Masque of the Red Death (26 page)

“We’re clearing out contagion,” they said. “Cleansing the city so that some of us might live.” They gestured to Finn. “He may as well be dead.”

I stared at them, frozen.

The larger man stepped forward, and I threw myself over my twin brother.

“My father says that he is getting better,” I cried. “It is just a matter of time.”

One of the men picked me up and threw me against the wall. Tins of preserved food rained down around me. They didn’t believe me. They didn’t know who Father was or how Finn, unlike all the other dying people, could get better.

The man who hadn’t thrown me said to the other, “Leave her alone, she’s just a girl.”

“She’s been living down here, breathing the same air as the boy.”

“Then we come back and kill her.”

I didn’t see them press the knife into Finn. I don’t know if he was aware of it. They did what they had come to do and then clomped up the stairs and out of the cellar.

Blood soaked the blankets. But then he moved his hand. Ignoring the wet stickiness, I held him. I forced myself to look, even though I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to see what was inside a person, my own brother. Later I wished that I hadn’t. I’ve had nightmares about it most every night for the last three years. With or without drugs.

There was no stopping the bleeding. I’ve thought about it a lot, wondering if, had I been wiser, I could have staunched it or sewed him up. But I don’t believe it would have been possible. The men knew their business. I held him until evening. That’s when Mother returned. He was already dead.

“We can’t let your father know,” she said. “Not now, not ever. He has to believe that there is still some goodness in this world. Do you hear me?” I never considered that her fear might be of Father. But now I think of the way he spoke to me at the university. His hopelessness.

I helped Mother carry Finn up the stairs, after she had cleaned the blood from his face, kissed his forehead, and wrapped him in our tattered blankets. We were cold that night. They were our only blankets. His body was the first the corpse collectors took that day. He fell to the floor of the cart with a hollow clunk. Father may still believe that Finn died of the contagion. I don’t know.

In this dank cell beneath the burning city, I hold the knife for a long time, mesmerized by the sharpness of it. By the possibilities. But in the end, isn’t it more of a betrayal of Finn if I throw my life away? I hate that it was Will who made me realize this.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

H
OURS LATER THE
R
EVEREND
M
ALCONTENT
opens the door of my cell and gestures for me to come. The jaunty angle of the red scarf at his throat is at odds with his grim expression.

“Follow me,” he says.

When I look into his eyes, I see a feverish sort of intelligence, and it frightens me. I rest my hand against the rough stone wall and wonder whether I should refuse to go.

“We’ve received word that Prince Prospero is going to flood this section of the tunnels.”

I follow him.

“What’s happening in the city?” I ask.

“Sinners are dying.”

I’m guessing that everyone is dying. Our eyes meet. I look away first.

“The Red Death is just a disease,” I mutter. Though nothing, not since the first inhabitant of the city came down with the contagion, has ever really been just a disease.

“All plagues are the work of the devil,” he says. But he’s not really paying attention; he’s scanning the tunnels ahead of us.

Reverend Malcontent adjusts his scarf, and beneath it I see deep scar tissue. Someone slashed his throat. And suddenly, looking at his fair hair that is going gray, I know who he is. Who he was.

The vial that Father gave me is cold in my pocket, the knife cool against my ankle. We walk slowly. Reverend Malcontent takes slow, measured steps, hiding his limp. It reminds me of Elliott, and thinking of Elliott hurts.

“Your children believe that the prince murdered you.”

He touches the scarf at his neck. I should be terrified of him, but I’m numb, and I don’t feel frightened, even though I know that I should.

“I had children a long time ago. But I lost everything.”

I look at him with revulsion. I’m the one mourning his children.

“How did you survive?” I ask. The stones of the corridor are smooth and easy on my slick-soled boots. I can’t think what else to do, so I ask questions, forcing myself to walk slowly, to wait for a chance to escape.

“My brother had me thrown out into the streets with the diseased corpses. I lay in the cart for two days. My tongue swelled until it filled my mouth, and the pain was terrible. I prayed like no man has ever prayed before. A crocodile waddled up to me. It looked me in the eyes, and I saw a certain wisdom there. No crocodiles lived here before the plague, you realize. They are God’s emissaries.”

I would ask him why God sent us crocodiles instead of curing our illnesses, but he’s obviously mad.

“My prayers were answered by the diseased swamp dwellers. They pulled me out of the muck and healed me. They taught me their religion. Eventually I taught them mine.” He cups his hands in front of his face like he is praying, but his eyes are open and bright. “God wanted them to worship me.”

If someone like Reverend Malcontent had taken Finn, what would I have done to get him back? Who could I have betrayed? I allow myself to forgive Will, just a little bit. He did what he had to do. But I don’t think I will ever trust him again.

The reverend leads me around a pile of rubble. I glance up. Elliott told me that some of the passages were collapsing, but the roof of this one seems intact.

We’ve walked a long way. I struggle to find some sense of direction, to search for any markings on the walls. It smells damp and moldy here.

“Did Elliott know?”

“Elliott was worthless. It’s his sister who will help me.” April is still alive? That’s something. If I can find her…

“Why did you give up on Elliott?”

“Firstborn sons are always in high demand as sacrifices. Haven’t you read the Bible?”

“I haven’t.”

The passage twists, and we follow the curve of the wall.

“Elliott fell in love with science. It didn’t bother me to kill him. Your father has been keeping the sinners alive through devilry and science. It is time for all of them to die.”

“You blew up the ship,” I say. “Why?”

“We needed a grand gesture, to get the people’s attention.”

He did it for no good reason. I look at him with complete loathing. Like the prince, he is a murderer, and both of them are searching for my father.

A man approaches from an adjacent tunnel. “Our men aren’t protected from the Red Death,” he tells the reverend. “Not like they are from the contagion. Some of them are dying.”

The reverend takes his hand from my arm. This could be my only chance to get away from him.

“Those who are worthy are protected,” the Reverend says. “If they are dying, they aren’t devout enough.” His voice is rising. The other man cowers.

I dash to the nearest opening, only to discover that it is a stairway that leads down into deeper darkness. It’s warmer in there, and the darkness seems absolute. I feel my way to the bottom of the stairs and realize that the chamber I’ve stumbled upon is filled with people, standing upright, silent, and still. There is a light suddenly, a torch to my left.

No one is wearing masks.

The man closest to me has a rash snaking up the left side of his face, like a tattoo of some sort of vine. It is raw and oozing pus.

I stumble back. They are all infected.

We are in a vast underground room, a storage area or warehouse. In the flickering light I see that the walls are adorned with carvings that look like religious figures, saints twisted with agony. Statues line the walls. It seems the reverend has spent a good amount of time stripping relics from our abandoned places of worship.

I make eye contact with a boy who might be a year or two younger than me. His eyes look sad, and he mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”

Fear rushes through me. I have to get out of here.

The people are moving now, turning, surrounding me. I gasp. Is it possible for so many people to survive, to be carriers? Were all of them living in the marshes?

A man has stepped directly in front of me. His eyes are covered with pus.

He reaches his hand out to touch me.

“You are completely clean?” he asks, his voice rasping.

His eyes crawl over my exposed arms and legs. Over my throat where the neckline of this ridiculous dress plunges down.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Another man steps forward and pushes the first out of the way. I wince at his oozing hands. The others shift, restless. They are breathing hard, exhaling and inhaling. The air in this room is moist and heavy, and I am surrounded.

“I’ll let you keep wearing your mask,” one of the men says.

I want to laugh. I didn’t keep myself sane with a vow. I didn’t reject the caresses and kisses that I desperately wanted from Will to end up here, like this. The knife is in my boot. I whip it out and hold it in front of me, confident. But there are too many of them. And they are armed with knives and cudgels. Some of them have muskets.
This
is Malcontent’s army. Taking a deep breath, I scream as loudly as I can.

The circle of bodies shifts. I look for the boy with the sad eyes—maybe he’ll help me. But he is gone.

I hear a commotion at the top of the stairs.

“Araby?” It’s April’s voice.

“It’s the saint’s daughter,” one of the men mutters.

“April?” My voice is small. It hurts to inhale.

“Tell her to go away,” a man says as he reaches for me.

His diseased hands are on my waist, and I imagine the contagion seeping through his skin and running in rivulets down my dress. I only have so much dress; eventually he will touch my skin. I scream again, louder this time.

Someone grabs me under my arms and pulls me into the crowd. Away from April. Away from the stairs and the clean air above. I want to fight, but I don’t want to touch anyone or anything. I gag. My knife clatters to the floor.

“Let her go.” The command is obvious, though her voice is quiet. She reminds me of Elliott. “Let her go or you will burn in hell, sooner rather than later.”

Unexpectedly, the hands fall away. I hit the floor hard.

“Araby,” April says, “up the stairs, now.” I don’t hesitate.

She’s standing at the top of the stairs in her silly sequined corset, holding a musket. “Come with me,” she says. “Father will have a safe place for us. For our own good.”

When we reach him, the reverend, who is smiling, sweeps us into a wider tunnel that has been bricked off on one end and takes the gun from April.

“You’ve ruined your dress, but your hair looks fabulous,” she says. She laughs. “I am speaking to you, of course, not Father. His hair looks awful.”

The look he gives her is not loving, or kind.

“Sit here.” The reverend gestures to a spot on the floor. I see quickly why he has chosen this location. He takes a pair of manacles from his pocket, snaps one side around my wrist and the other to a metal pipe that runs the length of the wall. “Stay put,” he says. Then he chuckles to himself.

“Don’t hurt her,” April says. “You can always convert her. Think of how impressed the people will be that you’ve converted the scientist’s daughter.”

The reverend ignores her. And then she says, with complete and absolute certainty, “Elliott loved her.”

I stop breathing. After everything, how can this be what makes me cry?

Reverend Malcontent crosses the room in three quick steps, pulls the mask from her face, and throws it to the ground. He brings his foot down on the porcelain and crushes it into the stone floor. April and I stare in complete horror.

“Now I can be sure you are trusting only in God,” he says.

I expect him to smash my mask as well, but he ignores me and walks out of the room.

April puts her hand to her face, frowning … and then she pulls a small mirror from her pocket.

“Is this lipstick too red?” she asks. I move my head a tiny bit. She must think I mean no. “Good, because one family should only have so many crazies, and I’m not going to compound these sins by wearing lipstick that is too red.”

I laugh. I can’t help myself.

“It all comes back to the original crazy, of course. Uncle Prospero. My father wasn’t crazy until his throat was slashed and he was thrown into the body cart. That would drive anyone insane.” She looks at me like she wants me to agree. I nod slowly.

“He is not the father you remember,” I begin.

She smooths her hair. “That man lived for five years among those poor rotting people without a mask, and he never got the disease.”

“Maybe you won’t either.”

“No,” she says. “I’m pretty sure that I will.” She holds up my father’s journal. “Malcontent values this, so I guess we’d better take it with us.” She places the book in her makeup bag. It’s a testament to the size of the bag that it goes in easily.

“April—”

“Shh.” She puts a finger to her lips. From the corridor outside this room comes the sound of marching feet. “His army.”

“I don’t understand how there can be so many.”

She shrugs.

The footsteps gradually fade away.

“Didn’t he leave guards? Surely—”

“Father doesn’t think I will leave. Because…” She blinks a couple of times, like she does before she lies to her mother. “Because people are murdering each other in the city and he’s offered me his protection.” She pulls a pin from her hair and kneels in front of me. “Be still. The city is going to burn.” The lock pops open.

She cocks her head, listening. The echoes of the last footsteps have faded. She pushes the door open, and we stand looking out into the tunnel.

“Which way?” she asks.

I look one way and then the other, like a child about to cross the street for the first time.

Water is swirling around our ankles, dark and cold. The prince is flooding the tunnel, like the reverend predicted.