Chime

by Franny Billingsley

  But what if I might prevent Mr. Dreary’s death?

  Dead finger-bones chittered. It was waving? Yes, a friendly little finger twinkle, waving good-bye. Death vanished all at once, and I fell back into human-ness, with Father folding my fingers around a Bible Ball. “It’s all decided, then. Pearl will care for Rose while you help the constable and the Swamp Reeve.”

  This just shows you how much Father knows about me, which is exactly nothing. Giving me a Bible Ball to protect me from the Horrors is like throwing a life preserver to a fish.

  I oughtn’t to go into the swamp, but Mr. Dreary was to die. Would Stepmother approve of my following him into the swamp to make sure he was safe? How could I know? What if I just wanted to return to the swamp because the hinges of my jaws still ached with craving?

  Could it be that I truly wanted to save Mr. Dreary?

  I doubted it, but I’d go. I hadn’t the knack of only pretending to do as Father wished. Did I want to save Mr. Dreary?

  I’ll never know. We witches don’t go in for self-knowledge.

  6

  Please Let Him Live!

  I drifted across the Flats. Drifting—that’s the proper way to navigate the swamp. Not chasing after Rose, not pounding past the Reed Spirits, with no chance to stop for the singing of the reeds. I drifted beside Eldric, listening to his low whistle. How could I have forgotten that the swamp has no beginning? How could I have forgotten that the swamp simply seeps into existence? That it bleeds and weeps into existence?

  The itch was gone—the itch of my scar, the itch of the swamp craving. How lovely to seep and bleed and weep into the swamp. It would take more than three years for me to forget. If I could love anything, I’d love the swamp.

  Is this what a nun feels when she runs wild? Perhaps running wild needn’t mean dressing in satin and taking to cigarettes. It might mean running into the wild, into the real, into the ooze and muck and the clean, muddy smell of life.

  Eldric’s whistling slid into words. “Your father says you know the swamp like the back of your hand.”

  “I am not at all interested in the back of my hand.”

  “But you’re interested in the swamp,” said Eldric. “So why have you stayed away for so long?”

  “Who told you that!”

  “You did,” said Eldric.

  Had I? Eldric and I drifted through the swamp. We wept across the Flats, we bled around the remains of ancient trees. Mr. Dreary had fallen behind us; he didn’t know how to drift. He splatted along on his dreary legs.

  “I see you love the swamp,” said Eldric.

  I didn’t love anything. But I couldn’t say that, and I couldn’t explain why I’d abandoned the swamp.

  There were so many things I couldn’t say. That Stepmother had proven to me that the swamp and I, together, were dangerous. That I’d promised her never again to set foot in the swamp.

  When I was hollowed out with craving, I’d remind myself that the swamp and I were a combustible combination. When I bit at my own teeth, I’d remind myself that my swampy combustions hurt people.

  “There’s always Rose to look after,” I said. “She wants a lot of minding.”

  But I wasn’t minding Rose, not right now. I was in the swamp, for the second time in two days, leaving Rose in the Parsonage. But it was all right, wasn’t it? Pearl had promised never to take her eyes from Rose, not even for a moment (although I’d told her she could blink). It was all right, wasn’t it, because I was doing it for the best? I was doing it to save Mr. Dreary—wasn’t I? A witch is wicked enough to fool her own self.

  Best check on him—yes, there he was, in the finest of dreary fettles. Don’t fool yourself, keep checking.

  “But you’ve always had Rose to look after,” said Eldric.

  “Don’t forget we all fell ill,” I said. “First Father, then I, then Stepmother. Rose too, just a bit, toward the end of Stepmother’s life. We each of us had to mind the other.”

  All, that is, save Father. He didn’t mind anyone, and I mind that. He’d been quite ill for the first year or so after he married Stepmother. But then he got better and went off, or maybe he went off and got better. I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that he came home only to sleep. We rarely saw him.

  “She didn’t kill herself, you know.”

  I hadn’t known I was going to say this, but it was too late to take it back. “My stepmother wasn’t the type to kill herself.”

  “She was murdered?” said Eldric.

  I tried to answer without answering, as this was not a popular hypothesis. “She wouldn’t have killed herself.”

  “No?” said Eldric.

  I looked up at him, his cheeks not exactly rosy, but pinkish gold. “You don’t believe me?”

  He paused. “I don’t not believe you.”

  I should never have said anything. Of course he didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t myself. Why didn’t I think about it all the time? Why didn’t I turn into Mr. Sherlock Holmes and bring her murderer to justice?

  We fell into silence. Eldric fell back to whistling; his whistling slid into singing. “Gin a body meet a body, comin’ thro’ the rye.” Beyond the Flats lay the fields. I had used to love lying in them in the fall, the rye waving above my head, bronzed and feathered.

  “Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry?”

  Eldric and I bled and wept round twists of black branches. It was most peculiar to hear Eldric sing. I felt he was singing just for me. I’d not felt that since Father stopped singing to us, at bedtime. I suppose we’d grown too old for that, Rose and I, but still, I’d missed it for a long time.

  Now I had to struggle to keep up with Eldric. He wasn’t short of breath; he was fresh as the proverbial daisy. Unfair! This is my swamp and I’m wolfgirl, tireless and fierce. Unfair! I wished I could uproot him and pluck his petals, one by one.

  He loves me.

  He loves me not.

  He loves me.

  But I already know how it will end.

  He loves me not.

  “Let’s slow down,” said Eldric. “No need to rush, not today.”

  “You think I’m not fit,” I said.

  “It’s Mr. Dreary who’s not fit,” he said. “It’s you who’ve not been well.”

  “But I’m not a fragile, faint-y sort of girl,” I said. “Once, I could run forever.” I can’t even remember when I learned to run forever. It seemed that I’d always been wolfgirl. Father had never minded my going into the swamp until I turned ten. Then he began to have doubts. He told me I ought to be more ladylike. He never quite forbade me, though, and thank goodness Stepmother came along to say I might visit the swamp as much as I liked—until, of course, she told me I mightn’t.

  He had a nice voice, not beautiful but pleasant. He sang as naturally as he spoke.

  Gin a body meet a body,

  Comin’ thro’ the rye,

  Gin a body kiss a body,

  Need a body cry?

  He returned to his subterranean whistle. Drift, weep, bleed through the black labyrinth of trees, through the ancient forest. Drift, bleed—

  Ilka lassie has her laddie,

  Nane, they say, hae I,

  Yet a’ the lads they smile at me,

  When comin’ thro’ the rye.

  Blast!

  Blast Mr. Dreary, calling for us to wait up. His Dreariness was slow and puffy. His little legs weren’t drift-worthy, only drear-worthy.

  “Hold tight to your Bible Ball,” I said. “We’re about to enter the Quicks. They’ll gobble you up if you’re not careful.”

  “Unless,” said Mr. Dreary in his tinned-soup way, “I happen to come across a Horror who’s immune to the Bible.” How could a tinned-soup voice sound mocking? Mr. Dreary didn’t believe in the Horrors.

  “How does a Horror come to be immune?” said Eldric.

  “Natural selection,” said Mr. Dreary, very proud no doubt to have heard of Mr. Darwin.

  “Not enough time,” I said. �
�The Bible only came to the Swampsea during the last century. Natural selection doesn’t work that quickly.”

  “How do you also come to know so much?” said Eldric.

  “Father engaged a brilliant tutor for me. Henry Fitzgerald was his name, but we called him Fitz. He didn’t mind. Sometimes we called him the Genius. He didn’t mind that, either. He was interested in everything—in Mr. Darwin, in Dr. Freud, in those machines that photograph people’s bones.”

  “My feet are wet,” said Mr. Dreary.

  “You lack the proper gear,” I said. We teetered along a trickle of land that wound between water and mud. “Here in the swamp, even the swans wear rubber boots.”

  “Not for long,” said Mr. Dreary. “Give Clayborne a couple of years, he’ll drain the swamp dry.”

  Oh, dreary me!

  “But the swamp’s so beautiful,” said Eldric. “I don’t care for the idea of draining it.”

  “It’s progress,” said Mr. Dreary. “You can’t stand in the way of progress.”

  “I can so,” said Eldric.

  “But Miss Briony understands,” said Mr. Dreary. “She knows what progress will mean to the Swampsea. Cattle, crops, education, commerce, medicine.”

  Miss Briony understood no such thing, but just then, a brace of pheasant had the good sense to blast out of the reeds at our feet. Mr. Dreary jumped. Eldric and I pretended not to laugh.

  We skirted the hungry bog-holes, which were simply dying to drink down any unwary traveler. Well, actually, it’s the traveler who’d be doing the dying. But the swans had nothing to fear and were feeding at the bog-holes, poking about with their yellow bills. The water shone yellow, reflecting the yellow sky and the white swans and the bronzed reeds and the yellow bills. The ground quaked beneath our feet, breathing in air, breathing out mist.

  “Tell me about the Horrors,” said Eldric.

  “Later,” I said. “We ought to catch up with the constable and the Reeve. The swamp is unfriendly at night.”

  I called, but they’d drawn too far ahead.

  “I can throw my voice as far as I threw that stone,” said Eldric. “You remember, the stained-glass-smashing one?”

  He threw his voice, all right, and with the proper shattering effect. The constable and Reeve turned about and waited.

  “Don’t worry,” I said as we sped up. “You’ll experience the Horrors soon enough.”

  London seems an exciting place, far more exciting than the Swampsea. But it occurred to me that the Swampsea might seem equally exciting to Eldric. He wouldn’t have seen any of the Old Ones: So many had died in the great cities—in London, and Manchester, and Liverpool. No one knew it was the machines and metal making them sick, killing them.

  Only the vampires can survive. They’re remarkably tough, which is lucky for them, as they don’t embrace country living.

  By the time we reached the constable and Reeve, the sunset had turned to dust. We’d only two lanterns among the four of us. The water was gray, the reeds were black. With every step, we squeezed at the lungs of the swamp. It breathed out mist and poison.

  Mr. Dreary coughed and rubbed his eyes. “Smells like the Hot Place.”

  I said nothing, not having had personal experience.

  Now that dusk had fallen, came the Horrors. Voices wailed about us, voices of the dying and the damned. Twigs snapped beneath invisible feet; an invisible something smacked its lips.

  Mr. Dreary whirled round, and round again.

  “Don’t run!” I grabbed his sleeve.

  “It don’t be naught but the Horrors,” said the Reeve. “They delights in making folks scareful, but you got yourself a Bible Ball.”

  “Don’t run!” I tightened my hold on Mr. Dreary’s sleeve, turned to the others. “Don’t let him run!” A chorus of screams cut through my words. Hold tight, Briony. This is why you’re here, to save Mr. Dreary.

  “Look at the lights!” Mr. Dreary’s voice scratched like an old nail. “A village, we’ll be safe there!”

  “No!” The Reeve, the constable, and I spoke over one another, trying to explain. “They’re false lights; they’re the Wykes; they’re luring you into danger!”

  Mr. Dreary was not fit, but he was strong enough, in a horizontal sort of way. He tore his sleeve from my grip, fled deeper into the Quicks.

  I flew after him, hitching up my skirts. “Stop!” Mr. Dreary puffed, and wheezed, and slipped. I lurched at his coattail, but up he bounced, hurtling toward the cluster of lights. They shone softly, in fair imitation of a village whose inhabitants understood the value of a good fire and a stout door.

  “Don’t run!” Eldric bolted after us. A fringe of light caught Mr. Dreary’s coattails. Mr. Dreary screamed. Eldric spun forward, but all he illuminated was the dark heart of the swamp.

  “The two o’ you follows him that way,” shouted the constable. “The Reeve an’ me, us’ll come at him from t’other.”

  What a fool I was! I should never have come to the swamp. I should have kept my promise to Stepmother. I should have remembered that in the swamp, my wicked energy adds up to disaster and death.

  “Don’t look at the lights,” I told Eldric. “The Wykes will trick you just as they did Mr. Dreary. They’ll trick you right into the Quicks.”

  “Hell!” said Eldric.

  “It may come to that.”

  We couldn’t run, not in the dark, not in the Quicks, where speed equals death. I picked along bits of mud, walked tightrope between bog-holes. Eldric followed, holding the lantern high. Starlight swam on the darkness. “We’re looking for grassy bits that will support us,” I said. “They rise from the Quicks, like islands.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Mr. Drury!”

  “Don’t move, Mr. Drury!” shouted Eldric. “We can save you if you stay put.”

  Please, let Mr. Dreary live. Please let him live!

  But witchy magic doesn’t listen to please and pretty please, and anyway, I didn’t really care. I only pretended to care because not caring makes me a monster.

  The star-dimpled water shone before us. We leapt onto a tussock, which quivered beneath us. Stars floated in the pools, lanterns floated in the pools. Not just one lantern, not just our lantern. Scores of lanterns, hundreds of lanterns, flickering about us.

  “The Wykes again,” I said. “You can’t help seeing the reflection of their lights, but don’t look at them straight on.”

  “Mr. Drury!” called Eldric.

  Black water stretched as far as we could see, black water, grassy tussocks. Maybe we could save him. Maybe. I coiled myself tight as a spring. We jumped to the next tussock. Eldric landed beside me, almost tumbling me into the ooze. He grabbed my elbow.

  We leapt from tussock to tussock. We squished the lungs of the bog. It breathed its poisoned breath. We coughed and rubbed our eyes.

  Smells like the Hot Place.

  “But aren’t we forgetting something?” said Eldric. “He has his Bible Ball.”

  “It will protect him from most of the Horrors,” I said. “But it won’t protect him from his own foolishness, from allowing the Wykes to lure him to the most treacherous part of the swamp. No Bible Ball can prevent him from slipping and drowning.”

  But it was your own foolishness, wasn’t it, Briony? This is just what Stepmother had been talking about. You, in the swamp, with your witchy jealousies and rages boiling always beneath. You don’t think you mean harm, but harm you do. You’ll kill Mr. Dreary just as you killed Stepmother—or you would have, if the arsenic hadn’t gotten her first.

  You have to remember it, remember that you were the one who called the tidal wave. Remember! Surely you remember your witchy rage, how it set the river to boiling?

  I know you remember standing beside the river, looking up at the Parsonage. Looking at the back garden, at the apple tree, where the swings had once hung. Looking at Stepmother, bending over the vegetable beds. You remember the boiling river, you remember Mucky Face rising—rising from the river—rising ten fee
t, fifteen feet, curling over himself.

  Curling himself into a wave.

  You’d called Mucky Face and he came. He came rearing like a snake, rising to the height of the Parsonage. He was a curl of iron, hard and black, save for his whirlpool eyes, his foaming mouth.

  He smashed himself upon the Parsonage, he smashed Stepmother and the vegetable garden. Mucky Face flooded the Parsonage, but nowhere else. Mucky Face injured Stepmother, but no one else.

  But it was enough. Mucky Face drowned our books, Mucky Face injured Stepmother’s spine.

  “Look!” Eldric raised the lantern.

  It shone on a Dreary-shaped space, a black space where no stars shone.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Drury!”

  Stepmother would have died from her injuries had the arsenic not found her first. Even then, I didn’t understand. I had to ask Stepmother—ask her as she lay in bed—ask her if she was sure about the dangers of my wandering into the swamp. It didn’t make sense: I had, after all, been standing across the river from the swamp when Mucky Face appeared.

  Stepmother instructed me to look out the window into the garden. She asked me how wide the river was. I said about thirty feet. She asked me where Mucky Face lived. I said he lived in the river. She asked me whether Mucky Face would be able to hear me calling him from the swamp side of the river. I said he would. She asked me whether Mucky Face would be able to hear me calling from the non-swamp side of the river. I said he would.

  Perhaps he’d have come sooner had I been in the swamp itself. Sooner and stronger. I don’t know, and anyway, he was quite strong enough.

  “Don’t look at the lights!”

  “Hold on to your Bible Ball!”

  The swamp slurped and swallowed. The stars rubbed out the Dreary-shaped space. Eldric shifted behind me; the tussock gasped and gurgled.

  The swamp plus Briony . . . Briony plus the swamp . . .

  Next time, Briony, keep your promise to Stepmother. Don’t pretend you’re interested in doing good. How long can a clever girl trick her own self? It’s been three years since you learned you’re a witch. Perhaps you didn’t kill Stepmother, not technically, but that doesn’t mean St. Peter’s going to wave you through the pearly gates.