the boy mentioned?"

Morrill nodded.

"Nashoonon. Yep. Pennacook, lives up that way in the forest," he said, pointing north. "He’s a young fella. Uncle lives here, too. Used to be a lot more, long time ago."

"And the lake he mentioned?"

"Up in that same area. Middle of the woods. No good for fishin’, or so I’d always heard. Seen it a few times. Coldest damn water you’ll find – I’ve heard it’s the deepest lake round here, so I can believe that."

They moved forward, passing through lengthening shadows.

As they rode, Jude glanced over at the boy – he didn’t look too good; there were circles under his eyes and his skin was pale. The boy looked like his mother, the same eyes. It stirred up memories.

"You hungry? We’ve some hardtack," he said

The Chase boy shook his head. The rest of them were still too numb to do much more than sit. Elizabeth wasn’t speaking with him, wouldn’t even look at him.

"You’re a Chase alright," Jude said, "always in the thick of things, making something happen. Rest of your family, always been the same way."

"They’re gone," Thomas said.

"I’m awful sorry to hear that. Your father’s a good man, and your mother was even better. But listen – you ain’t gone, and don’t forget that, hard as it is. You’ve done them proud, taking care of yourself. A lot of folks older than you weren’t so brave. Most folks ain't deaf, neither."

The Major turned around.

"Trust me, if the rest of the rebels have half the courage and gumption of this one," he said, "then the King is in for a very rude shock."

"You knew my mother?" Thomas said.

Jude nodded.

"She helped me out, more than once. Meant a lot."

He looked at Elizabeth, who continued to ignore him. The darkness loomed above the trees to the north, a shadow of something terrible lurking on the edge of the village. Looking at it, Jude couldn’t shake the feeling that it was meant to be there – that it wasn’t any different from what West Bradhill had always had for him, and for others. Darkness always near. Fell voices speaking out of the depths of midnight, voices that knew the rotted and bruised cores of men’s hearts.

And their secrets.

None of it should have happened the way it did, not for Jude, not for Thomas’s mother April. Not for his aunt, Joseph’s wife. Constance. The darkness held their names for Jude, images of Constance – her eyes, her voice, her laughter. How many nights over the past six years had he seen them as he stared out into the night, alone at the tavern, listening to the wind that moved through a world without her?

It’d been Jude’s fault, or at least every bit of it that counted, as he saw it.

Jude had worked at Joseph’s mill before buying the tavern, and it had started there. Both of them felt it from the start, that was clear enough. Constance would smile at him, bring him food when Joseph was off on a delivery. Conversations that ended in laughter and perhaps an accidental brush of an arm. And then he’d made the first move. And she’d responded. And so it had gone, taking on warmth like the start of spring, even though it had been the shortening days of autumn in the world beyond the one they were creating for themselves. Stolen afternoons, early morning rendezvous, planned detours on the way to town. Each time bringing them closer, stoking what grew between them. In time, even Joseph knew – he just didn’t know who it was. To him, it didn’t make much of a difference; he wouldn’t suffer being cuckolded and a black rage began to simmer. One afternoon, he even told Jude about it, his voice shaking with the barely contained anger and humiliation of it. Jude didn’t say a word.

And then Joseph heard who it was, heard it from the Reverend himself – only the name wasn’t Jude’s.

It was Daniel Turner, the one who’d owned the tavern before Jude had bought it, when it had been called the Grey Mare. The way the Reverend told it, there wasn’t a bit of surprise about it, the way that evil congregated at a tavern, drawn by a brew of alcohol and gossip and braggarts. Joseph’s eyes had grown hard then, his face pinched, as his anger took shape into something sharper, more deadly. By then, it grew even worse – for Constance was with child. Not Joseph’s, she was certain. Too much had happened then, too much for Jude to search out the right things to do, the right course. Nights and days in a state of panic and fear that the wrong move would bring Joseph’s wrath down on him. Constance herself had been terrified, too – and had turned to her sister-in-law for help. They’d made a horrible decision, then. They’d decided that they should still the child in her womb, still it before it could take good root, before it could come forth and damn all of them with the darkness of its innocent skin. To do this, Constance and April had travelled one cold winter day while Joseph had been off, travelled north to the Abenaki village on the shores of the Merrimack River, where it turned to meet the sea. There they had bought the tincture of Wolf Bark that would bring her blood back to her and still the child inside, not yet even showing.

But they had bought something else there, something paid for by the sins of Jude and Constance.

When they returned to West Bradhill, talk was that Daniel Turner had run off, driven out for want of money to pay back his mounting debts. Fled west to the frontier in search of a new start. Course, not all in the village believed that story. A few had heard – maybe from the Reverend, maybe from others – that a tavernkeep is bound to reap what he sows, and Daniel perhaps earned his own. A few others may have noted that Joseph Chase had closed his mill for a day and not been seen, though his dray and team were in clear sight out front. The forest was deep around the village, they all knew; go far enough into it, and a man might be able to hide just about anything with nary a chance of it being found in a decade of summers. And few could blame him for shunning the company of others, of avoiding the tavern, once the pox took hold of his wife. In truth, people in the village tried to stay away from him, away from the dreaded illness. She was eased from the world at the side of her husband and her sister-in-law, April; April, who risked what little she had left exchanging brief notes between Constance and Jude, knowing that they couldn’t again see each other in this world. April, the poor woman, caught the very same sentence, covered quickly in sores and dying in a delirious fever not long after – leaving both the Chase brothers widowers. How they’d come by the illness had been a mystery to most, but not all. The final tally of those who had lost a part of their hearts in the tragedy was unknown by most, but not all. And the secrets that the darkness held, the stains on the human heart hidden by the shadows of the forest and the always cold lake within – well, that also was a mystery to most.