Where the Dead Talk (6 page)

Pomeroy raised his voice. His headache had returned.

"The King’s Army will press into service whomsoever it sees fit, young miss. And at this moment, Dr. Bucknell is required. As for any other details of our operations, I should thank you to restrain yourself."

She ignored him and turned back to the boy.

"Have they hurt you?" she said. "Get down from there. You can stay with us until Jonathon and your father are back."

The boy set his jaw and shook his head. His look was daggers, clear enough for Pomeroy to wonder what had gone on between them – for it was clear that something had.

"We have business to attend to, I’m afraid," Pomeroy said, "and young master Thomas has important tasks ahead of him. Is Dr. Bucknell here?"

His tone insisted on no more distractions. She turned to him and stepped in close, pointing a finger at him.

"Let me tell you something, Major," she said, "if even the slightest bit of harm comes to him when he is in your company, you’ll not only have to answer to the Chase men, but to me as well. Perhaps your filthy uniform and horses have impressed a child, but very few around here will take kindly to seeing a Chase boy in the company of English soldiers."

Pomeroy thought of a crow, the way she pecked at him with her finger and squawked at him. He was all too familiar with such young women, growing up a Pomeroy in Hampstead. Well-to-do by virtue of their family, convinced of their own rightness, driven to tell everyone else how they ought to behave in virtually every situation. As she went on, he noticed that the grey in her eyes was flecked with green.

"The locals may think what they wish," he said, "but the boy is perfectly safe and providing a necessary service to my company. Now, your father – where is he? I really must insist."

She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest.

"Not here," she said. "Rode into town an hour ago."

"To where?"

"Brewster’s Tavern," she said.

Pomeroy smiled. He took a step back, swept his hat off in an elaborate bow, then turned to go.

"I thank you indeed, Miss Bucknell," he said.

He stepped to his horse and the boy tossed him the reins. Pomeroy lifted himself into the saddle.

"Come, young master Chase," he said, "our mission fortuitously takes us to the tavern – lead the way, if you would."

The center of West Bradhill was an arrangement of small businesses and houses in the shape of an L on the north-east corner of a green. A church stood on the far side. In front of the church, an old man wearing all black – the town Reverend, Pomeroy assumed – was gesturing to a man on a wagon.

"You know her, then," Pomeroy said to the boy.

"Carolyn? She’s in love with Jonathon."

"Jonathon?"

"My brother."

"The one whom you shoot better than?"

The boy nodded.

"She’s more in love with him than she’ll admit – that’s what Jonathon says."

"Well, he would, wouldn’t he. They are betrothed?"

The boy looked at him, shook his head.

"Her family are loyalists," he said.

"Your tone tells me you don’t think much of loyalists, boy."

"I told you, Jonathon and my father and uncle are patriots."

"Oh, are they?"

Well your father isn’t much of anything anymore, judging by what I saw in the cellar of your house, Pomeroy finished to himself.

"Jonathon chides her that her father will only be happy to see her married to an officer. A British officer."

"Indeed," Pomeroy said, "that would make sense, all things considered."

She had seemed rather taken with him when she first saw him at the door. He brushed dried dirt off of his uniform as they rode past a cooper and a smithy and came to a stop in front of the tavern. The largest of the businesses in the village, the tavern was two stories tall and painted green. The shutters were black next to windows of six-over-six lead panes. A painted sign – decorated with a frothy mug – read: Brewster’s Tavern & Victuals, Jude Brewster, propr. Twin lanterns bracketed the doorway. Pomeroy got down from his horse and then helped Thomas down from his.

"Stay with the horses," he said. He indicated a water trough off to the side, where an old nag was already tied. Pomeroy pushed open the tavern door, a rich red that shone in the sunlight. He stepped into a common room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the inside. Long tables and benches stood before a wide hearth. Lanterns hung from the low ceiling beams. The air held the pleasant smell of fresh ale – Pomeroy inhaled deeply. Two men stood near the hearth. They stopped talking and stared at him.

"Gentlemen," he said, walking in, "your King requires the service of the renowned Dr. Bucknell."

Neither man moved.

"And you are?" the older man said. The other man appeared to be his servant.

"Major William Pomeroy, 5th Regiment of Foote. Of the Pomeroys of Hampshire, sir."

The older man’s eyebrows went up and he tilted his head in approval. He looked at the other man.

"As I said," he said, as though concluding a debate. He stepped forward and bowed. "I could hardly have asked for better news, Major. Rest assured that not all of the countryside shares the madness of rebellion. Israel Bucknell, physician, at your service."

Rebellion? Pomeroy smiled at the doctor. What on earth is he getting at?

"Tell me, Major," Dr. Bucknell said, "are the other communities pacified? And the troops surrounding Boston – have they been dispersed?"

He approached Pomeroy and lowered his voice, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"All along I trusted the King’s men would not tolerate such aggression – and though much of our village and the nearby towns have mustered their weaponry – I should be glad to see your men garrisoned here," he said. "Anything is preferable to the entire colony crawling with armed militia, and more coming in every day."

Pomeroy suddenly had a bad feeling.

"Quite," he said, "and about your services, Doctor. One of my men has been injured – a bit of an accident with a tree and his leg. And the ground, I suppose."

That was it, he thought – get the doctor to Hawkes. Hawkes will have to take care of himself after that. This talk of militia and troops wasn’t making his head feel any better. A drink was what he needed. Luckily he was, finally and after all, at the legendary Brewster’s Tavern. Pomeroy caught the attention of the doctor’s servant.

"Run and fetch the tavernkeep, would you," he said.

The servant gave him a strange look.

"Well, Major Pomeroy of the King’s Regiment," the servant said, "I am the tavernkeep."

He was a Negro – in the northern colonies, one could never be certain who was a free man and who wasn’t. Pomeroy swept off his hat and bowed.

"A thousand pardons, sir," he said. He put the hat back on. "I feel a fool – please forgive me. If it brings some consolation, I can tell you that word of your brewing prowess has spread far and wide, and I’m most eager to find myself on the outside of one of your legendary ales. I’ve not had a drop in days."

The tavernkeep looked at him curiously.

"Be glad to," he said, "in one moment."

With that, he disappeared into the kitchen, towards the back of the tavern. Dr. Bucknell tapped the floorboards with his cane.

"And how has the fighting been?" he said.

Pomeroy ran a hand across the stubble on his chin.

"I’ve lost some men," he said.

"Pity."

"Indeed."

"And how many troops do you command, Major?"

"My company is small – but tenacious," he said.

The tavernkeep returned, a tall pewter mug in his hand. A head of froth jiggled across the top. Pomeroy’s mouth watered. The aroma of hops, then spice and fruit, and finally yeast touched his nose. The door to the tavern opened and the boy stuck his head in. He looked at Pomeroy. Pomeroy shook his head and made sure the boy could read his lips.

"Not now, boy," he said.

"But – " Thomas said.

The door opened wider and two tall men walked in. Behind them, a large troop of men stood in the road in front of the tavern. Muskets were shouldered, a small forest of them. The two men paused for a moment – eyes adjusting from the sunlight – and then looked at Pomeroy. He paused with the mug two inches from his lips.

"Redcoat!" the first man yelled, raising the bayonet-end of his musket. Before Pomeroy could do anything, more militia barreled in through the doorway.

Oh, bloody hell.

With a heavy heart, he threw the mug into the face of the leading militia man, foaming ale splashing everywhere. He turned and blew past the tavernkeep, knocking a few chairs down as he passed them, and ran into the kitchen. With a spin, he threw over the heavy table in the center. He ran to the back door and opened it onto bright sun. He hurried by a stable, toward a copse of trees. Men spilled out the back door of the tavern. A shot went off and some leaves above his head fluttered down as the ball sang through them. He sped into the thicker evergreens beyond, gasping for breath.

"Good Christ," he said as he ran.

Words To Remember

Darkness fell across the land, bringing cool night with it. A pair of crows argued in the trees by his cabin. Pannalancet offered the wine and the meat to the west and then the east, and began a pained shuffle, the welcoming dance. When the stars appeared, he took off his clothes and entered the hut behind his cabin. Along one wall hung some of the things the villagers had given him over the years: brooms, some hand-tools, a tri-cornered hat that he sometimes wore when he went into town, ceramic jars from the preserves they often gave him in exchange for his remedies, or finding a spot for a well, or interpreting a peculiar dream, maybe sussing out the sex of a baby before it was born. Over the years, he’d also used it to store firewood in the winter and dry his herbs and flowers in the warm months, a testament to creeping practicality. He’d built it as a young man, and built it for ceremony; now, the tiny room smelled of must and mouse-droppings and herbs. He sat by the fire – lowering himself with a grunt – and brought the cup to his mouth. The pungent liquid was warm and pieces of leaf stuck to his lips. With a wooden ladle, he dumped water on the rocks at the side of the fire, filling the room with hissing and steam. Soon, his chest and face were dripping with sweat.

And the raven tongue in the drink opened his spirit-eye, lifting the veil between worlds. Rocking slowly back and forth, he took up the song again, his voice low, gravelly, almost a mumble. The fire shifted in front of him, orange hearts and yellow tendrils dancing. In the periphery of his sight, shadows started to flow and slip.

He closed his eyes and fell silent. The fire snapped.

The fire had burned low by the time Pannalancet snapped back into his body, all his muscles jerking. He rolled onto his side, the weight of his old body heavy after the time on the other side. He pushed into a sitting position; his hips ached as though red coals had been packed tight into them. For several minutes, he stared into the embers and low flames, listening to their soft pops.

Slowly, he got to his feet, unsteady at first. He shuffled to the door. The air outside was cold. He began putting on the clothes he’d left earlier and headed to his cabin, ignoring the pain, ignoring the cold air, ignoring what now roamed the night near West Bradhill. Once inside his cabin, he drank some water and wrapped himself in blankets, getting in bed. His eyes focused past the ceiling above him. He had answers, terrifying answers, and words to remember.

The worst has happened, he thought, over and over, worrying it down to nothing as the moon began to set.

Words.

The dawn woke him, tired as he was. With hardly a pause, he climbed from his bed and put on clothes to wear into the village. He took his hat from the shed and used the tree stump to get up onto his horse. It took more than one try.

"Don't give me that look," he said to the horse.

As he rode, he saw the lake through the trees.

The ceremony of skulls and clay to shut the gate, the ceremony of bloodfire to seal it.

That was what he had to remember. He grimaced as he watched the glints of morning sunlight on the surface of the cursed water. The lake had indeed been disturbed, been used yet again in the pursuit of the impossible. His vision ceremony had told him that much, clearly. It had also told him that it had gone further this time. Not just a spirit released in the vessel of a dead body; it was more and was likely already spread. The Cursed Sachems had stirred. He scanned the ground for signs: dead animals, birds. Nothing.

Much as he tried to convince himself that it was early enough that he could stop it before the veil between this world and the others opened any further, a voice in his head said different: Nashoonon was here before; now you're alone; older; weaker; the last.

He shook his head, muttering.

The ride to town was long and with each step his worries grew. When he at last came to the tavern in the center of the village, he was sweating in the April sunshine. He dismounted with a groan and hitched the horse out front. Before going inside, he looked around the village. The streets were near to empty. No clanging or smoke came from the smithy or the cooper's. A few women talked near the front of the church. The reverend emerged from the shadowed doorway and looked about.

It had been better before that one had come, Pannalancet thought. Back then, a morning like this would have seen handfuls of Pennacook alongside the English, living well. Enough of us still here to keep careful watch on the lake. Not just an old man, whose eyes and chest and hips all reminded him more and more that all things fall away with the years.

He spit into the dirt before pushing the tavern door open. Jude Brewster was at the big hearth, pouring sliced vegetables into a giant simmering pot. There was no one else about.

"You missed your chance to join the fight," Brewster said, nodding towards the road outside.

"I'm an old man. What's your excuse?"

"I'm old in spirit."