He was hidden in a dark cloak. It opened briefly as he stepped through the arch, and they caught a glimpse of something silver that gleamed from a chain. He wore a plain hat that shadowed his face; it seemed young as he passed them, yet lean and set; he glanced back again, his eyes quick and watchful in the half-light. His hair beneath the hat was the same color as the girl’s.
Carol’s hands closed against her mouth. She felt tears gathering, stinging behind her eyes. Bruce touched her and she followed him, stumbling a little, blinking away the tears so she could see.
There was movement behind them. Bruce stopped abruptly, his breath hissing, and drew her flat beside him against the wall. A big man with a helm on his head passed them. He was armed at breast and back with steel plate; he carried a long spear with an ax blade wide and curved beneath it. Bruce’s light swept over it and it flashed in a wedge of silver. Bruce made a small, inarticulate protest, as though he were asleep, protesting a dream. Another man followed the first, similarly dressed, with a sword unsheathed in his hand. They moved quickly ahead. Bruce followed them. Carol stared after him. She moved finally, running a little to catch up, and a sob welled in her throat and eased away and welled again.
There was a murmur of voices ahead in the darkness and then a sudden shout. There was a scream, a young girl’s scream, high, light, endless. It grew louder and louder; Carol put her hands over her ears. A light flashed in her face, and she saw Bruce, turned back to her, saying something. She could not hear it above the scream. And then, as a stone dropped from the arch, thumped at her feet, the scream became the whine of the drilling above them. Another stone dropped. She saw Bruce’s face, startled, turned upward. Then the stones broke and poured between them in a white shower of ancient mortar.
VIII
“BRUCE!” THE SOUND OF HER OWN VOICE STARTLED her, as though she had wakened herself, calling. The mortar dust, thick, acrid, caught in her throat; she coughed. She heard his coughing. The sound of it twisted into a sharp dry sob and her heart stood still. “Bruce!”
She stumbled over the stones. Light sprang at an odd angle from the floor, near the wall. Above them, the drilling continued in short strident bursts.
“Carol—”
“Where are you? Where are you? I can’t see you—” Her eyes flickered desperately over the shadowed stones. Something shifted into the light; she went toward it, unsteady on the pile of stones.
“No—go back—” His voice broke again in the small taut sound. Her fingers, icy, curled against her mouth. “Go get Dad—Hurry—”
She ran down the dark tunnel, toward the small sunlit opening at the end of it. She climbed through and ran up the stairs to the quiet hall above, and as she slammed open the cellar door, three people turned toward her: Uncle Harold, opening the study door; Aunt Catherine at the open front door; and Alexander, whose face was suddenly shaken out of its calm. “Hurry—Uncle Harold, the tunnel fell in on Bruce—hurry—”
Uncle Harold came toward her. His face was strained, puzzled, as though he were trying to understand a language he did not know. He put his hands on her shoulders. “What? Carol, I want to help, but calm down and tell me—”
“The tunnel—the priest tunnel—” Her eyes moved past him to Alexander. “Tell them to stop drilling; it knocked the stones down on him—”
Uncle Harold’s lips parted. “The priest tunnel? What—Carol, show me. You’ll have to show me.”
She led him and Aunt Catherine downstairs. Uncle Harold stopped at the sight of the hole, dark and jagged, in the wall, the stones neatly piled among Mrs. Brewster’s books.
“You did this?” His voice was sharp with incredulity. Aunt Catherine followed Carol over to the hole. Carol turned, frightened at the tone of his voice.
“Yes.”
“It is a tunnel,” Aunt Catherine said wonderingly, looking through over Carol’s shoulder. She moved in after Carol; Uncle Harold followed them. The drilling had stopped; the tunnel was soundless, dark but for a tiny fan of light far ahead. Something blotted the light from the cellar; Alexander slipped through behind them.
“Where is he? I can’t see—”
“Up there with the light.”
The light shifted, pointed toward them as they came, and they stopped, blinking, at the edge of the fall of stones. “Bruce,” Uncle Harold said. “Move the light downward if you can, so we can see what we’re doing. Stay still.”
“Dad, it was the drilling—”
“I know,” Uncle Harold said. “Alexander stopped them.” He reached Bruce and took the flashlight from him. Aunt Catherine knelt beside him. Uncle Harold shifted a stone; Bruce’s breath hissed sharply.
“All right. Lie still. Catherine, call the hospital.”
An ambulance came, and men maneuvered him through the hole and bore him away. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Harold followed in the car. The siren wailed down Parchment Street like a banshee, and Emily Raison came out, frightened and anxious, to find out what was wrong. Alexander explained. Carol stood, staring at the half-finished drains. The men had gone; the street lay torn and empty in the late afternoon. She wandered back into the yard. A breeze rustled through the half-cut hedge, stirred the dandelions. A lump burned dry in her throat; it would not go away.
“He’s probably all right,” Alexander said. “There weren’t any stones on his head or his back. He was still talking.”
“They wouldn’t let him walk out.”
“They never do until they know what’s wrong.”
Carol sat down on the front step. Her head dropped onto her knees; she closed her eyes and saw again the darkness of the tunnel. “Where were you, anyway? Why didn’t you come?”
He dropped beside her, sighing. “Oh. I had a long conversation with Mrs. Brewster about flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Squashed flowers. The kind you get when five bicycles ride over them in your front lawn. She got it into her head that I had something personal against her flowers, just because I happened to be riding a bicycle. When she finally let me go, I rode to Sandy’s house and had a long conversation with him about flowers. I’m ten times bigger than he is, and he was nervous, but he’ll probably do something malicious, because he didn’t like being lectured by me. But I was angry. And then I remembered what time it was. Did you follow the girl?”
Carol nodded. She sat hunched over herself, holding her arms, and her throat tightened, hurting. She swallowed. “She came, and she said ‘Edward. Come,’ and he came.”
“Edward came?”
“Yes. He had a hat and a long cloak on, and he was carrying a candle. His hair was the same color as hers.” She swallowed again. Tears formed, hot and swollen, behind her eyes. “And we followed them. And people followed us—men with swords and helmets—and they walked past us and they didn’t see us. So, the Puritan had gone in before Edward, and he was waiting in the tunnel in front of him, and the men came in after him, and they all had swords and I think—I think—The tunnel fell in before we could see anything, but just before it fell, I could hear her screaming.”
The wind rose, shivered through the leaves above the wall. Alexander stirred, drawing breath.
“They’re all dead, you know. It happened centuries ago. There’s no need to feel sad.”
“That’s the funny part. Bruce was trying to tell me about the light, but I didn’t think it was important, until today. When he—when the men in armor went by, and when Bruce pointed the flashlight at them, the light reflected off the armor as if—as if they were real in our century…or we were real in theirs.”
“I wish I’d been there. Oh, I wish I’d been there. Life is so unfair. Were you frightened?”
A tear ran down her bent face. “Only—only for Edward. She was leading him through, and he must have been her brother or a cousin, and I think they killed him right in front of her, and she can’t—it’s like when something terrible happens and you can’t sleep—”
“Are you crying?” he said anxiously.
She rubbed her face with her sleeve. “No. But I don’t see why everything had to go wrong at once. I don’t see why they had to kill Edward—What difference does it make if you wear lace collars or plain collars, or if you like stained glass windows or plain windows, or if you like running around barefoot or drawing cows—There’s enough room for all those things, isn’t there?”
“Sometimes not,” Alexander said. “There’s not enough room in people’s heads.” He stood up. “I’ve got to call my mother and tell her why I’m not at home putting up screens. I’ll stay here and wait for your aunt and uncle with you, because they’ve probably started wondering by now how we found the tunnel, and when you start explaining about the ghosts, you’ll need someone of sane and sober character to back you up.”
Carol straightened. “I forgot about that.” She sighed, brushing mortar dust out of her hair. “I thought we were already past the hard part.”
Alexander called his mother, and then they sat in the living room watching for Uncle Harold and Aunt Catherine out of the window. They came home finally, late in the evening. Carol opened the front door for them, and Aunt Catherine’s tired face eased into a smile.
“Carol, you’re still as white as a ghost. What is that all over you?”
“Centuries-old mortar, I should think,” Uncle Harold said. “Bruce instructed me that I was not to plague you for explanations; he is going to explain everything when he comes home, but I doubt if I can wait that long.”
“What—what’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing too serious—cracked ribs and a twisted ankle and a large assortment of bruises. They’re keeping him overnight, but he’ll probably be home tomorrow.” He paused a moment, looking at her. He rubbed his eyes wearily. “You could both have so easily been seriously hurt…Why in heaven’s name didn’t Bruce tell me what you were doing? Or you, Alexander? You have some sense. I think it’s a marvelous thing to have found; I want to know how you found it, but I wish you had not been so secretive. A man has a right to know when people are digging tunnels directly beneath him.”
“Come into the kitchen,” Aunt Catherine said. “I’ll fix you some supper. Alexander, does your mother know where you are?”
“Yes,” Alexander said. His face was flushed slightly. He looked at Uncle Harold. “Sometimes, there are words that are hard to say.”
“What is so difficult about saying you have discovered a tunnel?”
“That’s easy to say. Most people go through life not knowing what a priest tunnel is. It’s natural. They don’t need one. But a priest tunnel is the sort of thing that you can show to people and they’ll say ‘I never knew they existed, but now I’m seeing one, so they must exist.’ But other things aren’t so easy.”
“Alexander,” Uncle Harold said. “The easiest thing to do would be just to say it.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Carol said. “Uncle Harold, do you remember the ghost I saw in the cellar?”
“Ghost—oh. Yes.”
“Well, it was a ghost.”
Uncle Harold opened his mouth to say something. Then he stopped and closed it. Aunt Catherine stared at Carol. She blinked and gave her head a little shake, as though she were waking herself up.
“I think,” she said, “we should all sit down and talk.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Uncle Harold lit his pipe, looking at them between puffs of smoke. Aunt Catherine peeled potatoes at the sink behind them as she listened.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” Uncle Harold said.
“There,” Alexander said. “You see? Ghosts are like priest tunnels—you don’t expect them to exist until you see them.”
“But what have ghosts got to do with the priest tunnel?”
“They walked through it,” Carol said. “That’s how we knew it was there.”
Uncle Harold was silent. The rhythmic scrape of the potato-peeler was the only sound in the kitchen. Carol felt the blood welling to her face beneath the mortar dust. Alexander was still beside her, watching Uncle Harold. He said finally, “They weren’t green and hairy.”
“What?” Uncle Harold said, startled.
“The ghosts. One of them was the girl in the painting in your study. That’s the arch, you know, behind her—the priest tunnel. The other one wasn’t so nice. He nearly walked through me with a sword.”
“He was a Puritan,” Carol said. “Like the one in Madame Tussaud’s statues of ‘When Did You Last See Your Father?’”
“Wait,” Uncle Harold said. “You saw a ghost in the cellar who looked like a Puritan in Madame Tussaud’s museum, and you assumed that where he walked through the wall, the priest tunnel was there?”
“People usually don’t walk through walls for no reason,” Carol said.
“I know, but what made you decide specifically a priest tunnel was there?”
“Bruce said there was,” Alexander said. “I’ve always wanted a tunnel. To go through, you know. That’s what the girl was doing—going in the tunnel.”
“She would come,” Carol said, “and she’d say ‘Edward. Come.’ Only we never saw Edward, and that confused us, because we could see the Puritan who was waiting to kill Edward, and—”
“Wait,” Uncle Harold said again. Aunt Catherine had turned.
“How did you know the Puritan wanted to kill Edward?” she asked curiously. Uncle Harold looked at her helplessly.
“We didn’t,” Carol said, “until today. Then we got the tunnel open and we went in, and when the girl said, ‘Edward. Come,’ he came. The Puritan was waiting for him ahead, and we followed Edward and the girl, and then soldiers started coming from behind us, and then the girl screamed ahead of us in the darkness—and the tunnel fell in on Bruce.”
Uncle Harold gazed at her, his pipe motionless in one hand. “You’ve been seeing ghosts in this house all the while you’ve been here? Why didn’t you tell Catherine or me?”
“I tried. And Bruce tried.” Her voice stuck; she paused, clearing her throat. “He said—he said one day he took you down to the cellar to see one, and you couldn’t see it. And we—we told Father Malory, because priests are interested in dead people, and he came to see them and—he couldn’t.”
“Oh.” Uncle Harold leaned back in his chair, his face easing.
“But I saw them,” Alexander said.
“You did. Why couldn’t I see them?”
“I think,” Carol said, “that if she had to watch those men kill Edward, she probably didn’t want to see anyone old enough to do that again.”
Aunt Catherine turned back to the sink. “That seems reasonable.”
“Catherine,” Uncle Harold said. “There are no such things as ghosts.”
“So my niece with my red hair is barmy. And so is your son. Or are you suggesting they bothered to do such a childish thing as to invent a tale like this? I would rather believe in ghosts.”
“But it’s incredible.”
Alexander looked at Carol. “That means it’s unbelievable. I wouldn’t invent anything so unbelievable. People invent things to have them believed. Incredible things just happen on their own.”
“I didn’t want it to happen,” Carol said. “I didn’t want to see ghosts in your cellar.”
Uncle Harold sighed. “Tell me about it from the beginning.”
He was silent while she told him what had happened since she had first seen the ghosts. Aunt Catherine made their supper quietly, a frown between her brows as she listened. When Carol was finished, Uncle Harold sat for a long time without speaking. Aunt Catherine set a plate of food in front of him, and he said finally, “There must be some logical explanation.”
“There isn’t,” Alexander said. “I tried to think up one, but I couldn’t.”
“Was there a crack in the stones or a change of coloring in the mortar that outlined the priest tunnel?”
“I didn’t see one,” Carol said. “Emily Raison said Mrs. Brewster looked for the tunnel and she couldn’t find it.”
>
“Do you want some supper, Alexander?” Aunt Catherine said.
“Yes, please.”
She filled a plate for him. “I think the whole thing sounds very logical.”
“Perhaps, but…” Uncle Harold’s voice trailed away. He stared down at his teacup.
Alexander said mildly, “We aren’t trying to play a trick on you. None of us would do that. Not even me.”
“All right. I’m sorry, but it had occurred to me. You and Bruce are occasionally unscrupulous.”
Alexander blushed. “I know,” he said. “But we aren’t trying to hide anything from you. We could have said the mortar was a different color where they filled the tunnel opening. That’s much easier to say than that we saw ghosts walking through walls.”
“I think,” Aunt Catherine said, sitting down, “it’s a shame that on Carol’s first visit here she has to be troubled by ghosts.”
“It disturbs me,” Uncle Harold said, “that neither Father Malory nor I could see them. Has anyone else you know seen them?”
“No.”
Uncle Harold sighed. He unfolded his napkin. “Well. Perhaps someone has been playing an elaborate trick on you. But it did result in a tunnel, and you must have had a few rough days opening that. I’ll talk to Bruce about it tomorrow; perhaps he can shed some light on the mystery.”
“Somebody,” Aunt Catherine said, “has to tell Mrs. Brewster she now owns a cellar with a hole and a tunnel in it.”
“Oh, lord,” said Uncle Harold. “I suppose I must.”
He brought Bruce home the next morning. Carol watched him hobble down the walk with a crutch under one arm. His face was pulled into a scowl to hide the pain that twitched at it occasionally. Uncle Harold walked slowly beside him, wincing at every shift of the crutch. Aunt Catherine met them at the door.
“There’s a nice fresh bed ready for you,” she said. “I’ll bring you some aspirin when you lie down; that’ll ease the pain.”
The House on Parchment Street Page 10