Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1) (21 page)

Father’s trial proved to be another disaster. The mayor explained the events to those present (more than half the populace) and asked my father about his whereabouts on the evening of Gordon’s death. Rather than answer the question, he immediately implicated the mayor, and after a solid minute of collective gasps and chattering, he went on to explain Gordon’s plot and named the others involved. Four of them were dead and the only survivor was not present. The trial was paused while a group went to his home and literally dragged him onto the stand.

His name was Howard. The mayor went on to question him about the plot. Howard was surprisingly candid, personally addressing the mayor when describing their plan to kill him. “Do what Finney should have done.” Why go directly to my father? They were going to kill him before leaving. What about his family? No, as long as they did not get in the way. Why kill my father? He is a bad person. When pressed, Howard would not elaborate. He may have lacked the words, but his scornful eyes did not leave my father the entire trial.

The mayor explained his reason for having Gordon killed in secret. He admitted his mistake and called for a vote on the spot. Should he be forced to resign his position? It was close to a fifty-fifty split. I cannot recall the exact number, but it was scarcely in his favor. Since this was not enough to invalidate his authority, he ordered Howard to be executed for his part in the conspiracy and set my father free from charges for acting on his behalf. He called for the audience to disperse, though everyone lingered, visibly shocked by the outcome.

Before anyone could speak, Howard pulled out a gun from his inner pocket and shot my father in the stomach. Howard was tackled as he took the next shot, the bullet slamming into the ground near the crowd. There was a mass panic, a near stampede, but the shooter had been subdued, held down by Gerald and Aiden, the latter’s hand wrenched tightly around Howard’s throat. Everyone lingered again, to see if my husband would snap the wretch’s neck. Content with squeezing his neck until his face went purple, Aiden let go and continued to hold Howard down as he was tied.

That was the moment I discovered my father had been shot, initially assuming the bullet had missed. An immense crowd formed around him. I pushed my way through and found the doctor applying pressure to his wound, my mother on her knees, wailing at the sky. Useful people gradually made their way to the front, and my father was brought into the town hall on a makeshift stretcher.

The proceeding hours were a blur I cannot even try to recall, spent boiling water for sterilization and helping the doctor’s assistant fill bottles of medicine to later administer to the children. At some point during the night, I was allowed at my father’s side. He was unconscious, sweating heavily, his breaths short and raspy. I slept in the corner of that room for a few hours, and upon awaking in the middle of the night, left for home without checking on him. If he were dead, I refused to be the first to declare it.

Aiden, who seems as anxious as me nowadays, woke and asked about Father’s condition. He should survive the night, I told him, though the doctor had made no such claims. We silently ate cold leftovers before going back to bed. Not long after this, we were attacked by Peter. I neglected to mention: Peter was one of the men who helped build that makeshift stretcher that probably saved my father’s life. That is, if he survives the night. Before sitting to write this entry, I dragged the dead man outside by his ankles.

Since the candle has nearly run out, I suspect the blood must have dried, as well. It will require just as much scrubbing in the morning as it would now. Perhaps I should do it before sleep and prevent the grim reminder in the morning. Then again, the night is young and there is likely more to be shed.

Should I be by my father’s side in what is probably his final hour? I will mourn his death, but I cannot bear to see him die. I am sure he understands. More importantly, do you understand? Am I despicable for sparing myself that wretched sight? My bloody floor smells like his wound.

My best friend’s husband tried to kill me for an unfathomable reason. No, there is a reason, but I dare not fathom it. If it is as I suspect, this community will not last the week. Excuse me as I look over the last entry and see if I have made note of Janice’s cold behavior.

Aiden has returned. The shock of her husband’s death put Janice into labor. It is a boy. She feigns ignorance, but I am not a fool. I have seen her with the other hens. She thinks me a witch. I will not be persuaded otherwise. Let her live in fear, knowing her husband failed and her son is still vulnerable to the same sickness as the other children. I will struggle to hold back my laughter when it happens.

My father did not survive the night.

Entry 40

The illness has disappeared. The pustules have subsided and their fever slight. Janice’s son was the only casualty. Hours after his birth, the pustules started to sprout, though not to the same degree as the others. It is likely the fever killed him. After the burial of her son and husband, she knelt by the grave, grabbed a rock, and repeatedly bashed her head. As of now, she is cuffed to her bed as the doctor stitches her skull. That poor man never gets a day off.

I was lucky enough to visit Phoebe and Thomas, the first to be completely cured. Naturally, they were prescribed at least another week of rest, but a supernatural relapse is not likely. I saw Hailey from a distance, and though she looks a bit weary, she waved and smiled my way.

The community’s unrest morphed into sheer delight. The children were alive! We celebrated briefly, experiencing a level of exuberance unknown for quite some time. According to Aiden, he is going back to work with a few others. In a week, this entire dreadfulness will be forgotten. With the more violent dissidents weeded out, we may look back someday and see this all simply as a dark period in our long history.

Yet there is still something foul in the air. Nothing like an odor. A sort of bite to the warm breeze, a violence in the wind. Chalk it up to a hyperactive imagination, but I sense a storm brewing. In the metaphysical sense, if that makes sense. Of course not. Forgive my rambling. Let this be an early night. I am in good spirits and, for the first time since putting ink to paper, my soul feels clean and pure.

Do not be offended that I abandon you during my more pleasant moods. Instead, be happy for me.

Entry 41

We renewed the normal state of affairs. The men returned to survey the cavern, and I returned to class. We did not spend much time on lessons. The children had been through a tremendous ordeal, with no one to explain it to them. Their parents are uneducated boors and the doctor has trouble talking down. I may not be an expert in his field, but I did an adequate job assuaging their worrisome minds, explaining immunities and the impossibility of contracting the same illness again.

I had started wrapping up for the day when a slight tremor shook the ground, enough to rattle the seats and give me pause. The children noticed my brief moment of nervousness and asked about the quake. Before I could reply, another tremble shook the room, shortly followed by a loud rumble. The next pulse was quick and frightening. I fell to the floor and slid under my desk, helplessly watching as the children toppled around their chairs and tables. Getting back to my feet, I ordered them to run out the door in an orderly manner. None of them were injured, but nearly all were crying.

Fissures and such were a strong possibility, but I could not get poor Bessy and Dalton out of my mind. It seemed I was not alone in my judgment. Most of the town had gathered outside and, after reuniting with their children, the safety of their husbands became their primary concern. Even the mayor joined them. A few women had gone to his house, ready to ransack it for a spare map. They found an old one in a desk drawer, more on par with a child’s drawing than the current standard. An argument ensued over who should peer it over, and after some hen pecking and a tug of war, the map was torn in half.

I stepped forward and volunteered to lead the expedition, having been near the area with Aiden on many occasions. It was barely a lie, since I had passed the place once in the dead of night. They were eager to leave, so I picked three of the more level-headed ladies for companions. Fiona, Gerald’s wife, was an easy choice. She had ventured fairly deep into woods on several occasions before my time, usually to replenish supplies or tend to wounds. Bernice had a shred of intelligence and a strong stomach. I needed somebody who could stay composed. For the third, I chose my mother. Not out of any bias, but I could not see anyone else remotely useful. Stocked with plenty of water and medical supplies, we left immediately.

Another pulse trembled the ground only a few minutes into our expedition. It was the softest yet, rattling the trees like a strong breeze. We quickened our pace. I noticed a trace of fear in my mother’s eye. She noticed me notice this and cocked her head toward me with a wry grin. I did not understand the gesture, nor did I care to ask. I picked my companions wisely. We traveled in silence as they obediently followed my lead.

Roughly an hour into our journey, we noticed a small group in the distance. Four in all, two carrying a stretcher and another holding a canteen up to the stretcher occupant. I faintly heard the doctor’s voice. One of them shouted for help, though we were practically sprinting to the spot. Fiona removed the medical supplies from her satchel. The men slowly dropped the stretcher, Fiona and the doctor kneeling on each side of the wounded man.

It was Patrick. He was barely conscious, constantly muttering through cracked lips as the doctor worked on his wounded side. He fell atop a stalagmite, piercing his belly a few inches. As they tended to the wound, the men told us our loved ones were uninjured and went on to explain the situation.

The quake caused the cave’s mouth to collapse, trapping a dozen men. A mass exodus occurred during the initial tremble, and those too deep were left behind. During the collapse, everyone saw the rubble engulf at least two of the men. Fortunately, it was one of the smaller entrances, so those trapped may be freed before suffocation, and if luck prevailed, the men under the rubble could be saved.

After sewing up Patrick’s wound, we rushed back to town. Fiona and the doctor carried the stretcher, moving much slower than us. Our immediate task was to gather as much rope as possible for a pulley, the remaining stretchers, more medical supplies, and a long list of other things I cannot recall. I cleared my house of some items, but when I returned to the doctor, I was advised to stay in the town hall with the children.

The rest of the day was spent dabbling water on Patrick’s forehead and lips, repeating soothing words to the children, and tolerating their prattling mothers. I secretly hoped for another quake, though it would have only succeeded in agitating their clucking. At some point, it started to pour rain. The first crack of thunder caused a mass panic that lasted less than a minute. Phoebe’s mother screamed, proclaiming the return of the quake, then realized otherwise and soothingly told her daughter it was just thunder.

It all feels like a pleasant picnic compared to the imminent event. Most of the men returned, having cleared the rubble, saving two out of their twelve comrades. With their arrival came more tremors, leaving us stranded in the town hall, courtesy of the mayor’s strict order. I volunteered to help Fiona tend to the wounded, hoping to distract myself from the collective wailing. She told me to ask my uncle for something to do, and he told me to stay with my mother. Instead, I decided to pester Aiden. He blessed my ears with the recent tragedy’s gory details.

The mangled bodies were flattened by the debris, and in most cases, it was difficult to discern the corpses. He recalled pulling away a large rock, speckled in blood, and finding a concave mess of a face—more of a soup of bloody brain, teeth, bone, and every facial feature. The cave proved far more unstable than they had hoped, fully collapsing halfway through their task. The survivors clung to the edge of a chasm, and judging by the body count, a third man fell into its unfathomable depths. We will know soon, Aiden promised, once the other two come to their senses. They were catatonic, practically drooling invalids. I did not see them recovering anytime soon, certainly not to their full faculties. Brain damage, caused by oxygen deprivation, is my diagnosis.

The storm raged worse than the quake. People needed to shout over the violent rainfall, and each thunder crack caused at least one scream. To keep the mob from tearing him to pieces, the mayor repeatedly assured us that a serious discussion would be held in the morning regarding the community’s future. It settled the less addled folks. Though the hall had enough breathing room, the mass crowd and constant chatter left me feeling claustrophobic. Not much at first, just some shivers and a tingle down my spine.

A simultaneous quake and an ear-splitting thunderbolt caused the entire room to clamor. My anxiety was overwhelming. It is difficult to pinpoint the exact cause: certainly not fear for my life, since I ended up barreling through the crowd and out the door. It may have sprung from social jitters. I can vividly remember reprimanding one of the children over a trifle I cannot recall. My memory is so disjointed that any attempt at a solid recollection will only waste ink. I ran from the room like a spry fawn. A few people shouted for me at the doorway, as though a step outside would strike them dead. My eyes were transfixed above.

Each flash of lightning revealed a face etched in the sky. To call it such is a reasonable explanation, though all who glimpsed knew it was closer to a masquerade than a true visage. It seemed more of a mask grafted onto the grotesque to give it features fit for the mind’s consumption.