Soul of the Fire (30 page)

The stump was empty. The line was slack.

Nora, her whole arm trembling, held up the lamp, to see what she came to see. Tears stung at her eyes so she had to blink to see better. She had to sniffle to get her breath.

She held the lamp higher as she walked out into the water till it poured over the tops of her boots. She took another step, till the water soaked the bottom of her nightdress and shift and dragged the dead weight back and forth with the movement of her steps and the waves.

When the water was up to her knees, she saw him.

He was floating there, facedown in the water, his arms limp out to his sides, his legs parted slightly. The little breeze-borne waves slopped over the back of his head, making his hair move as if it were some of the lake weed. He bobbed gently there in the water, like a dead fish floating on the surface.

Nora had feared to find him there, like that. It was just what she feared, and because she feared it so, she wasn’t even shocked when she saw it. She stood there, water to her knees, Julian floating like a dead bloated carp twenty feet out in the lake. The water was too deep to wade out to get him. Out where he was it would be over her head.

She didn’t know what to do. Julian always did the stuff she couldn’t do. How was she going to get her husband in to shore?

How was she going to live? How was she going to feed herself and her children without Julian? Julian did the hard stuff. He knew the things she didn’t know. He provided for them.

She felt numb, dead, stunned, like she did when she’d just come awake. It didn’t seem possible.

Julian couldn’t be dead. He was Julian. He couldn’t die. Not Julian.

A sound made her spin around. A thump to the air. A howl, like wind on a blizzard night. A wail and a whoosh lifted into the night air.

From their house up on the hill, Nora could see sparks shooting up out the chimney. Sparks flew up in wild swirls, spiraling high up into the darkness. Thunderstruck, Nora stood in frozen terror.

A scream ripped the quiet night. The awful sound rose, like the sparks, screeching into the night air with horror such as she had never heard. It was such a brutal cry she didn’t think it could be human.

But she knew it was. She knew it was Bruce’s scream.

With a wail of wild terror of her own, she suddenly dropped the lamp in the water and ran for the house. Her screams answered his, feeding on his, shattering the silence with his.

Her babies were in the house.

Evil was in the house.

And she had left them to it.

She wailed in feral fright at what she had done, leaving her babies alone. She screamed to the good spirits to help her. She squalled for her children. She choked on her sobbing panic as she stumbled through the brush in the dark.

Huckleberry bushes snagged and tore her clothes. Branches slashed her arms as she ran with wild abandon. A hole in the ground caught and twisted her foot, but she stayed up and kept running toward her house, toward her babies.

Bruce’s piercing scream went on without end, lifting the hair at the back of her neck. She didn’t hear Bethany, just Bruce, little Bruce, screaming his lungs out, like he was having his eyes stabbed out.

Nora stumbled. Her face slammed the ground. She scrambled to her feet. Blood gushed from her nose. Stunning pain staggered her. She gagged on blood and dirt as she gasped for breath, crying, screaming, praying, panting, choking all at the same time. With desperate effort, Nora raced to the house, to the screams.

She crashed through the door. Chickens flew out around her. Bruce had his back plastered to the wall beside the door. He was in the grip of savage terror, out of his mind, shrieking like a the Keeper had him by the toes.

Bruce saw her, and made to throw his arm around her, but flung himself back against the wall when her saw her bloody face, saw strings of blood dripping from her chin.

She seized his shoulder. “It’s Mama! I just fell and hit my nose, that’s all!”

He threw himself at her, his arms clutching her hips, his fingers snatching at her clothes. Nora twisted around, but even with the bright firelight, she didn’t see her daughter.

“
Bruce! Where’s Bethany?”

His arm lifted, shaking so much she feared it would come undone. She wheeled to see where he pointed.

Nora screeched. She threw her hands up to cover her face, but couldn’t, her fingers quaking violently before her mouth as she screamed with Bruce.

Bethany was standing in the hearth, engulfed in flames.

The fire roared around her, swirling in tumbling eddies as it consumed her little body. Her arms were lifted out into the angry white heat, the way you lifted your arms into the warm spring afternoon sunlight after a swim.

The stink of bubbling burning flesh suddenly wormed into Nora’s bleeding nose, gagging her until she choked on the smell and taste and couldn’t get another breath. She couldn’t seem to look away from Bethany, look away from her daughter being burned up alive. It didn’t seem real. She couldn’t make her mind understand it.

Nora lunged a step toward the flames, to snatch her daughter out of the fire. Something inside, some last scrap of sense, told her it was far too late. Told her to get away with Bruce before it had them, too.

The tips of Bethany’s fingers were all gone. Her face was nothing but yellow-orange whorls of flame. The fire burned with wild, roused, determined fury. The heat sucked Nora’s breath from her lungs.

A shrill scream suddenly rose from the girl, as if her soul itself had finally caught fire. It made the very marrow in Nora’s bones ache.

Bethany collapsed in a heap. Flames shot up around the crumbled form, tumbling out around the stone, licking briefly up over the mantel. Sparks splashed out into the room, bouncing and rolling across the floor. Several hissed out against the wet hem of Nora’s dress.

Nora snatched at Bruce, clutching his nightshirt in a death grip, and ran with him from the house as evil consumed what was left of her daughter.

Fitch folded his legs as he sat on the grass. The cool brick felt good against his sweaty back. He took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling night, the aromas of roasting meat wafting out through open windows, and the clean smell of the apple-wood pile. Since they would be working late cleaning up the mess after the feast, they’d been given a welcome respite.

Morley handed him the bottle. It would be late before they could get good and drunk, but at least they could have a sample. Fitch took a big swig. Instantly, he coughed violently, before he could get it down, losing most of the mouthful of liquor.

Morley laughed. “Told you it was strong.”

Fitch wiped the back of his sleeve across his dripping chin. “You’re right about that. Where’d you get it? This is good stuff.”

Fitch had never had anything so strong that it burned that much going down. From what he’d heard, if it burned, that meant it was good stuff. He’d been told that if he ever had a chance, he’d be a fool to turn down good stuff. He coughed again. The back of his nose, back in his throat, burned something awful.

Morley leaned closer. “Someone important ordered it sent back. Said it was swill. They were trying to be pompous in front of everyone. Pete, the cupbearer, he ran it back and set it down. When he grabbed another and ran out, I snatched it up and slipped it under my tunic before anyone noticed.”

Fitch was used to drinking the wine they’d managed to scavenge. He’d drain almost empty small casks and bottles, collecting the dregs and what was left behind. He’d never gotten his hands on any of the scarce liquor before.

Morley pushed at the bottom of the bottle, tipping it to Fitch’s lips. Fitch took a more cautious pull, and got it down without spitting it back out. His stomach felt like a boiling cauldron. Morley nodded approvingly. Fitch smiled with smug pride.

Through distant open windows, he could hear people talking and laughing in the gathering hall, waiting for the feast to begin. Fitch could already feel the effects of the liquor. Later, after they cleaned up, they could finish getting drunk.

Fitch rubbed the gooseflesh on his arms. The music drifting out from the windows put him in a mood. Music always did that, made him feel like he could rise up and do something. He didn’t know what, but something. Something powerful.

When Morley held out his hand Fitch handed over the bottle. He watched the knob in Morley’s throat move up and down with every swallow. The music built with emotion, quickened with excitement. On top of the effects of the drink, it gave him chills.

Off past Morley, Fitch saw someone tall coming down the path toward them. The person was walking deliberately, not just out for a stroll, but going someplace. In the yellow lamplight coming from all the windows, Fitch saw the glint off the silver scabbard. He saw the noble features and bearing.

It was Dalton Campbell. He was coming right for them.

Fitch elbowed his friend and then stood. He steadied himself on his feet before straightening his tunic. The front of it was wet with liquor he’d coughed out. He quickly swiped back his hair. With the side of his foot, he kicked Morley and signaled with a thumb for him to get up.

Dalton Campbell walked around the woodpile, headed straight toward them. The tall Ander seemed to know right where he was going. Fitch and Morley, when it was just the two of them lifting drink and sneaking off, never told anyone where they went.

“
Fitch. Morley,” Dalton Campbell called out as he approached.

“
Good evening, Master Campbell,” Fitch said, raising a hand in greeting.

Fitch guessed, what with the light from the windows, it wasn’t really that hard to see. He could see Morley good enough, see him holding the bottle behind his back. It must be that the Minister’s aide saw them from a window as they were going out to the woodpile.

“
Good evening, Master Campbell,” Morley said.

Dalton Campbell looked them over, like he was inspecting soldiers. He held out his hand.

“
May I?”

Morley winced as he pulled the bottle from behind his back and handed it over. “We was … that is …”

Dalton Campbell took a good swig.

“
Ahh,” he said, as he handed the bottle back to Morley. “You two are fortunate to have such a good, and full, bottle of liquor.” He clasped his hand behind his back. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Both Fitch and Morley, stunned at Dalton Campbell taking a swig of their bottle, and more so that he handed it back, both shook their heads vigorously.

“
No, sir, Master Campbell,” Morley said.

“
Good, then,” Campbell said. “I was looking for the two of you. I have a bit of trouble.”

Fitch leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Trouble, Master Campbell? Is there anything we can do to help?”

Campbell watched Fitch’s eyes, and then Morley’s. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that’s why I was looking for you. You see, I thought you two might like a chance to prove yourselves—to begin showing me you have the potential I hope you have. I could take care of it myself, but I thought you two might like to have a chance to do something worthwhile.”

Fitch felt like the good spirits themselves had just asked if he’d like a chance to do good.

Morley set the bottle down and straightened his shoulders like a soldier going to attention. “Yes sir, Master Campbell, I surely would like a chance.”

Fitch straightened himself up. “Me, too, Master Campbell. You just name it, and we’d both like a chance to prove to you we’re men ready to take responsibility.”

“
Good … very good,” he said as he studied them. He let the silence go on a bit before he spoke again. “This is important. This is very important. I thought about taking it to someone else, someone more experienced, but I decided to give you two a chance to show me you can be trusted.”

“
Anything, Master Campbell,” Fitch said, and he meant it. “You just name it.”

Fitch trembled with the excitement of having the chance to prove himself to Dalton Campbell. The music seemed to pump him full of need to do something important.

“
The Sovereign is not well,” Campbell said.

“
That’s terrible,” Morley said.

“
We’re sorry,” Fitch added.