Following the voice he rolled to his side and began pulling himself through the bushes, dragging his ruined stump across the ground. “I’m going to live. I’m going to live. I’m going to live,” he said over and over again.
“Just follow me,” said the voice. Jack’s field of vision was blurry, but he could see enough to realize that whoever was saving him had wings. Then it came to him. He was being rescued by an angel. God had heard his prayers and sent an angel to rescue him, just like he had read about in all of the books and seen in all of the movies. Silently he gave thanks to his protector and picked up his pace, keeping sight of the luminescent wings under the feeble glow of the street lights. All Jack knew was that he had to follow his angel.
Meanwhile the Friendly Man was straightening his house. It was important to bring in the decorations first thing. He couldn’t have anyone stealing one for a souvenir. When he went out on the front porch and peered into the hollowed spot next to the bushes he noticed that Jack was gone.
“Now where did you go?” he asked. He dashed to the street and looked in both directions. “Nope. This is not good,” he said to himself. He knew this year’s plan was risky. If he did not find his decoration, it would mean no more Halloweens for him. That would mean villagers with torches and pitchforks. Then he heard a few dull thuds coming from the back of his house. Trying to look casual he jogged around to his backyard where he found the little girl from across the street standing over Jack. She was holding an aluminum softball bat. The man at her feet was inert.
“I see,” said the Friendly Man. “I guess the prank was on me this year.”
“Yeah,” said the little girl. “You had a funny look on your face.”
The Friendly Man laughed. “I guess I did. You had me going there. Let’s take a look at your handiwork. You didn’t hit him in the head did you?”
The girl twisted on one foot, the bat dangling from her hand. “Maybe.”
The Friendly Man was too relieved to be angry. “Yeah, you bashed him pretty good. He definitely has a fractured skull. You must think you’re Babe Ruth.”
“Who’s Babe Ruth?”
“Never mind. I think I can repair most of this. There is nothing like a good challenge.”
“You’re going to put him in your yard?”
“Well of course. You can’t go wasting things like this. Actually, he wasn’t a bad guy. I think maybe he was right about the gutters come to think of it. It wouldn’t do for him to go through all of that suffering for nothing.” Then he looked at the little girl. “You promise me something?”
“What?”
“You wash that bat when you get home.”
The little girl nodded her head and started to cross the yard. The Friendly Man took the body under each armpit and began to drag it around the side of the house. When he looked up, he saw the little girl was watching him again. She was smiling as a breeze came through the trees and a cluster of dead leaves dropped at her feet. There was something in her eye. It was more than just the gleam of a budding predator. It was a measured stare—almost a challenge.
“Remember,” she said. “Death is always standing right behind you.”
A chill went up his spine. The glitter from the wings of her costume shown in the moonlight.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I guess you’re right.”
MANY CARVINGS
Sean Eads and Joshua Viola
“Light the lamps, Alaster,” the boy’s mother said, lifting her needlework to squint at a stitch. Alaster lay on the floor, so obsessed with his brother that he didn’t even notice the chill of the wooden planks through his night shirt. The month-old infant cooed from his crib and his kicking feet made the most delicate thuds, a noise that pleased Alaster. It reminded him of pulling carrots from the ground and wiping away the dirt and hearing the earthen clumps break on the ground.
“Alaster.”
He pushed himself to all fours and then went to light the lamps. An October gale gusted against the house, speeding him along. He liked to think of each wick as a person with an oval flame of hair. The fire always seemed to bow toward him at first, like a curtsey to thank him for life. Then it stretched with fuel like a person waking in the morning, arms up, back arching. When he was a little younger, he gave each flame a name and pretended they were all family members. But those memories embarrassed him now.
He knelt by the crib and smiled. “I think William wants to eat.”
“He’ll cry if he does, Alaster. None of my boys were ever shy about their hunger, you least of all. Your father warned me when I married him that appetite is prominent among all Cheverus men.”
Alaster asked if he could have honey then, but his mother smiled and shook her head. “It’s much too late for that, child.”
“Would you read to me then, like Father does?”
His mother paused a moment, then her hands worked faster. “Aren’t you too old for stories?”
“Father reads me different stories now.”
“Does he?”
“About generals and soldiers and—”
“I must speak to him about that.”
Alaster looked up to see if his mother was cross. She didn’t seem so. But there was something in her expression he didn’t understand. Did she not like stories? Why had she never told him one from a book?
“Your father will be back soon enough. He’ll have stories from the market, I’m sure.”
“I wish I could have gone with them. It’s not fair that Benjamin gets to go.”
“Benjamin is fifteen. You’ll go with them soon enough. But now you have little William to watch over.”
Alaster couldn’t help pouting. He’d never been to the city, and this was Benjamin’s third straight season helping Father at the market with the other men. He always came back with tales of wonder. People singing and strange animals wondering here and there, and drinks and candies found nowhere else. The tastes Alaster’s imagination created always turned to sour envy on his tongue.
He looked down at William and thought, When I’m older, I’m going to go to the markets while you stay behind, but I’ll bring something back for you.
Alaster kissed the baby on the forehead. Drowsiness overtook him shortly thereafter, and he had little memory of his mother turning off the lamps or picking him off the floor. He did remember a sleepy protest that he was too big to be carried, but his mother was very stout, like most of the village women. It would be a few years before he truly became too heavy for her.
He woke to the sound of a fierce hammering from the front door and the baby wailing in his parents’ room. Alaster heard his mother up and on the move. He left his bed and instantly shivered in the night’s chill. The banging gained urgency. Alaster thought there must be an army outside demanding shelter.
As he came to stand beside his mother, Alaster heard a voice shouting to be let in.
“It’s Benjamin! But why is he here, Mother? What could have happened?”
Each question engraved a new line upon his mother’s face.
“Go tend your brother.”
“But my brother is—”
His mother’s expression shut him up. He’d only seen her look this way once, a few months before William’s birth when word arrived of an accident in the field. Mother simply said, “Jonathan,” in the same hushed way she said Jesus in church, and took off running despite her condition. But Father ended up not being hurt too much, and Ms. Sibley came to tend his injury.
“Thank you for coming so fast,” Mother said as she, Alaster and Benjamin gathered to watch Ms. Sibley apply a poultice to Father’s ankle. Alaster fixated on the old woman’s hands, so big at the knuckles, so slow and careful with Father’s bandage—and then so swift to touch his mother’s stomach.
“A shame the accident, if it had to happen, couldn’t have occurred two months from now. What’s the expression? Kill two birds with one stone?”
But it’d be three more months before William was ready, and then Ms.
Sibley delivered him just as she’d delivered Benjamin. She’d wiped her hands clean on a rag, smiled at Alaster and said, “Easier than your brother, but not as eager to arrive as you.”
“Alaster—go to William. Now.”
He blinked back to the present as the door rattled and Benjamin again begged for admission. Alaster retreated to his parents’ bedroom and knelt by the baby’s crib. “Hush,” he said, stroking the infant’s sparse hair. But William went on wailing, drowning out all other sound. After a few minutes, Alaster couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening with Benjamin and left the bedroom to see. He found his brother holding a sheet of paper before his mother’s face.
“But why would Jonathan write when he knows—”
“He told me to read it to you, Mother.”
Alaster crept closer, keeping close to the wall. William’s cries became distant to him.
“Dearest, a great illness has struck at the market. More people are ill here than well. It is a devilish thing, but with God’s help we will persevere. Already I am feeling better just writing to you. I return Benjamin to you since he remains healthy. I know you will disapprove of the decision, but he is a capable boy and I did not send him back alone.”
Mother said, “Who did you return with?”
“Cameron.”
“Martin Huntley’s oldest? Is Martin ill, too?”
“Yes, Mother. We traveled the entire way back together and—”
“Where is Cameron now?”
“At home, talking to his own mother, I suppose,” Benjamin said, adding a laugh that Alaster thought almost mocking. This drew him closer and his presence caught his older brother’s attention. Benjamin fixed him with a bold, assured stare. He seemed even taller than before, though that couldn’t be possible. He and Father had been gone not even a full week.
“What sort of illness was it, Benjamin?”
“How should I know?”
“Was there coughing?”
“Yes.”
“How was your father’s appetite?”
Benjamin shrugged. “He was eating.”
“And keeping it down?”
“Mostly.”
“There’s that, at least,” Mother said, gathering her gown around her as she turned. Alaster thought she looked miserable. In most times of trouble, she’d say, “It’s in God’s hands now.” But she hadn’t said that when she thought Father was hurt. And she didn’t say it now. Alaster figured she wanted to consult Ms. Sibley, but there was nothing to be done at so late an hour. And the market was so far away.
“Are you hungry, Benjamin?”
“No, Mother.”
“Are you sure? You must have traveled for hours.”
“Our fathers gave us bread for the trip.”
“Then go to bed. You too, Alaster.”
But Benjamin went straight to his parents’ room. Alaster and his mother exchanged looks before following.
“What are you doing, Ben?”
“I’ve missed my brother.”
He picked William up and cradled him. Alaster’s face went hot when the baby’s cries turned into contented coos.
“He missed me.”
“Settle him back into the crib, Benjamin. It’s time for all of us to sleep. In the morning, I’ll visit with the Huntleys.”
“You don’t believe me, Mother?”
“What sort of question is that? I only want to find out more details.”
Alaster watched Benjamin slowly return William to the crib.
“I told you—”
Mother reached forward and grabbed him by the back of his neck. “I’ll assume this defiant tone comes from being exhausted. Go to bed now—both of you.”
In their room, Benjamin flopped upon the mattress and was asleep at once. Alaster didn’t realize how quickly he’d become used to having the bed to himself. Now his brother’s large, sprawling body reduced him to the left edge. He couldn’t sleep on the verge of teetering.
“Ben, give me room,” he said, prodding his shoulder.
A drowsy, distant tone came from Benjamin’s lips. “I will . . . I will . . .”
“Then do it.”
“I will . . . I will . . .”
Alaster rose up to peer at his brother in the dark. Ben’s lips moved but a different voice came from his mouth. A whisper like the dry rustle of wheat fields and as scratchy as winter bramble. Then it was Ben’s voice, clearly saying, “I will, I will.” Then the whisper again. Alaster wondered if his brother was dreaming of talking to someone.
“Yes, Mother.”
His brother let out a short burst of laughter with an even meaner edge than the laugh he’d given earlier. Alaster settled back onto his little slice of mattress and clutched himself. He did not sleep even after Benjamin went silent and his breaths came and went at the slow, steady pace of dreams.
But drowsiness stole upon him at some point. He woke with the bed to himself again and a feeling like he’d been the one dreaming. Ben was still at the market with Father. There’d been no midnight return, no news of illness.
Alaster tossed the blankets off him and changed clothes before leaving his room. He heard his mother’s faint voice calling for him.
Entering his parents’ bedroom, he found her in bed, still dressed in her gown. She lifted her arms as he rushed to her.
“Sick,” she whispered.
So last night was not a dream.
“Could you have what Father has? Maybe Benjamin—”
“He took . . . took . . . ”
Alaster leaned closer. “Took what, Mother? Where did he go?”
“Huntley . . . William . . . ”
She rose an inch toward him, beseeching with a fervor that lasted seconds before she collapsed back onto the bed and turned her face to the wall. Alaster saw sweat pooling at the base of her throat. He drew back and his heels struck William’s crib. He turned and gasped at the empty box.
“Benjamin took William?”
She nodded.
Alaster thought he understood. Father sent Benjamin back to avoid being sick, but somehow Mother became ill too. Now Mother wanted them all to go to the Huntley farm. But why would Ben have left without him?
“Mother—”
She tried to speak but her voice didn’t reach a whisper. The sound of her struggle made his chest hurt. He went to Father’s desk and took out a piece of paper and a pencil.
“Write out what I should do and I’ll do it.”
Mother’s eyes shifted to the pencil and paper and she began to cry. She made a pushing motion, shooing him away. He felt certain staying here brought her pain, and he took off running without another thought. His feet slapped at the single dirt path leading to the main road. Once there, Alaster turned left. Not the direction of the neighbor farm families like the Huntleys and the Mastersons.
He went on without a conscious thought until he arrived at Ms. Sibley’s little cottage.
No smoke came from her chimney, but Alaster heard sounds from within. He knocked on the door. “Ms. Sibley, it’s Alaster. Can you come and see my mother? She’s sick.”
A sound like many mouths stifling laughter came from the other side. Alaster stepped back. He felt the sunlight’s gathering heat on his narrow shoulders. It wasn’t strong enough to thaw the ice creeping up his spine.
“Child, why are you here?”
He spun around to find Ms. Sibley standing there, wrapped in layers of warm garments. She must have started the day early, venturing forth when the temperature was far less comfortable. She carried an open basket in her left hand, overflowing with mushrooms and roots and sticks and fallen leaves, as if she’d collected according to random fancy. But the pumpkin cradled in the nook of her right arm drew most of his attention. He’d never seen one so perfect, its unblemished orange skin blazing in the daylight.
Ms. Sibley came closer. “Alaster, I see, and not long out of bed from the looks of it. What’s wrong?”
He fought to draw his attention off
the pumpkin. “Mother—she’s sick. Father too. At the market.”
“How do you know about the market?”
Alaster explained about Ben’s return and the letter Father wrote.
“I know,” Ms. Sibley said, moving toward the door. “Many doctors have been summoned, and I’ve heard there are road signs posted now warning travelers away. I fear it is plague.”
He gasped. “Mother and Father have the plague!”
“Don’t fret, Alaster. After all, fall is upon us, and that’s the season for many maladies.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes. I have business at the Whitmore farm anyway. Mrs. Whitmore’s baby is due next week, but I have a feeling it will happen today. I always have a sense about these things, and I’ve only been wrong once. My error stands before me.”
She placed the basket and the pumpkin down at her door. Its orange skin seemed to brighten and deepen by the moment. Alaster stared at it until Ms. Sibley cleared her throat. “Does something vex you, child?”
“Where did that pumpkin come from?”
“My patch, of course.”
He looked around. She had farmed only the most modest plot of ground, enough to sustain herself. There was certainly no pumpkin field.
They started walking back the way he’d come. “So why are you here and not Benjamin?”
“He was gone when I woke up. He took William and I guess went to Mr. Huntley’s place.”
“Without you?”
“I’m sure he was rushing to please Mother.”
Ms. Sibley’s pace quickened and Alaster found he had to run a bit to match it.
“How are things between you and Benjamin since little William came along?”
“Benjamin isn’t less mean.”
She laughed. “No, I daresay not. But is there jealousy? Do you fight for the child’s affections?”
“He’s only a few weeks old. He doesn’t know us.”
“For the last sixteen years, I have been the first to greet the children of this village—except for you, of course. A newborn’s eyes are so tired, like they already understand the miseries in store for them. The wisdom of infants surpasses all of us.”
Ms. Sibley’s pace grew even faster, so that she seemed to glide over the ground. Alaster did not see how her old legs carried her like this and had to run to keep up.
Doorbells at Dusk Page 19