Where the Dead Talk (4 page)

He turned back to the stairs.

"In any event, no one loses that much blood and lives. Not that I’ve ever seen."

"But – " Hutchison said.

"Let’s go, Privates," Pomeroy said over him. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a sound from the darkness.

"Something moved," Cooper said.

"I see you. We both see you."

The three of them froze. A cold voice, from the shadows beyond the root cellar door. Pomeroy put a hand on the rough railing and started up. Hutchison followed. The shadows moved with the lantern.

"I see something," Cooper said, still not moving from the chimney base.

"Come hold me," the voice said.

A shadow crossed the low ceiling and landed in front of Cooper. It stood man-sized. Pomeroy made out a tattered cloak with boots below the hem.

"Sir, the eyes –" was all Cooper got out before the figure leaped at him. Before Pomeroy or Hutchison could even register what was happening, the sound of vertebrae snapping was clear. As Cooper dropped to the floor with a groan, the figure spun on Hutchison. For a second, Pomeroy saw a pale face underneath muddy hair. The eyes caught the flames of the lantern, sunlight on drops of mercury. Hutchison yelled, hurling the lantern at the figure. The glass shattered, spilling oil and flame down the front of the figure. Pomeroy spun and bolted up the stairs, his shadow pacing the wall next to him. He put his shoulder to the door at full speed. His left foot caught on the top step and he spilled out into the dark hallway, sliding on the floorboards and the trail of dried blood.

A scream tore from the cellar.

Pomeroy pushed himself up and looked back to the dark stairwell. In the light of the flames, Hutchison stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and off into the cellar. The shadow slipped into the stairwell facing Hutchison, still burning.

"Sir," Hutchison called, "help!"

Pomeroy yanked back the hammer on his pistol. There was a sudden movement to his right. A boy stood off to the side, looking at him as though he were just a tad less terrifying than the horrors in the cellar. The boy looked from him to the cellar door and back, then slammed the door closed.

"Open that up," Pomeroy said, waving his pistol.

"Guns won’t work," the boy said. His voice was rounded and muted, as if his hearing was very poor or gone. Pomeroy pointed the gun at him. A moment later, the door rattled.

"They’re gone," the boy said.

"Out," Pomeroy said. He motioned with his gun. From behind the door to the cellar, there was another scream. The boy didn’t move so Pomeroy shoved him forward, then stumbled after the child, down the hall and out the door. There was just a faint color left in the sky, a line of clouds where the sun was going down.

"Sir?" Private Hawkes called out, astride his horse. Through his pain, he’d still kept watch. "What was that?"

Pomeroy grabbed the boy and lifted him up onto Cooper’s horse, and thrust the reins into his hands.

"Don’t ask any questions, Hawke," Pomeroy said. He mounted his own horse. "We’re leaving."

"But –"

"No," Pomeroy said.

He looked at the farmhouse for a moment, then towards the road.

"Bloody hell," Pomeroy said. He spurred his horse towards the fields, now growing dark.

"Come," he said to the others.

The riders disappeared into the twilight. The flames in the cellar of the Chase farmhouse began to spread.

These Dark Woods

The waters of the lake were black, reflecting stars that, summer or winter, never did quite match the night sky elsewhere. Ripples touched the rocks along the shore where Pannalancet stood looking out from the trees. There was little wind, and no frogs or crickets singing. He was tired, and this place weighed on him, worse than ever.

Something had disturbed it. The feeling had been stuck on him when he’d awoken two days earlier, and had grown since. He'd tried to write it off as an old man’s imagination, but standing here, he couldn't ignore it. He made his way around the edge of the lake, looking for signs on the ground, in the grass and reeds. He found hoofprints fifty yards from the lake. Looking closer, he spotted some bootprints with them, ones that went to the rocky southern cut of the lake. They were three, four days old. He stared at them a long while.

He wouldn’t have done it again, he thought. Not after the last time.

Word had reached him about the young Chase who’d broken his neck; the news had stayed long in his head through the days and nights since. William hadn't come to him and Pannalancet had left him to his grief, knowing he'd let him know if he needed help with the boys. Over the years they'd come to an understanding, and now he felt for the man whose family had had its own share of tragedy; he'd help them if he could, as he had with fevers and flux and sprained ankles and poor harvests and sick animals and lonely toddlers. Still, some things were beyond his ability to help. Pannalancet looked out across the still water, where the moon rose through the treeline. He turned and headed off to his nephew’s cabin. He would need his help. Nashoonon would complain, of course – he complained about everything.

Still, the lake needed watching.

The trail to Nashoonon’s cabin was a twenty minute walk and his hips scolded him for so much walking. When he got there, the cabin was dark - no smoke from a fire, no lanterns burning. At first, he thought the young man must have been down at the tavern again, where – for all his disdain for the English – he'd spent an awful lot of time over the past year. Then, another stab of intuition touched his heart. By the time he pushed the door open, he knew that Nashoonon had left. Horse, weapon, tools, blankets – all gone. Not much besides some split quarters of wood next to the chopping stump, lying where they’d fallen.

Pannalancet stood looking at the deserted cabin until his moon shadow began to pull itself in towards his feet. The stillness of the dark cabin had the power to reach inside him, to encircle his heart like a cold hand. More voices of his people, silenced. Where once these woods were full of their songs and voices – where once nothing could get into the cold waters of the lake with his people standing watch – it had come down to this, grown too much for even Nashoonon, who had nothing to rely on but Pannalancet’s own fragments of ceremony. Not enough meat on the bone for a young man’s appetite. Too much silence, too much responsibility. Too much tragedy. With a sigh, Pannalancet turned back to the lake.

He watched the water from the eaves of the dark woods and a dread came over him made inexplicably worse by the sight of the black surface. On the far side of the lake, the evening stars shone below the moon. It was too dark to try to search the rest of the lakeshore for signs. There was one thing he could do, though – a way to tell. Pannalancet took pained steps down to the water. At the edge, he kicked off his light shoes. The mud was cool under his feet. He stepped into the water. His feet sunk into muck and the icy water grabbed his bare ankles.

The voices were suddenly everywhere.

To the eye, the lake was still, but whispers surrounded him. Here and there, fragments of speech – some in Pennacook, some in English, some in Nipmuck or Abenaki. Many in tongues he didn’t understand. Voices moved past him – some were far off. There were cries and screams, mutters and laughter. Women and children pleading, in agony. He grimaced and shifted in the mud. The voices grew in number. He struggled to hear anything else. For a minute, he thought he might have been wrong. Just the voices of the damned as always. As he turned to go, he caught a hint of deeper voices – and he froze. Below the cacophony of whispers, a faint chanting moved in and out of hearing.

With a yell, Pannalancet pulled himself from the water, stepping back up onto the grass. All around was quiet again, nothing but the wind moving through the birch and pine. The lake stretched before him, scraps of mist clinging to the surface. With a falling in his gut, he suddenly realized that Nashoonon’s disappearance wasn’t a coincidence. He turned from the lake. As he made his way to the path that would bring him to his own far off cabin, he cursed Nashoonon, cursed the English for the unstoppable violence they’d brought upon them, cursed the other tribes for shunning the valley and leaving it all to his vanished people, a thousand years of stewardship. Mostly, he cursed the lake. He spat on the path. He hated this place, these dark woods where the dead talk.

As Good A Place As Any

Thomas led them along a narrow lane beside a black brook. Hawkes was slumped over, gripping his horse’s neck. Pomeroy spotted a light up to the left. A cabin was nestled at the edge of a clearing, moonlight sketching in the tall grass around it.

"Wait," he said.

Thomas kept riding. With a frown, Pomeroy spurred his horse and came up beside him. He reached across and slapped his shoulder. Thomas startled, staring at him with big eyes.

"Wait," Pomeroy said, raising his voice.

"It’s further on," Thomas said, "I know a place, Pannalancet will know what to –"

Pomeroy held his hand up and shook his head.

"I don’t think so – and whoever you're going on about will have to wait. Hawkes can’t go any further, and this cabin will do just fine. Quartering the King’s troops is an honor."

He was exhausted. It had been almost thirty hours since he’d slept, and he couldn’t stop hearing Hutchison's screams in his head. He turned his horse to the cabin and reached long to grab the reins from Hawkes, leading his horse along too. Looking back, the boy didn’t follow.

"Well?" Pomeroy said. "I can’t lift Hawkes in there myself."

"We’re not far enough. Another few miles and –"

"I’m in no mood to tramp along any further without rest. Now come along – that’s an order."

Thomas looked up the path, then back in the direction they’d come. After a moment, he followed, his face pinched up in worry. There was dim light shining through the lone window on this side. Pomeroy dismounted, every muscle in his legs and back stiff, then went to the door of the cabin and knocked.

"Open up," he said.

Silence. He stepped to the window. It was a single room, and empty, by the looks of it. A fire in the hearth was down to red embers. The latch was free, and the door opened. There were leather-working tools in one corner, a cot in another, a hide rug on the floor; a shelf with tin cups, some knives, a bag of powder, some apples; some faded clothing – but no occupant. Pomeroy turned and went over to Hawkes.

"Come," he said, "let’s get you down."

The soldier’s eyes were closed, his face a mask of pain.

"Hawkes," he said, louder. He reached up. The Private trembled. Pomeroy looked over at the boy.

"Help me with him," he said.

A breeze gusted, knocking the door of the cabin against the frame. Together, they wrestled Hawkes down and somehow got him through the doorway. By then, Pomeroy was sweating, his arms on the verge of giving out. He blew a rivulet of sweat from his lip. They got Hawkes down onto the musty smelling bed. Thomas stared at the injured private’s leg. All that jostling hadn’t even brought him to.

"Tuck him in," Pomeroy said. Thomas nodded and started trying to get the blanket on top of Hawkes. Pomeroy straightened up and went to the dying fire. He put more wood in the center of the embers, blowing on them until sparks rose up the chimney and the flames caught. There were two squat tallow candles nearby – he lit these off of the flames and put them on the table. A pewter plate and cup were on it, a bit of fish and some greens still on the plate. A wooden fork was on the floor. He lifted the cup and sniffed. Mead. Looking around, he spotted two small casks on a low bench by the door. He went over and hefted one, then the other. The first was nearly empty, the second untapped.

"First good turn of luck in four days," he said. He carried both to the table.

Thomas stared at him. Pomeroy drained the cup – strong – and poured another, knocking it back in four swallows. The warmth slid down his tongue and throat and blossomed into his chest.

That was more like it.

"Your name?" Pomeroy said. The mead was beginning to flush his cheeks.

"Thomas. Thomas Chase."

"And why do you talk that way, Thomas Chase?"

Thomas looked at the floor and turned red. Looked up again.

"I lost my hearing to a fever, when a pox came through," he said, "I was six. My mother died of it. My aunt, too. Pannalancet was able to save me."

"Just not your hearing, apparently. Not much of a physician. Not much of a name, either – sounds like someone stammering and sneezing all at once."

The boy frowned.

"He'll know what to do – he always knows what to do, and my father told me to go find him. Before what happened at the house."

"Dreadful luck. And yet you can read my lips?" Pomeroy said.

"Unless you mumble, or you’re turned where I can’t see you well."

"Well then I shan’t mumble. And the rest of your family?"

No answer.

"That was your house?" Pomeroy said. He got a slight nod for an answer.

"I see. And what happened? What was in the cellar?"

Again, Thomas went silent and shook his head. Just thinking of all the blood in the kitchen – let alone the horror of the cellar – he couldn’t blame the child for not wanting to repeat or relive it.

"Fine," Pomeroy said, standing up and draining the cup for the third time. "I suppose it hardly matters at this point. Fetch the horses."

Thomas looked at the door, then back at him.

"I shouldn’t be helping you."

"A bit more gratitude would be more like it – unless you’ve already forgotten who rescued you."

"My family wouldn’t want me to."

"The family in your cellar, do you mean?"

The boy looked positively torn, and Pomeroy suddenly understood.

"Don’t tell me you come from a family of uppity malcontents. Colony is rather bristling with them, isn’t it? Well, don’t believe everything you hear, boy – or, in your case, read on others’ lips. Now to the horses."