Where the Dead Talk (10 page)

"Best of luck, young master," he said. "I’m leaving before dark so I can –"

"You can’t leave," Thomas said.

The Major put his hat on.

"On the contrary, I most certainly can," he said. "Look, boy – you’ve seen what’s going on here. You really want to face those things again?"

"Jonathon’s out there and he’s my brother. It’s my home."

"I’d find a new one, then," the Major said. He turned to his horse. Thomas hopped over the stones and ran over to him. He grabbed a handful of his jacket as he stepped to his horse. The Major tried to swat him away, but Thomas held on.

"I saved you," Thomas said. "If it wasn’t for me, they would have got you."

The Major faced him.

"And you have my hearty thanks – but no one asked you to."

"Caroyln did," Thomas said.

"Miss Bucknell?"

"She made me promise to find you, to help you."

"What are you talking about, boy?"

"The militia men wouldn’t believe me, so I went to her. She kept asking me questions about you."

"Questions? What sorts of questions?"

"Stupid questions," Thomas said, "but then she said –"

"What were the questions?"

Thomas shook his head in frustration.

"Where you were from. Were you betrothed, had you asked about her –"

"She asked if I was betrothed?"

"- and then I told her that I knew you’d come back to get your horse and she made me promise to watch for you."

"I don’t understand – watch for me why?"

"She said that you’d be the one to know what do to, that you were daring and noble. That you’d be the one to help me find Jonathon."

"What on earth would make her think that?" the Major said.

"I told her what you did."

"What I did?"

"When you rescued me. And caring for Hawkes."

The Major straightened up.

"I suppose I did save you," he said, "and certainly made an effort by Hawkes."

"You almost saved him, too."

"And she knows what’s happening?"

"It’s why she thinks you can help."

The Major looked at the deep woods around them, then back down at him.

"Perhaps we should discuss this with her," he said, "before the day gets on."

The sky was darkening and the air held the scent of rain as they crossed out of the edge of the forest. The road was empty. No drivers or drays making their way to the village, no herds of geese or pigs being led, no dispatch riders bringing messages from the city. The boy wasn’t looking at him, a trick that he’d started using to great effect when he didn’t want to do or hear something. Since he never seemed to miss anything in his favor, Pomeroy suspected that the boy knew exactly what he was doing. The boy pointed to a field that they were passing on their left. A body was partly visible among the red and yellow wildflowers and Queen Anne’s lace. The corner of a dress and two feet, one of which was missing a shoe. It was the third body they’d seen since leaving the woods.

After a short while, the boy pointed up ahead. A large building was butted up to the river itself, the sound of tumbling water coming from behind it. The sound of the river was loud; branches and leaves racing along the surface.

"That’s it," he said.

"Miss Bucknell is here? She’s meeting us?"

"No – it’s my uncle’s. It’s on the way. Jonathon might be here."

"Look, boy – I’m willing to spare some time to discuss the situation with Miss Bucknell, but I’m not at all willing to traipse around your village hither and thither, all day long. By evenfall, I will be miles and miles from here."

"Then we still have time," Thomas said. He turned and made sure not to hear Pomeroy’s further commentary.

The mill was empty. Tools were scattered across the floor, and people – or something else – had been in there, but there was no sign of the boy’s brother. Some of the glass was broken out, and the door leading out back to the river was open. Pomeroy stepped out back. The river spilled down a stone falls that cut across the water. To his left, the wheel – nearly eight feet tall – stood still, the water breaking against it in white foam and spray. Pomeroy wondered how long it had been since the wheel had turned. Days, perhaps a week?

The boy tugged his sleeve and pointed. Pomeroy followed the line and saw dead animals by the river – beaver, half a dozen ducks, a goat. The more he looked, the more he saw: jays and chickadees, crow, even fish floating belly up before the falls.

"If there was a painted sign that read: Go Away, Now it couldn't be more clear, boy," he said.

"We should check the house," Thomas said.

"Do we really want to leave Miss Bucknell waiting?" Pomeroy said.

"If we find Jonathon, she’ll never forget it."

"He’s one of her suitors, then?"

Instead of answering him, the boy led him past the wheel. The mill was attached to the house. The door was open. A window on that same wall was broken out, shards of glass catching the sky. The rain blew inside. Pomeroy didn’t have much hope, looking at the doorway. Mud and dirt were tracked inside. The boy was looking hard at it, as well. The doorway opened into a narrow hallway, the walls whitewashed. Another door opened off to the right. He peered in, noting that none of the muddy tracks went in. They continued down the hallway. Stairs led up on the left side and the hallway opened into a large room. The tracks were heavy in both directions. As he passed the stairs, the skin on his neck crawled, the shiver moving out like a wave across his back and shoulders. A draught of cold air flowed down the stairwell. The boy felt it too, as he stared up into the darkness of the second floor. The sound of the rain grew muted the further down the hall they went.

The boy’s eyes were large. Whatever he’d seen happening during the last few days and nights, this was getting to him. Pomeroy supposed that it was one thing to see a body lurching across a field – but seeing a place that was at the center of your normal world a short time ago turned into this; that was something quite different, larger and much more final. And if the boy’s brother was here, then Pomeroy was suddenly sure that they wouldn’t want to find him.

He reached out and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, frowning as the boy startled.

"Let’s go," Pomeroy said.

The boy looked around. His mouth was drawn down and his jaw tight. He shook his head.

"We need to look upstairs," he said.

Pomeroy looked at him and the boy stared back.

"Look around," he said, "do you think we’ll find him?"

"He might be there."

"Doing what? Having tea? Taking a nap upstairs?"

The boy just fixed him with that stare. Seconds passed and the boy didn’t look away.

"Fine," Pomeroy said. He’d give the boy one further moment of daring to relate to Miss Bucknell. He turned and headed back to the stairs. As he drew closer, the skin on the back of his neck rippled again. Most of the muddy tracks headed up the stairs. Holding his pistol, he turned to Thomas.

"Stand watch here," he said, "and shoot anything that moves that isn’t me."

Mostly, he didn’t want the boy to see whatever was on the second floor. With a dreadful resignation, he headed up the stairs. Small rocks ground beneath his boots. At the top of the stairs there was a landing over to the right with a large chest. A fold of cloth hung out from underneath the lid. The hallway extended straight down to the end of the house. A bureau had been pushed up in front of the window at the end of the hallway. A few slivers of daylight came in around it, but the rest of the floor was dark. There was a sickening smell in the air.

This is a bad place.

The thought rang in his head, clear as a bugle blast. He felt it in the way his skin continued to dance between his shoulder blades, and he felt it in some normally dim corner of his mind that was doing nothing but commanding him to run. Still, the boy wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d at least taken a look – and he was, or had been at any rate, a British officer. He straightened up. He stood still for a minute, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the darkness. There was something on the floor down near the bureau. He stepped forward, pushing on in spite of the voice telling him to run the other way. Doors opened off the hallway, two on each side. They were closed, but not tightly, just a bit ajar. He came up to the first one on the left. He gave it a light push.

Christ on the bloody cross.

It was the feet that he noticed first. Filthy feet, some with shoes, some bare. Bodies were piled like rolls of cornstalks. The smell almost pushed him back, the putrid stench of decay. Of corpses. Worse still, they were squirming, moving dully like a newborn litter of rats. He stepped back into the hallway. Knowing what he would find, he crossed the hall to the opposite door and kicked it open gently with his foot. More bodies. A noise from further down the hallway turned his head. A body crawled blindly towards him along the floor – it was what he’d noticed by the bureau. Pomeroy stepped back from the door and backed off down the hallway. From the room on the left, he heard more movement and saw a figure starting to crawl out of the shadowed doorway. At the far end of the hallway, the furthest door on the right opened. He turned and ran down the stairs.

"Out!" Pomeroy said. "Now!"

He hit the bottom of the stairs and grabbed the boy’s shirt by the shoulder. Pulling him with him, he dashed through the front room and kitchen. They flew out the front door into the rain. Outside, Pomeroy slowed and let go of the boy’s shirt.

"Jesus," he said, breathing hard, shaking his head as if he could force the images out. "You don’t want to go up there."

He wanted the boy to understand what he was going to do. Kneeling down in front of him, he spoke as clearly as he could.

"The upstairs is full of them," he said, "piled high. I don’t think they’re so dangerous now, during the day. They move, but slowly. I think there’s a way that we can take care of this problem rather effectively. Right now."

The boy looked as though he understood where he was going with this.

"Jonathon?" Thomas said without hope.

Pomeroy wanted to be straight with him.

"If he’s there, he’s one of them. If he’s not, then you needn't worry about it."

Thomas looked over at the house. His eyes traveled all over the front of it, as if looking for some other way to see the situation. Finally, he turned back to Pomeroy.

"There’s lamp oil in the mill," he said, "I saw it."

The frightened child of a few nights before was gone; the boy had apparently grown a bit of backbone. A minute later they each had two bottles of the whale oil and were dousing the steps and slats of the house itself. Once they’d gotten all the way around, Pomeroy ran back to the mill and pulled out a few more bottles. He returned to the house with these and kicked open the front door. The kitchen and main room beyond it were still. Shadows held on the stairs past the room. He opened the first bottle and poured it out over the floor.

"Oh, hell," he said.

He took the final two bottles and smashed them to the floor. They broke with a shatter and splashed the oil all about. He turned and stepped outside. Thomas handed him a flintbox.

"Right. Nothing a little fire couldn’t take care of," Pomeroy said.

He turned and squatted down. It took a few tries, but when it caught, a blue flame raced across the floor with a soft fluttering noise. He turned and did the same to the edge of the house. It took longer to catch there, but by the time it did, orange flames were rising up inside. They stood back, near the wagon. A column of thick grey smoke began to rise up into the sky. The rain wasn’t enough to stop the fire.

The muddy road grabbed at the horses’ feet. Thomas looked over his shoulder at the smoke rising into the bruised rain clouds, as though it was the very source of the world’s darkness. Cold rain fell, hid the farms and houses and bodies behind a grey veil. The whole village had turned to ghosts – Thomas’s life with it. Pomeroy peered into the growing rain and motioned.

"Isn’t the center of town back that way?"

"She’s meeting us at Pannalancet’s. It’s this way," Thomas said.

"Why is she meeting us there – at whatever-you-said’s."

Thomas pretended not to understand and kept his horse moving. They neared a crossroads. Across the way, a plowed field followed the rolling land, bordered by a stone wall. From the road to the heart of the village, a covered post chaise pulled by a single horse came around the corner, splashing through the puddles. After a moment, Thomas recognized – with a start – that it was Carolyn Bucknell. The Major pulled his horse to the side of the road as the carriage approached. He tipped his hat and the rain danced in the puddles forming on the road.

"Miss Bucknell," he said, "we were just on our way to our rendezvous."

She pulled her carriage to a stop.

"I’ve been searching for you," she said. She started to say something else, then froze when she saw the smoke rising behind them, plain to see. Her eyes widened and she turned to Thomas.

"Is that your uncle’s mill?" she said.

"We’re searching the village for Jonathon – or anyone else of the boy’s family," Pomeroy said. A smile touched his mouth.

"I have to tell you, Major," she said, "I fear that I may have misspoken yesterday. Jonathon and the others have had little part in any of the troubles that you and your troops are attempting to quell – it’s primarily the others of the town that drive the rebellion and the militias –"

"That’s a lie," Thomas said "They lead the militia, bigger patriots than anyone else in the village."

"And if I were you, Major," she continued, ignoring him, "I would head back to safer grounds. The roads are, by all accounts, thick with armed militia and quite dangerous."

"Miss Bucknell, militia are really the least of my worries right now, and I can assure you that I’m determined to find Jonathon. While daylight lasts, of course. As young Thomas here told you, in the face of grave danger – and the black plague that has settled on this village – I’ve been quite determined to do the noble thing, as you so astutely surmised. Time and again, I’ve already done so."