Hearts of Darkness (11 page)

‘That is the cage,’ he said. ‘For those who must wait their turn.’

It was indeed a cage, fabricated of flattened iron bars, no more than four feet tall and eight feet long. Six men sat cramped within it, including four familiar faces. Dowling strode forward with furious stride, gripping the bars like he would pull them apart with his bare hands. Two of the six men staggered to their feet and thrust their own dirty fingers through the gaps. I reached Dowling’s shoulder just as the shorter of the two pushed his face up as close to the bars as he could manage. Thick streaks of dirt coated his face like he had dragged through mud. He cast a pleading gaze upon us both, desperation writ deep upon his filthy brow.

‘You must leave,’ he whispered, hoarse. ‘Else ye shall be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit.’

‘Are those not the men we saw leave Colchester yesterday?’ I asked, for indeed I was sure I recognised their distinctive tan shoes.

‘They insisted upon entering before any could explain the consequences of it,’ Elks spoke with a soft voice that belied his steely gaze. ‘They said their mission was to bring God into our lives, to share with us their medicines, and then begone. I said unto them as I say unto you: no man may leave here.’ The shorter cleric buried his face in his hands like he feared Elks’ judgement. ‘Then they said it was their duty to take away the sick, unto the Pesthouse at Colchester.’

‘A noble quest,’ Dowling observed.

‘A proud quest,’ Elks corrected him, cheeks reddening. ‘And everyone that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord, whatever may be
their expressed intent. Bring God into our lives, indeed. So God is not here already?’ His voice thundered and the prisoners cowered. He lowered his brow and cast his wrath upon Dowling and his wanton mouth. ‘We swore an oath that no man would leave here, that we would trust our own lives unto God, and under no circumstance would we assist the evil plague in its quest to roam further abroad. We swore an oath unto God, and we will abide by it whatever the temptation.’ He breathed loudly in and out of his nose, face suffused with blood, mouth clamped firmly closed.

‘I understand that,’ I said, praying Dowling would hold his tongue. ‘It is a noble thing, and one that any man should respect. I assume my brother took the oath.’ I fervently hoped so, anyway.

‘He did.’ Elks replied, the scarlet of his face subsiding to a gentler pink. ‘Before he entered the Kingdom of God.’

I let my lower jaw drop an inch and did my best to appear mortified.

Elks narrowed his eyes. ‘Your brother is dead. He died two days ago. Did they not tell you in Colchester?’

‘No,’ I answered with cracked voice. ‘I came to support him in his hour of need.’

‘I am sorry you arrived too late.’ Elks stared. ‘Rest assured he died a good man.’

I found a tear from somewhere and smeared it across my cheek.

‘Brave of you to come here,’ said Elks, curious.

I opened my mouth and searched for a convincing platitude.

‘God shall watch over us for so long as we remain virtuous,’ Dowling growled.

‘I am sorry you did not enter by the street, for we could have told you of his fate and you might have left freely,’ said Elks. ‘They buried your brother yesterday.’

I bowed my head to hide my face, praying Dowling might follow my lead. I sensed he readied to seize Elks by the neck and throttle him.

‘Will you stay or will you go?’ Elks asked, softly. I heard the faint edge in his voice, and recognised immediately the choice he presented.

‘We will stay, of course,’ I answered afore Dowling could speak. ‘For we must abide by your oath, and I would spend some time in the house of my brother.’

‘Ah, very good,’ Elks nodded slowly. ‘And so you would take the oath yourself?’

‘As God is my witness,’ I assured him. ‘I pledge an oath to remain within these village boundaries until the Pest has departed.’

Elks muttered something, apparently satisfied, afore turning to Dowling.

‘I swear unto you, I shall stay,’ Dowling growled.

‘Before God, please,’ Elks insisted.

Dowling scratched at his nose and looked upon the heads of the four poor clerics. ‘I swear unto thee and before God, that I shall not leave this village until the plague has finished killing the good men that abide here.’

‘Very well,’ Elks nodded. ‘Then you are free to live among us as you will.’ If his words spoke of trust, his eyes did not. ‘Do you know the way to your brother’s house?’ he asked, strange gleam in those foul eyes.

‘It lies up towards Town End,’ said Dowling.

Elks’ eyes narrowed. ‘You remember.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But we will need help to find it in this fog.’

Elks nodded his head, curtly, and beckoned us forward into the
mists, away from the horrors about the village pond. The bank of fog loomed sinister and mysterious, hiding what other monstrosities, I couldn’t imagine. It seemed we were in Hell, and as we followed Elks, I feared these would be our last steps and we would never get out of this place alive.

Elks strode fast through the white wall of fog, like he carried a map of the place in his head. The road led us down into a freezing valley before climbing back up to where the air was thinner. Thin enough to make out a square, stone cottage with grey, slate roof.

Elks stopped at the gate. ‘When did you last see your brother?’ he demanded.

‘Three years ago,’ I improvised. ‘In Colchester.’

Elks shook his head, slowly. ‘I don’t remember Robert leaving Shyam in all my life.’

‘Aye,’ I replied, doing my best to appear upon the verge of new tears. ‘He hated to travel.’

Elks grunted. ‘No matter. Buxton had nothing of value, as you may see for yourself.’ He rubbed his nose upon the back of his sleeve and
stared out darkly from beneath a greasy brow. ‘Be sure not to wander.’ He considered us a little while longer before marching off, back into the mists.

I realised I’d stopped breathing. Thank the Lord he hadn’t asked me what Buxton looked like.

The door to the cottage stood ajar. The smell of something sweet and fetid lurked within. I sought reassurance before pushing at the door. ‘Elks did say they buried him?’

The door stuck. A fly buzzed around my ear then landed inside my nostril, a foul tickle.

Dowling leant against it with his shoulder. The door remained stubbornly unmoving despite Dowling’s best efforts. ‘Whatever it is, it’s heavier than me,’ he panted.

I followed the edge of the house round to the left and into the fog. I spotted a window halfway down the wall, a piece of linen soaked in linseed oil, sagging and loose. I pulled at one corner and tore it from the frame. The stink was overpowering, the steady drone of flies belying the carnage within.

‘God save us,’ I exclaimed, pulling away into the fresh moist air.

‘And the beasts of the fields.’ Dowling took my place and scanned the scene. ‘It’s a cow, wandered into the house and dropped dead against the door.’

I imagined what Jane would say if she found a dead cow inside our house. ‘Then we may as well leave it there. We cannot live with a dead cow.’

Dowling raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you have another relative here, I don’t know where else we’ll sleep.’

Sleep meant another day away from London, an unsettling thought. I turned away and gazed into the gloom. The yellow mists began to thin.
Apple trees emerged, tall, dark and spectral. We were in an orchard, apples still forming, not yet ripe. Likely the harvest would fall to the ground and rot. Between the trees nothing moved, save the swirling vapours.

Suddenly I couldn’t catch a breath. I felt drawn into the orchard, compelled to keep walking in a straight line until Shyam was far behind. Fear of this place clutched at my heart, a dread of Elks and the gruesome spectacle about the village pond. I longed to go home.

‘I see someone,’ Dowling whispered from behind my shoulder.

I shivered, the mist chilling the naked skin about my neck and chest. I followed his gaze, my heart frozen. A woman and two children, pale-faced and motionless, three ghosts, victims of the pestilence, stood the other side of a long dark mound. They watched us as close as we watched them.

Dowling tugged at my coat. ‘Come on.’

My feet stuck to the floor like tree trunks, until torn from their roots by the butcher.

‘Stop there!’ the woman cried, voice shrill. The two children burrowed deeper into her skirts. ‘Who are you?’

I held up my hands. ‘Robert Buxton’s brother,’ I called. I would have to find myself a name.

She pulled the children in tight and stared down at the freshly-dug grave. When she glanced up, as if expecting me to collapse in a paroxysm of tears, I ducked my head and looked for sadness. I found it quickly. We stood in silence, while I imagined my father lain beneath that earth. I had known him as well as this fictional brother would have known Buxton.

‘You are Robert’s brother?’ the woman asked, peering closer when I lifted my head.

‘His younger brother,’ I claimed again, little confidence this pretence would survive the morning.

‘You are shorter than he,’ she said, doubtful. ‘You don’t have his long nose, nor his brown eyes.’

‘You thought him handsome, then?’ I asked.

‘He was seventy years old,’ she declared. ‘No man is handsome at that age. He couldn’t see or hear well, but he had a kind heart, I suppose.’ She seemed uncertain.

I would have to change the subject. ‘Why is Robert buried here and not in the graveyard?’ I asked.

She cocked her head and looked like she would cry. ‘The Reverend no longer allows burials at the church. We must bury our own on our own land, and Marshall Howe buries the last to die.’

One of the children started to cry, hiding his face in the folds of his mother’s dress. She placed a hand on his head and stroked his hair. ‘I’m sorry, John,’ she spoke soft.

I met her eye. ‘What’s happening here?’

She scanned the trees and squirmed, like she would rather be anywhere else. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house. He received some fabrics from London which were wet. He hung them out to dry and died next day.’

‘Then the whole village took an oath to stay,’ I replied. ‘That is what Thomas Elks would have us believe. It seems unlikely.’

She edged sideways. ‘We must go now.’

‘Help us,’ I pleaded, cursing my sharp tongue. ‘Help us understand. Robert is dead, yet we are told we cannot leave.’

She leant forward and whispered, as if she didn’t want the children to hear. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house, as I said. Everyone took fright, and several people left. The Reverend Mompesson urged his
own wife to take away his children, but she wouldn’t go.’

I frowned. ‘The Reverend is married?’

I stepped left and she stepped right, carefully maintaining the distance between us. ‘Yes, he is married. Catherine is kindly. Since the plague, though, she has been sickly and weak. I think she mourns her children.’ She read our faces, quickly. ‘They are not dead. The Reverend sent them away before the quarantine.’

‘He sent away his children and ruled no one else could leave,’ I snorted.

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t rule it. He spoke to us in church one Sunday. He had already consulted with the Mayor of Colchester, who agreed to provide us with supplies if we pledged to remain within the village boundaries. He persuaded us it was our Christian duty, told us God would look kindly upon us.’ She bowed her head again in sadness.

‘Who then hath forsaken him?’ Dowling asked, bemused. ‘For doth he not smite ye all down?’

‘Not all of us,’ she snapped back, eyes wide and white. Her lip trembled and her body shook. Tears flowed like streams. ‘My family remains faithful to our Lord. We pray to him morn and night. We came here to Robert’s grave. We have been to the grave of every person who died in Shyam.’

‘Edward Cooper died more than a year ago,’ I said softly, willing her to be calm.

As she nodded, I saw in her eyes the extent to which the last twelve months wore at her spirit. ‘It changed the day the Reverend closed the church,’ she spoke at last. ‘More than twenty died in October. Reverend Mompesson said we should no longer congregate in the church. He said we should come together once a week, out in the
open air where we can maintain distance between us, where the wind blows through us. He said the graveyard was full and we should bury our own on our own land, and should mourn our own, on our own.’

And so the community began to die.

‘The Reverend stayed in his house,’ she said. ‘No one knew what was going on in the village, for Thomas Elks told everyone to stay at home. I went to Town Head one day, when I heard a rumour John Smythe had died. Thomas Elks stopped me before Fiddler’s Bridge and made me turn around. Said he would put me in the cage if he saw me again so far from home.’

An apple hit the ground, making me jump. The little boy forgot his fear and ran over to pick up the fruit. He bit into it before anyone could stop him. His face lit up and juice dripped from the side of his mouth. My soul cried out, though I knew not why. The boy gazed towards us, stood by himself apart from his mother.

‘Edward Thornley was afraid,’ she exclaimed. ‘It was his only sin. His wife and seven children all died and he buried them himself. All he had left was his daughter.’ She looked up at Dowling. ‘Didn’t he deserve compassion?’

Dowling nodded, solemn.

‘Mompesson said he must go in the cage. The day they imprisoned him, six others tried to escape, the Thorpes and the Talbots. The sight of Edward, sat squashed inside those iron bars, like some dreadful criminal. That was when we knew the evil was entirely upon us, that God had indeed forsaken us.’

‘What reason did Mompesson give?’ I asked.

‘He said nothing,’ she said. ‘We see him only once a week when he delivers the service at the Delf. Catherine sits at the front and never takes her eyes off him. He speaks, but not to us.’

‘He speaks to God, then.’ Dowling nodded. ‘Afraid to ask what sin he committed, for fear of the Lord’s vengeance.’

She reached for her son, who finished the apple. ‘You are right, sir. He fears God has forsaken him, so do we all. More than forty people have died this month already, twenty this week. At this rate we shall all be dead by the middle of October.’ She gripped her apron in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I have six children.’

‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘Mary Hancock,’ she replied. ‘My son, John. My daughter, Elizabeth.’

‘Where is your husband?’ Dowling asked.

‘At home,’ she replied, lifting her chin. ‘He is a gentle man, a good man. He is strong and will lead us through this.’

Eight of them, I calculated, of a hundred who still lived.

Tears filled her eyes and she fell to her knees, head in her hands. The two children knelt down next to her and stroked her arms. Dowling crouched on his haunches and tried to catch her attention.

She looked up at him, eyes shining. ‘Katherine Talbot was my sister. I saw her in the cage this morning, dead.’

I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The mists rolled down the slope. The sun shone yellow through the canopy. I saw a shadow next to a tree, twenty yards away, a man watching.

‘Someone else arrived here two weeks ago,’ I said quickly. ‘James Josselin?’

She didn’t reply, just wept, shoulders heaving. The figure sidled forwards into the light.

‘Mary!’ a reedy voice shrilled. Not the voice of a man, nor the voice of a woman.

As he drew closer we saw his body, crooked, twisted and bent. His
eyes boggled, wild and darting, rimmed thick red. His mouth hung half open and his shoulders twitched. Black hair hung lank in the cold, moist air, shapeless and uneven. He approached Mary Hancock in a long arc, avoiding our presence.

‘Mary,’ he whispered, stepping forwards and backwards, dancing upon a small spot of ground. Her husband, I supposed. A gentle man indeed, but what strength he once possessed departed long ago.

I looked away, discomfited by their awkward intimacy.

Mary Hancock looked up from the ground, eyes bright. ‘Why do you ask of James Josselin?’

‘We heard he came here,’ I replied, noticing something protruding from the dirt.

‘James Josselin has not been here for ten years,’ she replied, accepting the dishevelled fellow’s assistance in climbing back to her feet. ‘You say he is returned?’ She seemed to grow afore us, body unwinding from the cramped strictures with which she bound herself.

‘So it is rumoured,’ I answered, afraid I might raise new expectation.

‘Then we are saved,’ she exclaimed, clutching at the man’s shirt. ‘James Josselin is a saint. He saved Colchester from Cromwell, and will save us from Thomas Elks.’

‘Shh!’ The man tugged at her sleeve, scanning the trees with frightened eyes.

‘Hush to you,’ she retorted, pulling herself free of his grasping hands. ‘Thomas Elks will frighten us no more. We must make ready to leave.’

I thought to clarify that mine was a question, not a promise, but she bustled and twitched with a mad hope that would not be satisfied by cold reason. She dragged her family back towards the thick brume.

‘Where does Elks live?’ I called after her.

‘At his brother’s house, past the church, by Fiddler’s Bridge.’

She turned and disappeared into the white wall, dragging her family with her. The last I saw of them were the two little children, legs pumping as they struggled to keep up.

Dowling grunted, poking in the dirt of the grave with his finger. Then he exclaimed a short growl of quiet satisfaction. ‘This is what distracted you.’ He held forth the battered petals of a red rose, tied to a short wooden cross. ‘The cross is the crucifixion,’ he said. ‘The rose signifies the five wounds of Christ.’

I trawled my memory. ‘A Roman thing.’

‘Rome come to Shyam,’ Dowling mused, prodding at the velvet petals with monstrous finger. ‘The evil unto Eden.’