Where the Dead Talk (21 page)

I did this.

The thought rang in his head like a bell in the church. And like that bell, it came again and again. He dug his heels into the sides of the exhausted horse, turning it away from the trees. The dead moved, or faded. They had no substance – only shadow and voice.

He'd said it once to be flip, said it to annoy his uncle like he knew it would.

"We should just leave, and leave all this to the English. Let them learn what the lake will do."

His uncle had stopped and faced him, a weary look on his face. He'd pointed a finger at him.

"You talk without thinking," Pannalancet had said.

"What? You don't think they deserve it?"

"That was a long time ago. I've made my peace with it, with the village, with the lake."

"You should be more angry."

"May as well be angry with the sky. Making it through the years is difficult enough."

"After all we've lost?"

"Our fate lies with this lake. It always has."

"There's no one left - no one but us."

"They've moved on, north, west. They might not see any longer how connected they are, but if the worst should happen, it will only be a matter of time before they would feel the pain. We're tied to this, as are they. When we guard the lake, we guard our people, too. Think about that before you imagine leaving it all to the English."

He rode straight past the smaller lane that would bring him to his own cabin. Further up, he turned on the path that led to Pannalancet’s cabin. It was hard to hold sleep off. Twice he found himself with his eyes closed and had to wrench himself fully awake. He leaned and punched himself hard on the outside of his thigh.

"Wake up," he said.

Nashoonon could look through the trees to the north and see where the lake was, though the water itself was over a ridge and down a long slope, and not visible from the path. From where his uncle’s cabin sat, a swath of scraggly pine and oak filled the slope down to the water. This was the narrow end of the lake. It opened like a giant thumb, then widened out into the fist, becoming broad and round. Trees marched right up to its edge all the way around, save for a few places where granite outcroppings leaned out over the water.

Once, he’d rowed a small raft out into the middle of it when Pannalancet had ridden off to Ipswich for a day to visit an old neighbor. Even the water that had rolled down the paddle onto his fingers had been freezing cold. In the middle, he’d leaned over the edge of the raft and dropped rocks into the depth – some the size of chestnuts, some a small gourd. Each had shimmied down in the water, clear at first, then fading from the light. Finally, he’d pushed over the biggest rock that he’d been able to wrangle onto the wooden raft, one larger than his own head. It had splashed into the water, dropping in a whirl of air bubbles.

Down and down, then gone.

Watching it, he’d almost flipped the raft and had to scoot back from the edge in a panic. Even now, fifteen years later, he could still taste the fear that had sent him paddling as fast as he could back to the shore: fear of the black cold depths below the raft, where the stones he’d dropped might still be sinking; of the enormity of that much water, going down that far: of what the lake was and could do.

Sunlight cut through the trees and dappled the front of Pannalancet’s cabin. It was here that Nashoonon had grown up, his home, his childhood. Pannalancet had tried to show his young nephew the way of the H’atonai, and done his best to teach him the woods and animals. Some of it had taken, most of it hadn’t. His uncle had let him choose his own course. The door to the cabin was open. He didn’t see O’Malley, his uncle’s old stallion.

"Uncle?" he called out.

Like the rest of the village, it felt empty here. No answer from the cabin. A pair of sparrows zipped by, landing in a thick bush near the cabin. He stepped up to the door and pushed it the rest of the way open.

"Uncle?" he said again.

Sunlight fell in across the wooden floor. Nashoonon stepped in, his shadow in front of him. It was empty, and muddy footprints littered the floorboards. Furniture was knocked over, drawers smashed, windows broken in. He walked across the cabin and leaned down in front of the small fireplace. There was no warmth at all from the gray embers, and the stone was cold to the touch. There had been no fire there last night. He stayed squatted down for a minute, hanging his head. He couldn’t think, and the more he tried, the more jumbled his thoughts became. Too tired. With a pop of his knees, he straightened up and looked around.

It was the lake, all of it. The lake.

His eyes told him that what his heart had felt was right – the cabin had been attacked, his uncle was missing. He sat on the bed and groaned. Every muscle in his body was sore, every one exhausted – he couldn’t go another step, couldn’t make another decision until he’d rested some, just for a bit. He’d ridden a day and a night straight through. He pulled the blankets up and over him. The bedding was cold and rumpled and held the scent of old man. He tossed his head a few times and jammed the pillow underneath him. He let out a long sigh, and was asleep before it was all out.

Thomas was under the bed, the weight from the man pressing the center of the mattress down nearly on top of him. He tried not to make a sound, or bump the mattress.

He’d reached it in the cold hours before the dawn and been so tired that he’d just locked the door and crawled into the bed. The only reason he’d woken up had been that his bladder had been full nearly to burst. He’d staggered out of bed and into the cold first light of day, glad only that he hadn’t wet the bed. Outside, he’d peed at the corner of the cabin – and that’s when he saw the man walking up the path with the horse. The man had been looking through the trees in the direction of the lake, and hadn't seen him. It had given Thomas just enough time to dart back into the cabin.

He’d been too afraid to even close the door, afraid that the man would look up and see the door shutting. In a panic, he’d grabbed the sack that held the things he’d taken from the lakeside and slid underneath the bed with them. Then the man had come into the cabin. He’d stomped around some, muttering. Thomas was only just able to slide back far enough when the man got into the bed to avoid being squished. He held still for a while, maybe twenty minutes, until he was sure that the man wasn’t just lying there. There were no movements at all. Then, as silently as he could, he slid out from underneath the bed.

He crawled backwards until he was next to the large wooden chest. Now in the daylight, he looked around the cabin. On the little table was a half-carved stick figure – Pannalancet made several for him each year, slowly giving him an army of wooden warriors. Seeing it brought back the pain of what he'd seen the night before. Nearby were books, candles, a bed warmer – most of them given to Pannalancet by the villagers that he helped, treatingsickness or giving farming advice. Dry herbs hung from the walls on thin bits of twine.

Thomas turned back to the bed, so he could get a good look at the sleeping man's face. He stared at the man for a long while, considering him. Then, he cleared his throat. Then again, more loudly. The man opened his eyes, looked tiredly around – and then started back when he saw Thomas.

"Nashoonon."

The man sat up, looking unsure as to whether he was still dreaming or not.

"How did you get in here?"

"I came last night," Thomas said. "I was with your uncle."

"Where is he?"

"The lake," Thomas said. He stood up, lifting a sack in his left hand. "He was trying to stop it, but I don’t think it worked. I think he didn’t get to finish it."

"Finish what?"

"Stopping the bad things from happening. And then one of them got him. Pulled him underneath the water."

Thomas frowned.

"He didn’t come back up," he said.

The man looked ashen, as though Thomas had confirmed some dread secret.

"And I took these," Thomas went on. He held up the sack and then put it onto the table. Reaching in, he pulled out the wrapped bundle of stones. The man stared hard at them.

"And this," Thomas said. He lifted a preserve jar from the sack and placed it next to the stones on the table. The man sat up and walked over to him. Thomas had always been frightened of Nashoonon, but he stayed where he was. The man went to the jar and picked it up. It was half-full of blood, and the blood had things floating both on the surface, and objects down at the bottom. He tilted the jar and looked carefully. Teeth, and some claws.

"I also took this," Thomas said. He brought out a fold of material and opened it. It had leaves in it. The man picked one up and held it under his nose.

"Before he used them," Thomas said, "he sat at a fire and sang. Then he did something with a skull, and put stuff into it. He held it over the water, but dropped it. He found it, but I don’t think it worked right."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Thomas said, "he dropped it, but some of the stuff came out. Then the lake vibrated and banged. And the water shook. And something came out."

"Came out?"

"Something bad. And big. Like a thundercloud. Worse than the bodies," he said.

The man put the jar down and looked at him, then back at the items. He shook his head.

"What should I do about it?" he said.

"You have to fix it," Thomas said.

"I can’t."

"You have to."

The man shook his head.

"You don’t understand. I don’t know what to do – only my uncle knows," he said.

"But he was your uncle."

"So what? Do you know everything that your uncle knows?"

"My uncle is dead," Thomas said. "They got him, and now he’s one of the bodies. They got my father, too. Maybe my brother Jonathon. And the village is dying; it keeps spreading. My uncle started it, I think. It was our fault that this happened."

The man’s eyes widened.

"I helped him. So it’s my fault, too."

Inside Out

"Push," Pomeroy said, grunting.

Sweat trickled down his neck, mixing with plaster and dust. He had his shoulder on one side of a beam. Morrill was on the other side, pushing with both arms. In the lantern light, the veins stood out on his trembling arm. MacGuire’s older boy was crouched on the next step up, also pushing. The thick beam moved just a little, no more. They all let off pressure.

"It ain’t going nowhere, Major," Morrill said.

"Indeed," Pomeroy said. He rubbed at his shoulder where the corner of the wood had dug in. Below them, lanterns flickered. Carolyn was down there with MacGuire’s younger son. The others hadn’t made it down. After the tumble and crashing, there had been only silence. In the darkness, none of them had moved or spoken. Something had passed above the broken floors above them. Pomeroy had curled into a small ball, pressing his arms over his head. He didn’t even want to breath. He’d never had a worse feeling. Eyes searching for him, foul limbs and tendrils wanting to work their way into his eyes and skull. It wanted to devour him, to shred him from the inside out.

Then it passed. The sound of the wind had moved off, to be replaced with silence, with an occasional muffled crash or thud. None of them spoke for some time. Pomeroy had straightened out and found that his face was wet – tears had spilled down his cheeks. The others were whispering or sniffling. At the bottom of the stairs, Morrill had sparked a lantern to life. In the sudden firelight, they’d exchanged looks. Wide eyes all around. By unspoken consent, nobody mentioned what had passed over them. Down below, a store of food, blankets, lanterns, and oil was promising – though less so if they couldn’t get up and out of the cellar.

"Anything?" Carolyn said. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Well, we almost all broke our shoulders, but nothing was giving beyond that," Pomeroy said. He went down the remaining steps, holding the railing carefully. Morrill and the boy were digging at the piles of plaster and framing that blocked the stairwell.

"We have to get out," she said.

"This might well be the safest place for us, at the moment."

"Major, my parents are alone. I need to get to them and warn them."

"Well there’s a little problem of a fallen tavern directly overhead."

Her eyes repeated her plea to him. He hopped over to a barrel and sat down on it.

"Your father is a smart man. He’ll know what to do," he said. He motioned for the younger boy to step over and be a crutch.

"Let’s see what we can find," he said. He leaned on the boy and used his good leg to straighten up. The cellar stretched forward for perhaps twenty paces, then turned right. The lantern rattled in the boy’s hand as they staggered forward in a slow three-legged march.

"No other doors or stairs you haven’t mentioned?" he said.

"Course not, sir."

"Then what’s that?" he said. He pointed at a small door just past the turn in the room.

"Root cellar?" the boy said.

"Don’t guess. Find out."

He steadied himself on the wall with one hand. The boy went to the door and pulled it open. He leaned in with the lantern, then came back.

"Potatoes, sir," he said.

"Well at least we won’t be starving any time soon," Pomeroy said.

The boy came over and helped him inspect the rest of the cellar. There was no smell of must in the air and the corners were free of cobwebs. Brewster kept it neat. In the far corner, several large wooden kegs were stacked next to smaller casks and sacks. A hoppy smell filled the air.

"Not exactly the way I'd hoped to find it," Pomeroy said.

"Sir?"

Pomeroy sighed. It was the famed Brewster’s Tavern & Inn ale, a stack of wooden hogsheads. Ale so good that each mug was a meal in itself, according to a certain Lieutenant Sorrel – one of the few officers in the Regiment whom Pomeroy could stand. Sorrel and another officer had passed through West Bradhill a few weeks ago en route back from Haverhill, stopping at the tavern here for a drink after paying a visit to a friend of his father’s. When he’d returned to the Regiment, he’d spent nearly half an hour praising the ‘finest ale ever to pass his lips’ to Pomeroy – who'd been in his cups, holding a letter from his own dear father. That conversation had put an idea into Pomeroy’s head.