Chime (7 page)

Only the vampires can survive. They’re remarkably tough, which is lucky for them, as they don’t embrace country living.

By the time we reached the constable and Reeve, the sunset had turned to dust. We’d only two lanterns among the four of us. The water was gray, the reeds were black. With every step, we squeezed at the lungs of the swamp. It breathed out mist and poison.

Mr. Dreary coughed and rubbed his eyes. “Smells like the Hot Place.”

I said nothing, not having had personal experience.

Now that dusk had fallen, came the Horrors. Voices wailed about us, voices of the dying and the damned. Twigs snapped beneath invisible feet; an invisible something smacked its lips.

Mr. Dreary whirled round, and round again.

“Don’t run!” I grabbed his sleeve.

“It don’t be naught but the Horrors,” said the Reeve. “They delights in making folks scareful, but you got yourself a Bible Ball.”

“Don’t run!” I tightened my hold on Mr. Dreary’s sleeve, turned to the others. “Don’t let him run!” A chorus of screams cut through my words. Hold tight, Briony. This is why you’re here, to save Mr. Dreary.

“Look at the lights!” Mr. Dreary’s voice scratched like an old nail. “A village, we’ll be safe there!”

“No!” The Reeve, the constable, and I spoke over one another, trying to explain. “They’re false lights; they’re the Wykes; they’re luring you into danger!”

Mr. Dreary was not fit, but he was strong enough, in a horizontal sort of way. He tore his sleeve from my grip, fled deeper into the Quicks.

I flew after him, hitching up my skirts. “Stop!” Mr. Dreary puffed, and wheezed, and slipped. I lurched at his coattail, but up he bounced, hurtling toward the cluster of lights. They shone softly, in fair imitation of a village whose inhabitants understood the value of a good fire and a stout door.

“Don’t run!” Eldric bolted after us. A fringe of light caught Mr. Dreary’s coattails. Mr. Dreary screamed. Eldric spun forward, but all he illuminated was the dark heart of the swamp.

“The two o’ you follows him that way,” shouted the constable. “The Reeve an’ me, us’ll come at him from t’other.”

What a fool I was! I should never have come to the swamp. I should have kept my promise to Stepmother. I should have remembered that in the swamp, my wicked energy adds up to disaster and death.

“Don’t look at the lights,” I told Eldric. “The Wykes will trick you just as they did Mr. Dreary. They’ll trick you right into the Quicks.”

“Hell!” said Eldric.

“It may come to that.”

We couldn’t run, not in the dark, not in the Quicks, where speed equals death. I picked along bits of mud, walked tightrope between bog-holes. Eldric followed, holding the lantern high. Starlight swam on the darkness. “We’re looking for grassy bits that will support us,” I said. “They rise from the Quicks, like islands.”

I drew a deep breath. “Mr. Drury!”

“Don’t move, Mr. Drury!” shouted Eldric. “We can save you if you stay put.”

Please, let Mr. Dreary live. Please let him live!

But witchy magic doesn’t listen to please and pretty please, and anyway, I didn’t really care. I only pretended to care because not caring makes me a monster.

The star-dimpled water shone before us. We leapt onto a tussock, which quivered beneath us. Stars floated in the pools, lanterns floated in the pools. Not just one lantern, not just our lantern. Scores of lanterns, hundreds of lanterns, flickering about us.

“The Wykes again,” I said. “You can’t help seeing the reflection of their lights, but don’t look at them straight on.”

“Mr. Drury!” called Eldric.

Black water stretched as far as we could see, black water, grassy tussocks. Maybe we could save him. Maybe. I coiled myself tight as a spring. We jumped to the next tussock. Eldric landed beside me, almost tumbling me into the ooze. He grabbed my elbow.

We leapt from tussock to tussock. We squished the lungs of the bog. It breathed its poisoned breath. We coughed and rubbed our eyes.

“But aren’t we forgetting something?” said Eldric. “He has his Bible Ball.”

“It will protect him from most of the Horrors,” I said. “But it won’t protect him from his own foolishness, from allowing the Wykes to lure him to the most treacherous part of the swamp. No Bible Ball can prevent him from slipping and drowning.”

But it was your own foolishness, wasn’t it, Briony? This is just what Stepmother had been talking about. You, in the swamp, with your witchy jealousies and rages boiling always beneath. You don’t think you mean harm, but harm you do. You’ll kill Mr. Dreary just as you killed Stepmother—or you would have, if the arsenic hadn’t gotten her first.

You have to remember it, remember that you were the one who called the tidal wave. Remember! Surely you remember your witchy rage, how it set the river to boiling?

I know you remember standing beside the river, looking up at the Parsonage. Looking at the back garden, at the apple tree, where the swings had once hung. Looking at Stepmother, bending over the vegetable beds. You remember the boiling river, you remember Mucky Face rising—rising from the river—rising ten feet, fifteen feet, curling over himself.

Curling himself into a wave.

You’d called Mucky Face and he came. He came rearing like a snake, rising to the height of the Parsonage. He was a curl of iron, hard and black, save for his whirlpool eyes, his foaming mouth.

He smashed himself upon the Parsonage, he smashed Stepmother and the vegetable garden. Mucky Face flooded the Parsonage, but nowhere else. Mucky Face injured Stepmother, but no one else.

But it was enough. Mucky Face drowned our books, Mucky Face injured Stepmother’s spine.

“Look!” Eldric raised the lantern.

It shone on a Dreary-shaped space, a black space where no stars shone.

“Don’t move, Mr. Drury!”

Stepmother would have died from her injuries had the arsenic not found her first. Even then, I didn’t understand. I had to ask Stepmother—ask her as she lay in bed—ask her if she was sure about the dangers of my wandering into the swamp. It didn’t make sense: I had, after all, been standing across the river from the swamp when Mucky Face appeared.

Stepmother instructed me to look out the window into the garden. She asked me how wide the river was. I said about thirty feet. She asked me where Mucky Face lived. I said he lived in the river. She asked me whether Mucky Face would be able to hear me calling him from the swamp side of the river. I said he would. She asked me whether Mucky Face would be able to hear me calling from the non-swamp side of the river. I said he would.

Perhaps he’d have come sooner had I been in the swamp itself. Sooner and stronger. I don’t know, and anyway, he was quite strong enough.

“Don’t look at the lights!”

“Hold on to your Bible Ball!”

The swamp slurped and swallowed. The stars rubbed out the Dreary-shaped space. Eldric shifted behind me; the tussock gasped and gurgled.

The swamp plus Briony . . . Briony plus the swamp . . .

Next time, Briony, keep your promise to Stepmother. Don’t pretend you’re interested in doing good. How long can a clever girl trick her own self? It’s been three years since you learned you’re a witch. Perhaps you didn’t kill Stepmother, not technically, but that doesn’t mean St. Peter’s going to wave you through the pearly gates.

Slurp and swallow, slurp and swallow. Mr. Dreary had vanished. Too late to pull him out. The false lights had vanished. Everything had vanished except Eldric and me. Everything had vanished except the two of us, the lantern, the stars, and the swamp, which breathed slowly through its jellied lungs.

Rose and I stood in our usual place, facing Father and the headstone. We usually stand beside the grave, but there’d be no grave for this funeral. You need a body for a grave, and Mr. Dreary’s body had been taken by the swamp.

Taken by the swamp.
No, Briony, please try to remember! Not
taken.
The Wykes lured Mr. Dreary into the most treacherous part of the Quicks, where he fell and drowned. Where anyone would have drowned, unless he could walk on water, which I venture to say Mr. Dreary could not.

But I could not forget how the swamp slurped and swallowed. Those were not the sounds of falling.

Father had prepared a sermon on the meaning of Mr. Dreary’s life. That’s what stories do, they try to create meaning from nothing. But there’s no meaning to Mr. Dreary’s life. He lived, he smelled of tinned soup, he died.

When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture.

That’s what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it’s all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You’ll end up with a lunatic scribble.

But Father has to try. It’s his job.

He looked up; the crowd fell silent. Fall silent; fall into the Quicks. Slurp and swallow. Stop, Briony! Please try to remember: Mr. Dreary had a Bible Ball.

Rose and I faced Father; the congregation gathered behind. I was used to playing clergyman’s daughter, dressed in funeral black, down to my ribbons and lace mitts. Rose was identically dressed, but she wasn’t playing. Rose can never learn how to play.

“Black isn’t a color,” said Rose.

I shook my head. “Hush, Rose!”

The daughter of a clergyman will attend hundreds of funerals. She may attend as many as two or three a week when the swamp cough is on the prowl. I’d stood beside dozens of graves since Stepmother died, but hers was the one I remembered. I remembered the dark oblong; I remembered its corners, clean and sharp, like the angles of a hospital bed.

“I match up with pink,” said Rose. “I don’t match up with black.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Father’s speaking.”

But Rose doesn’t like to be hushed. “Black isn’t a color. I want my pink ribbon.”

The crowd rustled behind us. They’d be staring, of course, at the reverend’s peculiar daughter. I don’t mind the disapproving ones so much. It’s the tolerant ones I can’t stand, the ones who smile at Rose, who speak to her ever so slowly and gently. They don’t realize how very intelligent Rose really is. They’re just terrifically pleased with themselves.
Look at me!
they all but shout.
See how broad-minded I am! How wonderfully progressive, how fantastically twentieth century!

“I match up with pink.”

“Come along, Rose.” I turned round; she followed me into the graveyard. I used to stop by Mother’s grave, but I haven’t recently, not for several years. I used to stop to talk to her and tidy up a bit. I used to trim the ivy on her headstone. But now ivy and lichen have run riot over the gravestone carvings, which are not the usual cherubim but sunflowers and daisies—Mother’s favorite flowers. They’re exquisitely carved. I’d say you could almost smell them, except sunflowers and daisies haven’t much of a smell. I wish I might have known Mother. I wonder whether I’d have taken such a very wicked path if she hadn’t died when we were born. She knows I’m a witch, I suppose. I imagine her looking down on me and shaking her head and sighing.

I can’t face her.

Stepmother ought to rest here too, in the Larkin plot, but no: The Reverend Larkin didn’t fancy giving his second wife a proper burial.

I led Rose to the far end of the graveyard, to a tenement of tiny gravestones. They sprouted round our feet like pale mushrooms. So many children had died of the swamp cough this winter. The gravestones were uneasy newcomers, perched at the edge of their seats.

The earth tilted beneath my feet. I sat so I wouldn’t fall. The second sight was coming upon me. Not the ordinary sort of second sight, the sort that links me to the Old Ones. It’s the other sort, the sort that links me to the spirit world.

The sort that, only three days ago, linked me to the skull of Death.

The world shook herself like a dog. She tried to fling me off, but I clung to the nearest gravestone. This sort of second sight is never roses and moonbeams, but death and blood and the smell of fear.

From the grave beneath came a little voice. “ ’Twere the Boggy Mun what sended the cough what taked me.”

It was a child’s voice, thin as skimmed milk. The world swung off its axis and ran uphill.

“The Boggy Mun,” said a second child from the nextdoor grave. “The Boggy Mun, he be that angry his waters been took away.”

The earth tried to scratch me off, like a flea. “Taked me, an’ the baby too,” said a third. “Them last minutes, they was bad, with old Death hisself a-leaning on my chest.”

“An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.”

Don’t ask me! Thunder fizzed at my fingertips.
Girl what can hear ghosts.
I can’t help—I won’t help! But the words stuck to my mind like flypaper.
Us be asking you for help.

“Them London men, they oughtn’t to have took the Boggy Mun’s water.”

“Tell ’em the Boggy Mun sended the swamp cough, he be that angry.”

“An’ now my baby sister, she be took with the cough.”

The ghosts thought I could appease the Boggy Mun, who would then snatch away the swamp cough. Poor ghosts—well no, they’re not really ghosts. They’re Unquiet Spirits who can’t rest until something in the living world has been set to rights: their murder avenged, their sins confessed.

Their baby sisters cured.

The children’s voices grew thinner.

The Boggy Mun had ruled the swamp since before our human time began. He was lord of the swamp, of the water and the mud, and all swampy states in between. He could be kind, he could be savage. He could kill with the swamp cough, and why not, when his water was stolen away?