Slurp and swallow, slurp and swallow. Mr. Dreary had vanished. Too late to pull him out. The false lights had vanished. Everything had vanished except Eldric and me. Everything had vanished except the two of us, the lantern, the stars, and the swamp, which breathed slowly through its jellied lungs.
7
Girl What Can Hear Ghosts
Rose and I stood in our usual place, facing Father and the headstone. We usually stand beside the grave, but there’d be no grave for this funeral. You need a body for a grave, and Mr. Dreary’s body had been taken by the swamp.
Taken by the swamp. No, Briony, please try to remember! Not taken. The Wykes lured Mr. Dreary into the most treacherous part of the Quicks, where he fell and drowned. Where anyone would have drowned, unless he could walk on water, which I venture to say Mr. Dreary could not.
But I could not forget how the swamp slurped and swallowed. Those were not the sounds of falling.
Father had prepared a sermon on the meaning of Mr. Dreary’s life. That’s what stories do, they try to create meaning from nothing. But there’s no meaning to Mr. Dreary’s life. He lived, he smelled of tinned soup, he died.
When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture.
That’s what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it’s all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You’ll end up with a lunatic scribble.
But Father has to try. It’s his job.
He looked up; the crowd fell silent. Fall silent; fall into the Quicks. Slurp and swallow. Stop, Briony! Please try to remember: Mr. Dreary had a Bible Ball.
Rose and I faced Father; the congregation gathered behind. I was used to playing clergyman’s daughter, dressed in funeral black, down to my ribbons and lace mitts. Rose was identically dressed, but she wasn’t playing. Rose can never learn how to play.
“Black isn’t a color,” said Rose.
I shook my head. “Hush, Rose!”
The daughter of a clergyman will attend hundreds of funerals. She may attend as many as two or three a week when the swamp cough is on the prowl. I’d stood beside dozens of graves since Stepmother died, but hers was the one I remembered. I remembered the dark oblong; I remembered its corners, clean and sharp, like the angles of a hospital bed.
“I match up with pink,” said Rose. “I don’t match up with black.”
I put my finger to my lips. “Father’s speaking.”
But Rose doesn’t like to be hushed. “Black isn’t a color. I want my pink ribbon.”
The crowd rustled behind us. They’d be staring, of course, at the reverend’s peculiar daughter. I don’t mind the disapproving ones so much. It’s the tolerant ones I can’t stand, the ones who smile at Rose, who speak to her ever so slowly and gently. They don’t realize how very intelligent Rose really is. They’re just terrifically pleased with themselves. Look at me! they all but shout. See how broad-minded I am! How wonderfully progressive, how fantastically twentieth century!
“I match up with pink.”
“Come along, Rose.” I turned round; she followed me into the graveyard. I used to stop by Mother’s grave, but I haven’t recently, not for several years. I used to stop to talk to her and tidy up a bit. I used to trim the ivy on her headstone. But now ivy and lichen have run riot over the gravestone carvings, which are not the usual cherubim but sunflowers and daisies—Mother’s favorite flowers. They’re exquisitely carved. I’d say you could almost smell them, except sunflowers and daisies haven’t much of a smell. I wish I might have known Mother. I wonder whether I’d have taken such a very wicked path if she hadn’t died when we were born. She knows I’m a witch, I suppose. I imagine her looking down on me and shaking her head and sighing.
I can’t face her.
Stepmother ought to rest here too, in the Larkin plot, but no: The Reverend Larkin didn’t fancy giving his second wife a proper burial.
I led Rose to the far end of the graveyard, to a tenement of tiny gravestones. They sprouted round our feet like pale mushrooms. So many children had died of the swamp cough this winter. The gravestones were uneasy newcomers, perched at the edge of their seats.
The earth tilted beneath my feet. I sat so I wouldn’t fall. The second sight was coming upon me. Not the ordinary sort of second sight, the sort that links me to the Old Ones. It’s the other sort, the sort that links me to the spirit world.
The sort that, only three days ago, linked me to the skull of Death.
The world shook herself like a dog. She tried to fling me off, but I clung to the nearest gravestone. This sort of second sight is never roses and moonbeams, but death and blood and the smell of fear.
From the grave beneath came a little voice. “ ’Twere the Boggy Mun what sended the cough what taked me.”
It was a child’s voice, thin as skimmed milk. The world swung off its axis and ran uphill.
“The Boggy Mun,” said a second child from the nextdoor grave. “The Boggy Mun, he be that angry his waters been took away.”
The earth tried to scratch me off, like a flea. “Taked me, an’ the baby too,” said a third. “Them last minutes, they was bad, with old Death hisself a-leaning on my chest.”
“An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.”
Don’t ask me! Thunder fizzed at my fingertips. Girl what can hear ghosts. I can’t help—I won’t help! But the words stuck to my mind like flypaper. Us be asking you for help.
“Them London men, they oughtn’t to have took the Boggy Mun’s water.”
“Tell ’em the Boggy Mun sended the swamp cough, he be that angry.”
Us be asking you for help.
“An’ now my baby sister, she be took with the cough.”
The ghosts thought I could appease the Boggy Mun, who would then snatch away the swamp cough. Poor ghosts—well no, they’re not really ghosts. They’re Unquiet Spirits who can’t rest until something in the living world has been set to rights: their murder avenged, their sins confessed.
Their baby sisters cured.
The children’s voices grew thinner.
The Boggy Mun had ruled the swamp since before our human time began. He was lord of the swamp, of the water and the mud, and all swampy states in between. He could be kind, he could be savage. He could kill with the swamp cough, and why not, when his water was stolen away?
And still thinner.
“They oughtn’t to have took no water.”
“Tell the grown folks to fetch it back.”
Until Mr. Clayborne called a halt to the draining of the swamp, the Boggy Mun would strike with the swamp cough, and strike and strike again.
Strike and strike again—oh, you idiot Briony: Ask the ghost-children, quick! “My sister—does she have the swamp cough?”
“Them London men oughtn’t to have took—”
“Don’t go—does she have the swamp cough? Please tell me!”
Please tell me no!
“Them London men—”
The children’s voices skimmed themselves into extinction. Gravity turned itself right side out. The world bounced up to chase her ball, which was sick making, although it would soon be over. But I’d wish myself sick again if I could do it over. I’d asked the question too late.
“I don’t have the swamp cough.” Rose came into focus. She smiled her anxious-monkey smile, which is the only smile she knows how to make.
“Of course you don’t,” I said, just as Rose hunched herself into her chest for a comfortable paroxysm of coughing. What exquisite timing. If she weren’t Rose, you might think she was indulging herself in a paradox. In a paroxysm of paradoxysm.
But she is Rose.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose, squeezing her words past the last crumbs of coughing.
“Right you are, Ros
e.” We were alone in the graveyard. Even Eldric, the newcomer, knew that every good mourner makes merry in the Alehouse with roast pork, and pies, and funeral biscuits, and sherry and ale. Especially the sherry and ale. A funeral is a thirsty piece of business.
I was dizzy and seasick. “Give me a minute.”
“People can’t give minutes,” said Rose.
Rose, literal Rose. “It’s just one of those things people say. We talked about that, remember, when Father tried to catch the barkeep’s eye?”
“Quick!” said Rose, all in a rush. “Cover your ears!”
I clapped my hands to my ears, pretending I couldn’t hear the church bells chime twelve o’clock. Rose has a peculiar relationship to the notion of time: She won’t let me listen to the clock strike twelve. I can’t say why—I’ve told her often enough that I like the hour of noon—but there’s no understanding Rose.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats.”
“Off we go, then.” Us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.
“I want you to read to me,” said Rose. “I want a story where I’m a hero.”
Oh, Rose! I launched into my litany of the library fire and the books burning, and then she said what she always said:
“I wish my book had burnt in the fire.”
That blasted book again! Just tell me about it, Rosy dear. I’ll see that it burns. But Rose never tells her secrets. That would be breaking the rules.
Us be asking you for help. Don’t think about that, Briony!
Rose never breaks the rules.
But reminders of the ghost-children were everywhere. In the cemetery, the ground puckered with death. Outside the cemetery, the gravestones pointing every way but up, like bad teeth.
Stepmother lay beneath one of those careless gravestones, in the unconsecrated ground set aside for murderers and witches and suicides. How could Father have been married to Stepmother and not known she’d never kill herself?
The cemetery lay on Gallows Hill, the highest bit of the village. In the distance, the swamp stretched out in a crinkle of gray crepe. Below sat Hangman’s Square, anchored on the south end with the Siamese church-and-Parsonage twins. The other sides of the square offered everything one might need in life: the Alehouse, the jail, and the gallows. Sometimes, when a person visits the Alehouse, he goes right on to visit the others.
The present occupant of the gallows was Sam Collins, of the upriver Collinses, each of whom was born with an extra finger, the better to steal from you, my dear.
The ghost-children wanted me to tell the villagers how to stop the swamp cough. Let’s pretend I do. Here’s how it would go.
It would turn into a House That Jack Built.
This is the girl called Briony.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew; which meant she was hanged by the neck until dead.
That was the girl called Briony.
I’m not really the sacrificing type.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose.
We descended Gallows Hill, each in our own way. I’m no longer a wolfgirl, but still, I’m fast and Rose is slow. She’s slow and clumsy and afraid of heights and speed and danger.
An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.
This is the girl called Briony; who wanted to hurry to the Alehouse; which would distract her from the memory of the ghost-children; which kept coming back to her until she wanted to scream; which she felt like doing anyway, because Rose doesn’t know how to hurry; which goes to show that Briony’s always waiting for Rose, and if Briony ends up on the gallows, it will be for murder.
This is the girl called Briony.
8
When in Rome
“I don’t like that man.” Rose spoke loud enough for Mad Tom to hear.
“Where be my wits?” shouted Mad Tom, who, aside from being irritatingly mad, stood between us and the funeral-baked meats. “They be lost, O my stars an’ strumpets. Lost forever an’ aye.”
“I don’t like that man.”
He rattled his umbrella. “It be you lovelies what taked my wits. I seen you when you done it. I spied you with my little eye.”
He’s harmless, poor thing. That’s what everyone said. It was true, but who cares? Lots of people are harmless, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them.
“Two hundred twenty-six steps until the Alehouse,” said Rose. “But we have to pass that man.”
“And pass him we shall,” I said, for Tiddy Rex was sure to be in the Alehouse, and I needed to listen to his cough. Just let it be different from Rose’s. Please let it be different!
“I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose.
“Come along, then.”
“Doesn’t I spy two black-eyed lovelies!” Mad Tom flapped his umbrella at us as we passed. “Has you such a thing as a pair o’ wits about you?”
“I want the funeral biscuits,” said Rose. But we’d already pushed through the Alehouse door, into the smells of tobacco and lantern oil and the ghosts of fried sausages. A hand snuck into the crook of my arm.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
I looked up, into Eldric’s switch-on eyes.
“You came just in time,” he said. “I was about to auction off your seats. They’re going for a fortune.”
There weren’t many fortunes to be made in the Swampsea, but neither were there many chairs. Mourners crammed windowsills, leaned against walls, talking, laughing, drinking, as all good mourners do. But there, at a table occupied by Mr. Clayborne and Father, were two seats, tipped onto their front legs to show they were taken.
How would a regular girl feel if an Eldric boy-man saved her a seat? Eldric, from exotic, faraway London.
Would a regular girl be happy? I don’t know much about certain feelings, like happiness. I have thoughts, of course, but thoughts stay in one’s head. Thoughts don’t feel.
“Introduce me to the new fellow, won’t you?” said Cecil Trumpington.
Cecil was Judge Trumpington’s son, but he didn’t mind sharing the next-but-one table with the ratcatcher and a fellow from the willow yard. Cecil was democratic when it came to drinking.
Cecil and Eldric shook hands. Two lovely boys, face-toface: Cecil, all dark ringlets; Eldric, all tawny mane. Cecil a bit the taller; Eldric a bit the b
roader. Cecil, all pale and dead-poet-ish; Eldric all electric and alive.
Cecil leaned over me; he smelled of money. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen milady!”
Milady. Such an old-fashioned word makes him feel clever. “Only five days,” I said.
“You count the days too!”
How would a regular girl feel if a Cecil boy-man stood looking at her with his pale fish-eyes, pressing a hand to his chest? Cecil, whose house has stained-glass windows and curved stairs, and a porch fixed securely to the front.
Would a regular girl want to smack him?
“I’m hungry for funeral biscuits,” said Rose.
“Funeral biscuits?” said Eldric. “Shall I hunt them down? Are they dangerous?”
“You’re mad!” said Cecil, but he rose to accompany Eldric. Two boy-men, stalking the wild funeral biscuit.
I let my mind go wandering. I pretended I was a regular person. I breathed in greasy air and sour ale, just like a regular person. I listened in on the conversation behind me, just like a regular person.
Eavesdropping is such a regular-person activity.
“Hark to my words,” said the constable. “The witch is like to be that Nelly Daws. She got that wicked red hair.”
Nelly Daws, from the Coracles, the smallest-but-one village in the Swampsea. She had red hair and dancing feet.
“Nelly Daws,” said Davy Wallace, a fisherman known principally for having caught a hundred-pound sturgeon with his one hand. “I always knowed her for a witch.” But you can’t trust what Davy knows: He’s not a knowing sort of person. He’s the sort to accept a wager to spend the night in the swamp without a Bible Ball. He’s the sort to meet up with the Dead Hand and come home minus one of his own.
Could Nelly have been that red-haired witch, screaming with laughter and swooping through the trees? It was hard to imagine.
“She got them sharp witch eyes,” said the Swamp Reeve. “I marked it well last time I seen her.”
Now I wished I weren’t eavesdropping. I didn’t want to hear about catching witches, and hanging witches. But you can’t just stop eavesdropping. Too bad a person can’t close her ears.
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