by Amy Cross
“You mustn't worry too much,” I tell Mrs. Cartwright as I turn to her. “Abigail's heart condition was most likely a congenital defect that she carried from birth. Do you understand what that means? It means that her lifestyle and religion played no part whatsoever in the heart attack that killed her. In fact -”
For a moment, I think back to the sight of Kane's cat-o-nine-tails resting on his desk while I tried to resuscitate the poor girl. I remember the desperate chest compressions I administered and the kiss of life, all of which were to no avail. I glance toward the tree and see that the figure is still watching us.
“I should go,” Mrs. Cartwright says suddenly, turning away from the grave. “I don't think it's good for me to be here. I must head home and think of what I shall tell the others. Her siblings must be shielded from the truth, and then there's the matter of the village. People will want to know what happened to poor Abigail, and I can't possibly tell them that she was at this place. It must all be smoothed over so that there's no gossip.”
“She was a good girl,” I reply, as we start to make our way back toward the schoolhouse. Looking toward the tree again, I see that our observer is still in place. “She was very popular with the other girls.”
“Our family has already been through so much,” she continues. “Abigail's father refused to go and fight in the war, so he was arrested and now he's in prison.” She sniffs back more tears. “Might I ask, Doctor Ratcliffe, why you haven't gone off to fight?”
“Bad leg,” I reply, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “They turned me down, I'm afraid.” Lying is second nature to me now.
“I think my husband is wrong,” she tells me, wiping tears from her eyes. “There, I said it. Pacifism won't save the day, not in the face of the evil that's spreading across the continent. There are three ways to deal with evil, Doctor Ratcliffe. You can ignore it, you can kneel to it, or you can fight it. I believe it must always be fought.”
“Quite,” I reply with a faint, forced smile. “What other honorable choice is there?”
Glancing toward the oak tree again, I'm relieved to see this time that the figure, whoever it was, has moved on and is no longer watching us. With all the girls no doubt safely in class, there simply shouldn't be anyone else out here, especially not on such a cold and gray day. I can only imagine that some stray soul briefly wandered this way and, realizing his mistake, left again. It is as well not to linger in this place. Sometimes I feel that the very ground beneath our feet has been poisoned by the misery that exists here. Any passing stranger would most likely sense the nature of the land around here and move on.
As Mrs. Cartwright and I make our way back to the schoolhouse, I take care to exaggerate my limp a little more than usual. Perhaps, of late, I have been getting sloppy.
Part Five
IVY JONES
I
“Read it.”
I stare at the Bible on his desk. In the distance, I hear footsteps hurrying through a corridor, but the other girls sound so far away. Up here in Kane's office, with just the man himself for company, I know that my every move, every flicker of doubt in my eyes, is being scrutinized. I'm so scared, I almost feel like a completely different person.
“This is not a trick,” he continues, watching me intently. “Pick up the book and read it out loud.”
“Which part?” I ask cautiously.
“You will find that I have already marked a passage for you. I selected a portion of text that, in my opinion, should resonate with your young soul.” As he leans back in his chair, the frame creaks loudly. “The Bible is a remarkable piece of work, Miss Jones. If you open your heart to it, it will help you more than anything else in the entire world. It is the only thing that can help you. You will find all the answers you need in there, but first you have to be brave enough to pick it up.”
I take a deep breath before stepping forward and reaching out to take the book.
“But only if you can open your heart,” he adds.
I pauses, with my hand just a few inches from the Bible. Is this a trick?
“I have been re-reading the file on you,” he continues. “I had to refresh my memory concerning the path that led you to the school's door. I must confess, I had quite forgotten that you were made pregnant by an airman. Tell me, what was it about him that made you succumb to his advances? Or was it the other way around. Did you seduce him?”
I feel a shiver pass through my body as I see his beady eyes watching me with such calm interest.
“Just a man passing through your little town,” he adds with a faint smile. “I gather from the file that you were out late one night, cycling home, and you happened to stop and speak to an airman who was walking back to his base. One thing led to another, Miss Jones, and a few months later your poor mother had to address the bastard that had begun to form in your belly. Meanwhile, the airman was long gone and you professed to not even remember his name. I cannot imagine the kind of weak, ill-disciplined soul that could lead a girl to make such profoundly awful decisions.”
“It didn't happen quite like that,” I whisper.
“I beg your pardon?” He leans forward and cups his left ear. Again, the chair creaks. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
He smiles as he leans back again. “Every Bible in this school,” he continues, “is stitched together by me personally. I take great comfort in such humble, simple work, and I spend many hours every night working on new copies. The edition you see before you happens to be the very first Bible I put together, and I have had it blessed on a number of occasions. So many, in fact, that I dare say this particular Bible is more holy than any other in the land. It is even said that it will burn the hand of any sinful person who touches it.”
Staring at the Bible, I tell myself to just pick it up, to ignore his attempts to scare me. At the same time, when I glance at my outstretched hand, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I can't take the risk.
“You wicked, wicked girl!” my mother's voice screams in the back of my head, echoing from that horrible morning half a year ago. “Do you have the Devil himself in your soul?”
I flinch as I remember her dragging me down the stairs after finding out about my condition. Sometimes I think she was hoping I'd trip and fall, and that the problem in my belly would be resolved that way.
“What are you waiting for?” Mr. Kane asks. “Are you, perhaps, worried that the Bible will burn your hand?”
I shake my head. This is a parlor trick, it's just the same as when some fool put her hand on my shoulder in the library but... Still I don't quite dare pick the book up, in case it should sear my flesh. I feel like a fool for letting Kane put this fear in my mind.
“I have come to notice you,” he continues after a moment. “You stand out from all the other girls at this school, Miss Jones, and that is not a good thing. Perhaps there are people out there who sing the praises of individuality, who proclaim that it is somehow bad to fit in with the crowd, but let me assure you that those people are wrong. Why, just today I was watching the girls in the playground and I saw that you seemed to command the interest of the others. Tell me, what do you talk about when you hold forth in such a way?”
“I don't know what you mean, Sir,” I reply cautiously, still staring at the Bible.
“The others look up to you,” he adds. “I've seen the way Miss O'Neill trails around after you, like a puppy on a string. She's simple-minded, of course, we all know that, but she's not the only one who seems to admire you. Perhaps, despite your age and lack of godliness, you possess the natural ability to lead others. In that regard, Miss Jones, you and I are somewhat alike.” He stares at me for a moment longer. “However, in your case I think it would be as well to remember your place in society. You are a foolish, lowly child who has shown a propensity for making poor choices. You have strayed from the path of God, your soul has been marked by the Devil, and to prove that fact I insist, I order you, to pick up the Bible.”
“I..
. Sir, I -”
“Pick it up!” he shouts, getting to his feet.
I take a step back.
“Pick it up!” He steps toward me, as if he's momentarily lost control.
Suddenly I feel something brush against my shoulder, but when I turn I find nothing behind me.
“Pick it up,” Kane says calmly, having evidently regathered his composure. “Unless you're scared, Miss Jones?”
I turn and stare at him for a moment before realizing that I have no choice. Stepping forward, I hesitate for a fraction of a second before taking the Bible in my hand. To my relief, it neither bursts into flames nor burns my hand, although my teeth are chattering with fear as I fumble to open the book at the page Mr. Kane has marked for me. Damn it, I want to ignore his stupid threats, but somehow they're wheedling their way into my mind.
“Read the section of text at the top,” he says firmly. “I will tell you when to stop.”
Staring at the page, I can barely bring myself to open my mouth. “When the -”
“Louder!” he shouts.
I take a deep breath. “When the child -”
“With passion!” he continues, making his way around the desk and stopping behind me. He places his hands on my shoulders, as if to hold me in place. “You are not reading the Sunday comics,” he continues, “or an advertisement for laundry detergent. You are reading the book of God, and you must do so with pride.” His hands run down my shoulders and onto my upper arms. “Take a moment,” he says firmly. “Compose yourself. Read the text in your head and ensure that you understand it. Only then will you be able to give it the passion and belief it deserves. Or do you think you lack such passion, Miss Jones? Are you not even capable of understanding the book of God?”
Pausing, I realize that my hands are starting to itch slightly. I try to ignore the sensation but after just a few seconds, the skin on my palms feels as if it's chapped and sore, almost burning. I try to keep hold of the book, but finally I reach out to set it down on the desk, only for Kane to grab my hands and force me to hold the Bible more firmly.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, his voice filled with anticipation.
“No,” I stammer, hoping against hope that the pain will go away.
“You were about to put it down.”
“No,” I hiss, but my hands are agony now.
“I sense discomfort in your voice.”
I try to deny it, but I feel as if hundreds of red-hot needles are extending from the Bible's surface and slicing into my hands. No matter how much I tell myself that I'm imagining the whole thing, I can't ignore the pain any longer, and finally I let out a cry as I pull my hands away. Taking a step back, I see that my palms are red raw and already blistered.
“As I thought,” Mr. Kane says, setting the Bible down and then heading back around to the other side of his desk. “You are a special case, Miss Jones, and I shall have to give you my full attention. As well as your regular classes, you shall henceforth have an additional Bible study period here in my office every day at 5pm. Is that understood?”
I stare at my hands for a moment longer. The red marks have formed in criss-crossed patterns across my flesh, but at least the pain is lessening now that I'm not in direct contact with the book.
“Am I understood?” Kane asks again, with a faint smile this time.
“I... Yes, Sir,” I stammer, still shocked. “I understand.”
“We can set you back onto the right path,” he continues, “but it will take time and effort. You are lucky, though. You have me to guide you, and I have helped many girls in your position in the past. Some have succeeded, others have not, but you shall have every chance. The rest is up to you. We shall see whether or not you are capable of being saved.”
***
Making my way back to the dormitory, I stop for a moment in the empty corridor and lean against the wall. My hands are still sore and blistered, although most of the pain is gone. Still, as I stare at the redness of my palms, I can't help feeling shocked by the fact that Mr. Kane's Bible could have had such an effect on me. I thought he was lying about the Bible's effect, I thought it was just part of his charlatan act, but...
Perhaps he was right all along.
Perhaps I really have strayed into the shadow of the Devil. I always thought such ideas were nonsense, but for the first time I'm starting to think that all my life I have been wrong. What if the world I'm living in, is a world where men like Jeremiah Kane are right? The thought sends a shiver through my body, but I can't deny the evidence that even now causes blisters to grow and redden in the soft flesh of my palms.
And then I hear her.
Nearby, someone is sobbing.
Turning, I realize that the sound is coming from the bathroom. I make my way over to the door and lean through, only to see that Sissy is sitting on the floor in the corner, with her head bowed as she weeps.
“Sissy?” I say cautiously, stepping closer. “What's wrong?”
I wait for her to reply, but after a moment I realize that perhaps she hasn't even heard me.
“Sissy,” I continue, feeling a twinge of pain in my back as I take another step toward her, “what -”
Suddenly I see that there's a small patch of blood on the tiled floor.
“Sissy?” I ask, feeling a flash of concern in my chest. “Did something happen?”
Finally she looks up at me with her big, tear-filled eyes. A moment later, however, I see that she's holding something in her hands, something that seems to have leaked blood between her fingers.
“What have you got there?” I continue, trying not to panic. “Sissy, did you find something? Can... Can I see it?”
Stepping closer, I get down onto my knees.
“It's okay,” I tell her, “there's no need to be scared. Just let me see what you're holding.”
“It came out,” she whimpers.
“What did?”
“It came out.”
“Sissy, what are you talking about?”
Slowly, she holds her hands toward me and opens them, and to my horror I see that she's holding the lower portion of a tiny arm, complete with a small hand. The flesh is an unnatural grayish-green color, while the area around the elbow is torn and damaged with a dark red patch of meat.
“It came out,” she says again, her voice trembling with fear. “Of me.”
II
“Doctor Ratcliffe is dealing with her as we speak,” Miss Kilmartin says as she sets a cup of tea in front of me in the office. “You needn't worry, Sissy will be quite alright.”
“But it was her baby, wasn't it?” I ask, still shaking a little with shock. “I mean... That arm...”
She nods. “We must not think of such things.”
“It's dead,” I continue. “Poor Sissy, I must go to her.” I get to my feet, but Miss Kilmartin puts a hand on my shoulder, forcing me back down into the chair.
“Doctor Ratcliffe is with her,” she says firmly. “He told me it will take quite some time to complete the procedure.”
“What procedure?”
“The remains cannot simply be left inside her,” she continues. “The part that came out was necrotic, which means that something has gone horribly wrong and the rest of the child must...” Her voice trails off for a moment, and I can see that she too is in shock. That alone is enough to scare me double, since I have never before seen such fear in her eyes. “Well,” she adds, forcing a smile, “it's not for us to talk about such things. Doctor Ratcliffe will make sure that the poor girl is right as rain.”
“She'll be so sad,” I reply, as a tear rolls down my cheek. “She really cared about her baby, you know. She wasn't like some of the girls, the ones who just want rid of it so they can go home. Sissy knew she couldn't keep it, I explained that to her several times until she understood, but she still wanted it to go to a good home and...” I take a deep breath, but my bottom lip is trembling and I feel I shall burst into tears at any moment. “It's so unfair,” I continue as I start
to sob. “Sissy's such a good person, she should at least have been able to know that her child lived and that it was out there somewhere having a happy life.”
“You mustn't torture yourself with such thoughts,” Miss Kilmartin continues.
“She sensed something was wrong,” I tell her. “She said it hadn't kicked. It must have been dead for some time if it had already started to rot inside her and...” I pause, but the thought of the child somehow decomposing inside Sissy's belly is enough to make me feel as if I shall be sick. “We used to put our hands on each other's bumps,” I continue, “just for fun. We used to talk about what we thought our babies would be when they grew up. Sissy thought hers would be the king. I told her that was impossible, but she still thought it. Sometimes I even overheard her humming the royal march on the toilet. Poor Sissy...”
“We should pray for her,” Miss Kilmartin replies. “God will welcome her back into his bosom, I'm sure.”
“But if...” For a moment, I think back to the times when I placed my hand on Sissy's belly. I never once felt it kick, but I always told myself that her baby was just a little quiet. I want to ask why God would allow something so awful to happen, but I know from experience that I wouldn't get a satisfying answer.
“Some babies just die,” Miss Kilmartin continues. “It's a tragedy, but it happens.” She looks toward the door, as if she's fearful of being overheard, and then she turns back to me. “It can happen to any woman, even if she attends church every Sunday, even if she lives a virtuous life and has a husband...” She pauses for a moment, with a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “Any of us can... I mean...” Another pause, before she clears her throat. “Well, never mind,” she adds. “If Sissy is one of the lucky ones, there will be no damage to her and she can conceive again one day. Once she has found a husband, of course. She must do things the proper way from now on.”