Where the Dead Talk (12 page)

At least West Bradhill looks as it should, he thought, disappearing behind the rear end of a horse.

He turned back around. The horse's ribs blew in and out like the fastest bellows at the hottest forge. It was twisting its head to the left.

And its eye had gone a shimmering silver.

At the same time, Pomeroy saw that blood glistened all down the underside of its muscled neck. The horse began galloping full speed toward the trees. Branches the thickness of his own leg were coming straight for him. Pomeroy leaned low and swung his left leg from the stirrup, then slid down the right side. With a combination prayer and curse that didn't even have time to pass his lips, he let go of the saddle and hit the muddy road moving fast. He landed on his side and slid forward, rolling and cartwheeling until all the air was driven from his lungs and all sense of up or down gone from his mind. The thudding of the hoofbeats moved off.

He sat up, covered with mud. His shoulder gave him grief, and he felt as though – well, as though he'd leaped from a speeding horse. He got to his feet, checking to see if anything was broken, torn, or shattered.

"I never should have left the bloody regiment," he said, spitting out mud laced with the tang of blood from his split lip.

"Hold it right there, friend," said a voice.

Pomeroy jerked back. The voice came from off to his left, at the side of the dark road. He turned and found himself staring at the business end of a musket, not ten inches from his face. Holding it was a heavy man with a dirty face, his eyes shining out. A three-cornered hat was pushed back on his forehead.

"Well look here, boys," the man called back over his shoulder. Half a dozen figures ran down the road, splashing in the puddles, all with muskets. With a few quiet sounds, the guns were lowered and the hammers drawn back.

"Who is it, Zeke?" someone asked.

"I’ll be damned if we didn’t just catch ourselves a redcoat. Officer, by the look of him," the heavy one said.

Pomeroy cursed himself; one of his pistols was back in the mud, the other was still in his saddlebag.

"Get those hands up."

"You’re making a mistake," Pomeroy said. He didn't move.

"Sounds like it’s you might be making the mistake. I said get them up."

Pomeroy had no choice – after diving from the horse, the last thing he needed was a ball in the chest. He lifted his hands.

"On your head. Slow."

He put his hands to his head. Half a dozen muskets were trained on him.

"Andrew and Ben," the first one said, "you’d better take a look around to see if there’s any more of ‘em. Where they’s officers, they’s likely regulars."

"But what do I do if –" the youngest of them said.

"Just do like I says and be quiet about it. We’ll be right here."

"Alright, Zeke," the boy said.

Pomeroy turned his head and looked at the man holding the gun to him.

"You wouldn’t happen to have any rum, would you?" Pomeroy said.

Zeke stepped up and eased him back with the tip of his musket.

"Now that’s enough of that. Best if you just keep it shut for now," he said.

Pomeroy sighed. Bloody hell.

"Nothing up here, Zeke," the older of the two boys said, "road’s empty. That horse's long gone, too."

Zeke stepped up in front of Pomeroy.

"Now ain’t this strange," he said, looking him up and down.

"More than you’d ever guess," Pomeroy said. All around them, the dark trees and fields were silent. Bloody, bloody hell.

They Want To Come Inside

Elizabeth paused. The road was a deep blue, surrounded by black trees and stars above, the town green a stretch of shadowed night. Firelight shone from the inside of the tavern and the pair of lanterns that hung on either side of the door. Behind her, lights in the church, the faint sound of Adonijah’s voice carrying out the windows. Another step and there would be no turning back. There was no one about. She crossed the road. The sound of a rider came from the darkness to the north. A horse bolted out of the black – rider-less. The reins dangled across its chest and its eyes shone white and frightened as it galloped past her, disappearing into the night.

She hesitated, spooked by the lone horse, then steeled her will again and pushed open the door. The common room was lit by four lanterns and an armful of tallow candles. A blaze filled the hearth, roasting a pair of chickens, their skin crackling. A barley soup simmered and filled the room with the rich scents of carrots, onions, and broth.

"Elizabeth," Jude said.

He sat at one of the benches, supper plates in front of him.

"I’ve left him," she said.

Jude stood as she stepped inside. The wind played with her hair, tossing it about until she closed the door. Relief began to lighten her shoulders the moment it shut. He looked at her, searching for a bruise.

"No, it’s not that – it’s everything else," she went on. "I can’t – won’t – stay with him anymore. I won't."

"But where are you going to go?"

"Here with you. What do you mean?"

"But what… is that a good idea?"

"How can you say that?" she said.

She put down the sack containing the few possessions she'd carried with her and stood in front of him, hands on her hips.

"You don’t feel the same way, do you?" Elizabeth said.

"It’s not that. I do."

"Then what is it? Three days ago we made love in the kitchen, and yesterday right in this very room. I haven’t felt that alive – that close to someone – since well before I crossed the Atlantic. I want to be together."

"But you’re married –"

"I was married when we made love," she interrupted.

"But it’s one thing to have that between us, and another to put it out in front of everyone."

"So it’s fine – as long as it’s a secret? As long as we pretend it’s not happening?"

"That's not the problem," he said, "It’s people, people in the village."

"People who might come to your tavern?" she said.

Jude turned away from her, looking at the fire. She could tell his hands wanted to fuss with something – a lantern, a mug, anything.

"It’s about your business," she said.

"No, not the business – though it's been hard enough for some around here to live with the idea of a negro owning a tavern."

He turned to her, anguish on his face.

"West Bradhill isn’t kind to adulterers."

The fire snapped with grease from the chickens. He used a wooden-handled instrument to take the spit down, then carried it into the kitchen. She followed him.

"I lost everything that I had, Jude. Back in London. I had a lovely husband. I had a child, an angel named Joshua. Lost them both in the same week from the fever that spread through the city, my little one first. And my spirit died."

He stopped.

"You never told me," he said.

"Because it still tears at my soul. Those days were so terrible that I didn’t care what happened to me, where I ended up. And I ended up here, payment for a debt. But everything's different now. We can do this, we can make a life together. A family."

She reached out to touch him, but he pulled away. That simple recoil was a splash of cold water in her face; the realization hit her that she had nothing but what was in her sack – nowhere to go. Again. It was all gone.

"Don’t," she said, quietly.

"You make it sound so simple. But it’s not – not for me. Not here. It can all go away, so quickly."

He placed the spit with chickens down on the large table, started working the birds free of the sizzling metal. She looked past his shoulder and saw a pale face staring in through the window, glimmering eyes. She started and Jude looked up at her, then followed her gaze to the window.

"What is it?" he said.

"There's someone there."

He put the utensils down. The face had pulled back into the darkness beyond the candlelight.

"Did anyone see you come here?" he said. "Did your husband?"

"He’s at the church – giving a sermon. On the end times."

"You’re sure? You weren’t followed?"

"Jude, no. It wasn’t him."

The fear was plain in his eyes. He pulled open the door, looking into the darkness behind the tavern.

"Could he have had someone watching you? Someone who would –"

He stopped. A figure moved across the yard, to the stable out back.

"He hardly knows I’m still here," she said, "and all he talks of now are his spells, the dead rising, the end coming."

"Dr. Bucknell talked about the British," he said. "Coming to sack the village, put down the militia. Pannalancet said to keep an eye out for anything strange."

"But you’re not in the militia."

"I let them meet here. That would be enough."

"You haven’t done anything wrong."

"Doesn’t matter. I need my musket."

"That’s crazy – just let them alone. They’ll go away."

He went past her and took his weapon down from the wall, checked that it was loaded.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Whoever it is, they went to the stable. I won’t just sit and wait for it."

"For what?"

"For any of it – the British, your husband. Whoever."

"You’re not making any sense."

"I’m not going to do this again. I won’t. Just latch the door after me."

Now that he had something in his hands, he seemed to draw strength from it, draw focus. As he stepped out into the darkness beyond the light from the doorway, Elizabeth wondered if it was the person outside that drew him – or the conversation inside that drove him out.

The night was cold, the moon rising over the stable. There was a soft click behind him as Elizabeth latched the kitchen door. She was at the window a moment later. He lifted the flickering lantern and headed for the stable. A soft banging sound came from it. Although he was sure that he'd shut the stable door earlier, it was wide open, the wind knocking it against the wall of the stable. Against the moonlit yard, the doorway was black. All was still save the shifting branches of the trees.

Stepping up to the doorway, he lifted the lantern and paused. The flame jumped and lit up the first few yards. He looked around. The moonlight threw a slice of light to the earthen floor by the wall. The furthest corners of the stable were untouched by the shifting light of the lantern. Seeing no movement within the deep shadows, Jude made his way to the horse stalls.

"Toby? Pelzer?" he called out.

Shifting sounds came from the other side of the stall doors. He hung the lantern on an iron hook set in the support beam. Readying his musket, fingers tensed, he reached for the wooden crossbar. The door opened and the lantern’s light filled the stalls. Toby stood facing him, the other horse facing away. Jude looked over the stall – it was just as he’d left it. Patting the horse on the nose, he stepped out and once more closed the door. He reached up and took the lantern. The stable door slammed shut. Startled, Jude dropped the lantern to the hard dirt floor, extinguishing the flame and sending the stable into darkness. He wasn’t alone. Behind him, Pelzer snorted loudly. A sickening smell reached him. The horses didn’t like it, started stamping in their stalls. By the door, there was a deeper shadow. He lifted the musket to his shoulder.

"Get out, whoever you are, or so help me I'll put some lead in you," he said.

The shadow moved several feet forward, towards him. Jude clenched his jaw and pulled the trigger. The explosion was huge. The flash from the end of the barrel lit up the scene for a split-second. A pale figure stepped backwards, to the left. A fist-sized hole appeared in the wall where the shot had gone. A low whispering filled the stable. Jude stood frozen.

"I’m nothing but a worm in the emptiness. I can see the fires and the lights and I can see you can see you can see you. Come here, come here. Come, come. Are you cold?"

"Jude?"

It was Elizabeth, calling from outside.

"Go back inside," Jude said.

The stable door swung open, and the figure leapt out into the yard. Jude ran out after it. Stepping into the wind, he looked around. There was no sign of the intruder in any direction. Elizabeth stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Close the door, lock it," he said. A dark figure stood at the corner of the tavern, pale face and hands. The eyes gleamed a cold mercury, shimmering. Jude caught the stink of the grave.

"I’ll have you, you and yours, and share the cold and take the warmth." The voice was hard earth. Behind him, the horses began snorting and screaming, kicking the walls. Jude spun around just as a hand grabbed his cloak. The figure was on the low roof of the stable, leaning down with a filthy hand. The eyes shone cold out of a mottled face, dotted with death-mold.

"We'll play with you," the figure said, breathing out the air of a charnel house. Jude recognized him as one of the dairy farmers from the edge of the village, Benjamin Frye. Jude threw his weight backwards. The fabric of his cloak began to tear, and the figure lost whatever balance it'd had and came tumbling forward, clammy skin brushing against Jude's face as he did. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately began trying to grab Jude's legs. Jude swung the rifle around and clipped it under the jaw, snapping its head back.

"We'll play inside, yes. Our games can last all night," the voice behind him said.

Jude kicked at the one in front of him, hearing the crunch of snapping teeth as his boot slammed into its mouth. Freed momentarily from its grip, he turned, swinging the rifle in a fierce arc. The other figure leaned back, just missing catching the rifle butt in the face.

"Come with us and feel the darkness," it hissed. Jude threw his musket. It clacked the figure on the side of the head before spinning off into the shadows. Jude bolted for the kitchen door. He looked back to the corner of the tavern. A shadow raced up the wall. For just a moment Jude saw something near the roof, then all was still again. The figure who'd been on the stable was gone – footsteps crunched the ground, barely heard over the continuing noises of the animals. Jude stared at the shadows bordered by stars, taking deep breaths. Dragging his gaze away, he ran inside the kitchen.