A few more light up as Brownlow tells them how well their wall looks, what still needs doing, and what they can do to help. This seems to involve physical labor, volunteering as much time as possible, showing up in good spirits knowing they are saving the city from a gruesome fate, and doing their unpaid work cheerfully for the good of all. By the time he turns to the maker for further information on the state of the wall, Ivy feels lightheaded, now scarcely able to see the door through a wall of smoke. A whiskey bottle smashes as one man topples from his chair, thumping to the floor like a carcass. No one around him seems alarmed.
Why are they all staring at her even as Brownlow speaks? Can it be her imagination? Difficult as it is to see at all, they could be looking anywhere in her general direction.
As Oliver explains how much more lumber they need cut, then plans for watchtowers and signals, he fumbles through sheets of notes on parchment, drops his spectacles, his pages, his pen, glances up and down from paper to the gathering to Brownlow as if unsure whom he addresses, and generally seems about to fly to pieces. Isaiah, calm and restrained, whispers to him as he picks objects up for the maker, passing him information to remember.
For a stupid moment, Ivy wonders why Isaiah did not address the men himself to spare Oliver the anguish. But, of course, they would never listen to Isaiah—not before or after the War; it makes no difference to them. Oliver must do the speaking, regardless of who is more qualified.
Even at the height of the maker’s performance, those assembled still seem to be looking at Ivy. Biting her tongue, she frowns at the distressed tabletop, then the row of jackalope antlers mounted on the wall, until Brownlow turns to her.
“Some of you may already recognize Miss Jerinson as the young lady from the States who knows of this sickness. Miss, can you tell these men the tricks to dispatching Plague-sick in the event of an attack? What is the best manner to go about these things?”
Eyes stinging, Ivy glares from the imposing mustache to rows of Stetsons, sombreros, and other battered felt or straw hats. Don’t they already know this?
“To destroy a riser, you must deliver sufficient damage to the brain to halt brain function,” Ivy starts.
“So a shot to the head?” Brownlow interrupts.
“Or other traumatic damage. You don’t have to shoot—”
“And you called them what, exactly?”
Called them? “Risers.”
“Why is that?”
“Because that is what they are, Mr. Brownlow.”
To her surprise, several in the crowd snicker, gazes darting between her and the large man facing her.
Brownlow’s shoulders stiffen.
“Plague-sick is colloquial,” Ivy says. “As is Plague. The creatures placing this region, and the nation, in danger are deceased human beings infected with Daray’s disease. Daray’s disease rapidly consumes the brain, extinguishing normal life—”
“So these people are dead.” His eyes are cold, his voice lifting slightly.
“That’s right. Hence ‘riser’—”
“How is that possible?”
“I was explaining that when you interrupted, Mr. Brownlow.”
More titters from the crowd. One or two elbow each other in the ribs, grinning at her. Is it only that they are drunk? Ivy has seldom felt less amused in her life.
Another smile from Brownlow, matching that from the doorway. He crosses his arms and leans back a little, sharing his smile with the crowd as if to invite them into his side of the joke.
“Of course,” he says. “Do tell.”
Snorts and sputters. Another man slides from his chair.
Breathing hard, heedless of smoke now, unable to feel the pain in leg or side, Ivy starts again. “Once dead, the sickness rapidly alters the structure of the brain until the victim is reanimated. This can take moments or close to an hour, though not longer. The rapidity of the disease’s spread is one reason it is so dangerous and so unprecedented—”
“But once these ‘risers’ stand up from death”—more laughter—“they can be re-killed by shooting the brain?” Brownlow still smiles, as if to make sure she is not missing basic points.
“Once the brain is destroyed, it is still advisable in a populated area to burn the bodies. Daray’s disease is extremely contagious through a bite or any contact of infected matter into your own bloodstream. Once bitten—”
“What of animals? Can cattle or horses catch the Plague?”
“They will die if infected. As far as we know the disease only effects humans with the riser transformation. They pursue all living flesh. And sunlight. If an animal is—”
“Sunlight?”
“They are cold-blooded—”
“Well, of course.” Grinning. “They’re dead.”
Now a real rumble of laughter bursts through the crowd. A few men actually slap their knees. Through the masses and smoke, she can just make out Sam saying something to Grip at the far end of the room. At the end of a row, her chair pulled to one side, Rosalía sits still. But she is not watching Ivy, eyes fixed on Brownlow.
“Mr. Brownlow,” Ivy speaks through clenched teeth. “You asked for my feedback. Do you want it or—?”
“Yes, yes. You were saying, about the light? We already know they’re drawn to light. We’ve implemented blackout in the evenings, all windows covered, no street fires, and all that. So they are inactive at night?”
“Generally. Unless light attracts them.”
“So they could be best hunted past sunset?”
“If you wished to be at their mercy. How would you pursue them without a light? If you have one—”
“Perhaps the maker can provide a device.” Brownlow glances at Oliver.
“You are safer by day,” Ivy says. “If you cannot see them, you and your party will be bitten before you have a chance to—”
“Well, something to consider anyway.”
Through smoke, Grip steps to the aisle between chairs. “Mr. Brownlow, if you interrupt that girl once more while she is answering your questions, I shall have to request you step outside.”
Ivy has never heard as resonating a silence as the one to follow these words. Not in church, nor a library, nor the middle of a wide wilderness. Even the drunks hold their breaths.
When no one seems about to risk a word, Ivy finally clears her throat. “As I was saying: one can catch them slow and unawares by hunting at night. But the risk outweighs potential gain. It is safer to face them in daylight, even if they are at their fastest and most dangerous. When parties were gathered in Boston to exterminate overrun areas, these men went out in the early hours of the morning. As soon as one has clear light to see, but risers are still slow from time without sun and, hopefully, without much to eat, these are the best times.
“The most important means to protect the city while the wall remains incomplete is watchmen. There must be a watch along the wall, especially at open places, around the clock. Once the wall is complete, they will be able to discover ways over, under or through, if given enough time. They are not thoughtless, blind monsters. They will learn how to get what they want. They must be stopped as soon as they arrive at the wall so none have a chance to learn its nuances.
“Forty men around the wall, day and night, would not be too many. A watch cannot be overemphasized, nor can the necessity of ranged weapons. You cannot face risers with pitchforks and knives. If you are bitten, you will die. You may wish to ask the maker for defensive gloves and bracers so a riser closing to biting range may still be stopped.”
Ivy pauses. Every gaze in the place seems fixed on her. Not one man speaks. She suspects they are afraid anything they say could be interpreted as interruption.
“You are at war, gentlemen,” she says at last, voice now low as the room remains still. “At war with a sickness that is destroying the nation—will destroy the world, if not stopped on our shores. If you cannot learn to take this problem seriously, you, your families, myself, shall all die here. In a terrible
fashion which no man, woman, or child deserves. They do not understand your words, they do not know compassion or feeling. You face the soulless, the devil. And you face your own end if you cannot get yourselves organized to defend your families.
“If you wish mine or the maker’s advice, I suggest you seek it. Once you have joined their ranks, it will be too late. Good evening.”
She walks around the edge of the table and down the aisle toward the front door, chin lifted, struggling not to limp. Halfway there, Sam meets her. She takes his arm. Silence follows them out swing doors, down porch steps, into the dark street.
Fiftieth
A City at War
Ivy pushes damp hair from her face. What happened to all her hairpins? She bites her lower lip as she bends over fabric in her lap, blinking against sweat. She insisted Winter aim the fan into the kitchen—the hottest room.
Winter, of course, is cooking. She seems to be either cooking or cleaning up from cooking continually, every day of the week. When not consumed by these, she runs after anyone she feels needs caretaking. She even gave Ivy this fabric and sewing material—leftovers from other projects. She does not, however, have a Singer or any type of sewing machine.
The fan, almost making up for no Singer, is a steel-bladed device in a copper cage. Run by clockwork, it blows a stream of fast, cool air in whatever direction it is aimed. Winter tried twice to face it toward Ivy at the sofa, but Ivy is learning the right moments to put her foot down where Winter is concerned. She feels guilty enough just setting foot in the little house. Even when she comes to help Winter, she has never been able to leave without at least a meal.
Ivy shifts her sewing across her lap, offering single-syllable answers while Winter talks. At least her side has healed, while her leg remains bruised but not crippled. And soon she will have a new dress. Relatively soon. She has scarcely begun, spending most of her time here in the past days helping Winter with lunches and cleanup rather than building a new wardrobe.
“That was back in October,” Winter says. “She has been better ever since, giving the sweetest milk and thick cream. Chapel is the only Jersey cow in the city.”
“I’m glad she is better, Winter.” Ivy stitches with the thimble slipping on her wet finger, feeling as if she melts into her chemise.
Winter has been telling her of Saint Francis’s connection to Santa Fé and her own ill cow, cured by blessings last year on this particular saint’s feast day. If asked, Ivy could not honestly say such matters interest her beyond enjoyment of the rich, yellow butter and sweet cream this prized cow produces. Named after the never completed Loretto Chapel, the only gothic building in the region, Ivy finds the doe-eyed Chapel charming, as cows go. Though not enough to hang on every word of her life history.
Fortunately, Winter’s loneliness working on her own day in and day out, her natural friendliness, and her inexhaustible knowledge of local affairs, past and present, usually make for more interesting conversation than bovine blessings. She tells Ivy Santa Fé was founded in 1610, the Spanish governor used to demand tribute of corn and blankets from local Pueblo, and the city’s official name is La Villa Real de la Santa Fé de San Francisco de Asís. She explains Santa Fé’s six districts, tells of prosperous women business owners who used to thrive here, and recalls the lukewarm reaction of locals when the maker arrived years back to set up shop.
In answer to Ivy’s questions, she also explains the elongated shapes of certain adobe houses: as families expand by marriage and grandchildren, many build additions, new rooms with exterior doors to create their own attached homes.
She is telling how to mix effective whitewash before Ivy gives up sewing for the afternoon, cotton clinging together in her hands.
At least she need not worry about housing or meals. She has a semi-permanent place to live, having given the English boarding house owner a few gold nuggets and telling her they would be keeping the two rooms, expecting them to remain locked and empty even in their absence, for the foreseeable future. Mrs. Acker smiled—actually smiled—and asked Ivy if the three of them would like breakfast in the morning.
Ivy pushes aside the damp sewing heap to join Winter in front of the fan, grabbing a wet rag to scrub counters.
“You must allow the hydrated lime to slake overnight before adding salt,” Winter says. “Please don’t, Ivy. I am nearly finished.”
Ivy goes on scrubbing.
All in all, things are going well, aren’t they? So why is she still miserable?
No sign of Luck, though Chucklehead returned several days before, unsaddled, trailing a broken rein. Underweight by at least one hundred pounds, dehydrated and sore, he was so skittish on his arrival at the livery, Mr. Quiles sent a stable boy to find Melchior. Ivy spotted them emerging from El Rio and followed, heart leaping as she thought of Luck.
Once he talked the stallion into a pen, Melchior still had trouble removing the bridle or even touching Chucklehead. He balked and reared, tossing his head, spinning aside. Finally, Melchior drove him away, running the horse around the corral.
Next thing she knew, Melchior turned his back and Chucklehead followed him about the pen, his muzzle almost against Melchior’s shoulder. The two stopped in the center of the corral. Without turning, Melchior rubbed the stallion’s chin with his knuckles. Chucklehead rested his nose against the back of Melchior’s neck, pushing his hat to his eyes. The horse sighed.
Ivy stared through rails from her safe distance. It had not formerly occurred to her that her cousin was as good a horseman as he claimed—even as skilled as his father—if he would only bother with the patience.
She walked quickly through the stable, pausing only to beg Mr. Quiles to continue keeping a lookout for the chestnut mare. Sheriff Thurman had been no help at all, telling her he had bigger problems than a “missing” horse.
Besides Luck, Ivy feels alone in other ways.
Melchior seems back to normal. Shannon offered him a job dealing the faro table, which he takes up a few nights a week, building a bad reputation as an untrustworthy deal. Sam’s arm seems to be healing, though always hard to tell and a terrible diet will not help. Her father would advise plenty of green vegetables, whole fish, and bone broth to speed recovery.
But this is from observation only. She never speaks to either unless by necessity. In fact, she hardly speaks to anyone besides Winter or Rosalía. Unless Íñigo is trying to convince her to learn Spanish dances.
Men from the committee ask her advice, then proceed to do whatever Brownlow tells them. He even organized a hunt with torches at night. Nine men went out. Four returned. If this is the only way for them to learn, how many will be left in a month?
No word of supplies, though Santa Fé is now on rationing orchestrated by Brownlow and Thurman. No mail. No steel for steamcoaches or iron for gates. No lemons or oranges. How she would love an orange. Regrettably, the Spanish seem to have imported most of their citrus trees to Florida and California rather than New Mexico. And Florida was officially a lost cause to the sickness as far as two years back.
When they told Thurman of goods which could be found at the abandoned coach he rallied a few men with half a dozen burros for the trip. Not one returned. Sending a search party felt too much like throwing another log on the fire, even to Thurman and Brownlow.
Grip also snuck out of the city—which Ivy heard all about from Winter—presumably because he believed Everette may still be in the region. Now returned, Ivy asked if he encountered any hint of horse thieves. Coolness in her own tone startled her. She had never admitted, even to herself, she envied his freedom to ride away for a cause while she remained a prisoner, able to work at nothing more consequential than a new dress and scrubbing dishes.
Ivy squints out to the sunny street. Everyone says it is unusually hot this summer. Weather for flat country, not up here. Just her luck. Which makes her think again of Luck. Where is her horse?
At least Winter let her borrow a few books from back East: a small, wonderful distra
ction. The only substantial volume is the Bible and outdated catalogues—treasure troves of nostalgia and enjoyment. Ivy savors them, viewing only a few pages at a time, then marking her place to save the rest. She looks forward most to the illustrated Bloomingdale’s, which she has not opened. She will withhold this for a reward when finished with the new outfit, never having hand-sewn anything larger than a mitten in her life.
She sighs and looks around. “Can I do anything else, Winter? Are the pies due out of the oven?”
“Two more minutes. No need, Ivy. Won’t you sit down?” Sweat beads down Winter’s brows and neck in the sweltering kitchen.
“I might just ... take a break if you don’t need more help. Thank you.”
After putting her sewing away in a basket, Ivy departs with no plan, thinking of her horse, then her fox. She has not seen Es Feroz in weeks, the vixen scared away by commotion of building walls.
She walks the length of the east wall: solid adobe sections interspersed with timber panels. Although a small access door needs finishing, and the north and south gates are not complete, the construction looks finished enough to serve its purpose.
Brownlow plans to hold an afternoon fandango to celebrate the barricade being complete in a few days, roast a hog, break a bottle against it. Ivy can work up no enthusiasm for the event.
Despite parts of open corn fields—which are one and the same with bean and squash fields, all sharing soil—and livestock holdings being contained, walking the ten-foot wall feels like a cage. She thought she would feel better knowing something was between her and the sickness. Now, she wishes she could see down the southern hills, wishes there were a few more doorways along the sides.
A burro walks past. Flies buzz. Why is the place so filthy?
“Señorita Jerinson!” Íñigo appears beside her as if bursting from the ground. “You have come for a dance at last.” He holds out his hand.
Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3) Page 17