Deathwatch - Final (21 page)

He was so keyed up, he jumped at the least sound. Every day was a torture. He realized all kinds of nervous gestures had crept into his behavior. He raked his hands through his hair, talked to himself, bit his nails, pinched one cheek when he sat and thought. It was the strain of waiting, he told himself, the strain of planning two deaths, even if both people deserved to die.

He was so distracted it was as if he wore blinders or suddenly lived inside some dank underground tunnel. But he forced himself to look at Delia. He wondered if she knew, but it was too painful to think about; it reminded him of--of her that had been.

There wasn't much belly to see, really, he told himself, but he wasn't sure when Cedric had gotten to her. He often went to the village and lingered in the shop to hear gossip from the farmers' wives until he could reassure himself her pregnancy wasn't too far advanced. He knew sometimes women did things to stop a baby, but he couldn't find out how it was done. He was afraid to ask anyone directly, and the low talk among the women never touched on the topic.

He was no midwife. What was he--what were they--going to do when the baby came? All of it seemed terrifying. He dreamed of Delia giving birth to monsters in a gush of black blood, himself helpless. He saw her death a hundred times and woke up with the sweat clinging to his body.

And then, what? How would they care for an infant? 

He stayed in the kitchen cooking more food than anyone ate, beating up batters for cakes he gave to the pigs, his mind always torn between the images of the smoked pork and his sister's swelling abdomen.

And then, he thanked God, Donald and Margaret left one dawn. Margaret took the bills Tom pressed on her and drove the wagon, heaped high with produce. Donald looked after the sheep. Tom watched the flock moving down the road. He knew the sound of their bells, their lightly trotting hooves and throaty baying would never leave him.

He ground his teeth in anxiety and walked directly to the smokehouse.

***

"It's your day." He found Delia fluttering her long white apron to feed the peeping chicks.

"No, tomorrow," Delia said, returning to the bin and filling her apron with more grain.

She was right, of course. But she'd never been clear on time before. How did she know? He cleared his throat, and tried another question. "Delia, how long has it been since you saw the--ah, the blood?" He tried to sound casual. He squatted down, stretching out a hand absently for one of the stirring chicks.

"You shouldn't ask that, it's for girls."

He ignored the implications. Someone--Rose or May--had told her that; so they knew. "Yes, but how long?"

"Five months."

"Are you sure? Answer carefully, darlin’."

"Yes, yes I'm sure, Tom!"

She was annoyed, a mood he'd never seen in her before. Christ help us, he thought. All right, just get her to make the soup. "C'mon, come to the kitchen now," Tom said.

"No. It's not my day."

"So do it for me, then, I'm dying for some soup." He couldn't believe the word had slipped out.

She looked at him narrowly. "All right," she sighed. "Let me get Gigi."

He was relieved. He started toward the kitchen. When he looked back, she was following.

***

"I've got everything ready for you. I've even drawn the water." Tom said, standing in front of the table with four green cabbages heaped on the wooden boards. "Want to put caraway in today?" He smiled as naturally as he could, but it felt more like a grimace; his mind was focused on the oleander stew bubbling in the pot behind him.

"No," she shook her head. "Gigi hates seeds."

"Who's Gigi?"

"My baby."

He didn't know what to say. He looked at her and she pointed to a small shape wrapped in a white towel lying on one of the chairs.

"Ah, a doll."

"She's more than a doll, Tom."

"Of course, darlin’," he nodded. "Want me to help?"

"Peel the potatoes."

"You're the chef. I'm just the hired help today," Tom said. He went to the basket and selected the firmest ones he could find. He set the small paring knife against the skins.

"Tom, you haven't rinsed them."

"Ah, you caught me there." His mind was a whirl. "I'll just take them to the pump. Hand me that basin."

He went outside, unable to believe how fast his heart was beating. With each passing second, his fear grew. Now it was only hours before Rose and Cedric would be eating the poisoned meat. He and Delia would eat her soup. He pictured himself sitting at the table, shrugging, pretending he was eating it to please her. Cedric would be fooled. If only Rose would get a few mouthfuls down her goddamn gullet before she got suspicious it would work. Then, he'd get Delia out of the room, and after they were dead, away from the house.

He came back inside and turned the stew. The smell of garlic and onions made him want to retch. "Mind if I use a few of yer spuds for me own humble creation, chef?"

She laughed. "Take all you want."

"Thanks." He peeled four and put them in the pot. He turned the meat again so it wouldn't stick. He ladled a small dollop of the gravy and put his tongue out.

Delia was dropping hunks of cabbage into the big blue kettle he set out for her. "See, Gigi, it's just the way you like it."

He nearly screamed at the sound of her voice. He jumped back. Out of habit, he'd almost put the spoon in his mouth to taste. Oh, thank you Jesus, he thought. He controlled his shaking hand and laid the spoon across the heavy rim. He closed his eyes; his heart skipped, and he put his hand to his throbbing chest. 

"See, honey?"

He turned. Delia was holding the white bundle over the mouth of the pot. She set it on the table, and Tom saw something dark peeking out of the cloth.

"What is that?" He started to pick it up. "You never played with dolls." The spoon suddenly fell with a small plop into the kettle. His shoulders twitched at the sound.

"Give her to me, give her to me," Delia whined.

Christ, he raked his hands through his hair, you've got to be more careful. Suppose the spoon had fallen outward onto the floor and Delia picked it up? He better just leave it in the stew.

She snatched up the doll and cradled it against her bosom. "She's mine. All mine." Delia stepped back. Her face was flushed with anger. Then she suddenly hung her head. "I'm sorry. You can look if you want."

He almost didn't.  He was still panicky at the thought of nearly eating the poison, he was worrying about what would happen later. But Delia was already unwrapping the figure.

 In her arms was a stylized stone carving. The thing was a woman, knees up and splayed apart, hands between her legs to show off her, her--

"Her yoni," Delia said aloud.

He stared at her, stricken. He shook her shoulders. "What? What did you say?”

"Her yoni." Delia's eyes filled with tears and they spilled in a rush down her face. "She's magic, she's making my baby grow, Tom. It's a sheila na gig."

He heard a click in his brain.

Sheila na gig.

At the words he felt himself possessed. What in the name of Christ had he been thinking about all this time? What, What,
What?
He must've been crazy, half out of his mind with grief and the plotting. And here he was, pretending that goddamn bitch didn't exist. Didn't count, because Tom Smith, protector of the young and future chef, ignored her. He shook his head. What a fool you are. His head moved back and forth in a slow arc. He began to laugh half-hysterically.

Delia was staring at him, horror-struck. He saw she grasped the state of his emotions. She was worried, her hazel eyes full of fear because she understood.

"Please, Tom, it will be all right. Don't make that sound anymore."

His sister's sudden awareness of passing days and months, her anger, the Christforsaken cups of tea she brought the old woman--how much time had Delia been spending with the hag? Oh Jesus, he didn't know.

His brain reeled.

He was going to kill the fucking witch with his bare hands.

He grabbed the foul thing, ripped it from the child's arms. It was wet and slick between his hands, as greasy if it had been dipped in pitch.

"Tom, don't. Please don't." She hung on him, clawing.

He shook her off.

"Don't!"

He threw it into the fire and immediately the liquid burned bright with an oily evil flame. He seized the bellows, pumping wildly to fan the blaze, praying the heat would crack the rock. A sickening stench blew in on them.

Delia mewled, she crawled between his legs. On her hands and knees, she stretched forward to try and grab hold of it.

"No, no. It's from Granny Rose. From Granny, Tom. She told me Ellen had one and where to find it. At the old church. Please don't," she wailed. "I didn't even have to dig it out--it came to me!"

He kicked the leering gargoyle viciously with the sole of his heavy boot and shoved it back farther into the fire.

Delia ran screaming to the corner. She sagged down until she was sitting. She began rocking herself to and fro. "Oh, my baby's going to die." She held her stomach and cried out in pain.

The obscene carving went dead black. Tom piled more kindling on top of it, and saw the blaze leaping higher still. He watched the sparks fly up the kitchen chimney with more glee than he would have thought possible.

***

Her breath was coming very hard. Gasping for air, Delia clutched her small chest. Suddenly she vomited up a huge rolling spray of liquid and half digested food. She moaned.

Tom ran to her side. He knelt. Her skin was ice cold, her face was covered in sweat.

She sat up and spread her legs as wide apart as they would go. "It's pushing, pushing," she panted. "In me." She began to shriek.

He took her hand. "No, it's too soon, Delia, no."

"Oaannnnnh," she grunted, and her teeth were set on edge. He saw blood flow in fast pool underneath her. She vomited again, and he saw her eyes roll up in her head. Her mouth dragged down in a sharp spasm and she screamed in agony. Her hands flew to her chest.

"Delia. Delia." He cradled her on his lap.

"Meat, meat for the baby." Her hair was matted with sweat, her hand fumbled at her crotch.

He screamed, unable to help himself.

"Did you eat it? Answer me, oh mother of Christ, Delia answer me!" Her legs splayed wide and he felt the wet flow of her blood onto his trousers. Her body jerked, and she cried out again, her small hands pressing her heart.

"Gran says meat," she breathed. "Eat it for the baby. Hungry." The words were indistinct, slurred. Her lips formed a thin half smile. "Papa says getting fat. Waited till you went to wash--"

The potatoes, he thought, and clutched her small body to him. He buried his head against her. God, God, she'd eaten the meat from the poisoned stew.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. She nodded, barely. "Yes." It took her a long time to say it.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, then her body stiffened. He watched until her eyes clouded over. She was gone.

***

He heard a light step and turned to look over his shoulder. Rose stood alongside the table, one misshapen hand curled around a small paring knife.

"An abortifacient. You don't know that word, do you boy? No. You wondered what could stop the baby, but you never heard those women in town say, did you? Oleander works on the heart," she said. The short blade gleamed between her fingers.

He kept his eye on the knife, her words swirled like oil in his mind.

"Knew it would kill a pig didn't you? But not how much would kill a man or a poor slow witted girl, either, huh, boy?"

She'd been inching toward him slowly; he realized her voice held him--as if he'd been paralyzed--to the spot.

"I'm going to have your manhood!" Rose cawed.

At the same instant, from three feet away he saw the knife glide out of her hand. The vision was quite clear, she hadn't thrown it; it floated toward him at the level of his eyes, the thin curve where it had been honed too often gleaming like a sickle.

Rose laughed. "Trophies. Life is all about getting trophies, boy. Think of it," she said, and the knife took a sudden dive downward like a kite dropped by the wind. "You'll never know a woman."

He watched the blade begin a slow windmill spin.

The door banged open, Rose started at the noise, and Tom heard the knife clatter against the floor.

"What've you done to Delia?" Cedric shrieked, running forward; then he sagged to his knees in front of the fireplace and began wringing his hands. "Oh, my book, my precious precious book."

Tom saw the old woman's eyes flick toward Cedric and he seized his chance. He hurled himself at her and knocked her down. He heard her head strike the floor with a hard dull thud. She was half-conscious, moaning. He would deal with her later, he got to his feet, scrabbled sideways and snatched up the heavy soup kettle, dumping it over on Cedric. Cedric began spluttering and screaming in a blind rage.

"Oh Christ, mother of the dear Christ, I can't see. I'm scalded!" His hands circled and flailed like wounded birds around his face.

Cedric tried to hoist himself up, he flung his hands wide trying to find the wall, a chair, the bench--something to guide him. Tom lifted the burning kettle. He ignored the hot searing pain in his hands and brought it down against Cedric's head as hard as he could. Cedric fell sprawling on his face in the puddling stew.

Then he fell on Rose. He got astride her chest, his knees clamping her bony form. He yanked her hair and banged her head as hard as he could against the floor. The sound of her head striking the boards urged him on. He kept at it until he felt her go limp. A thin line of blood ran from one ear to the hollow of her shoulder.

Her words cut through the haze of his shock.

You can light fires with your mind.

Maybe it was a trick, her last try to overpower him. He didn't know, didn't care. He sensed there would be danger if he hesitated or delayed.