Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  Last November, my father told Willard to fill it in. But he yelled at Little Hawk that day and made him angry. Willard must have left the job unfinished, bless him. A small, defiant gesture against the tyrant.

  Sim pushes through the orchard, cracking branches loudly, but I detect another set of footsteps not far behind him. Is it Scarlett? Here to witness my execution? I sit on the mantle of the well, and throw one leg over the side. The second joins the first, and I turn on my stomach, gripping the overhang with one hand. First the window and now the well, it seems to be my night for jumping and dropping. I ease my body backwards—into open space. Then I take a deep breath and let go. My fall barely warrants the word it is so short, but I land on some gravel and dirt. The wall feels slimy, moss-covered, nevertheless I mold my body against it. In the distance, clanging bells and rolling wagon wheels bash my ears. It’s the fire brigade. They won’t get to me in time, however.

  My doom is nearly at the well.

  Scarlett speaks through Sim once more, encouraging the boy to kill. “No, Simmons,” he whispers. “Fire is the way it should be done. Fire. Just as your mother died, screaming in flames.”

  As Sim walks toward my hiding place, the person who followed him through the orchard does too. I sense it’s a man, small in stature, and with a hitch in his gait. He passes the smoke house, heads directly for the well.

  “A flash of light and heat, and the debt is paid,” Scarlett says, via Sim. “Requiescat in pace.”

  Rest in peace yourself, you lunatic.

  Something strikes against the rough stones at the top of the well. It flares, like a match tip catching flame. In my mind’s eye, Sim has already lifted his arm and opened his fingers. I imagine the match falling into the dark hole and my body igniting like a torch. Instead, I hear several things happen at once, nearly overlapping each other—fast movement, the impact of a hard object against bone, and Simmons Harrow dropping to his knees.

  Someone leans over the well, spine creaking loudly. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re pretty lucky, White Hair.”

  On the verge of hysteria, I feel intoxicated, giddy with relief. Both smiling and crying, I wave at the handyman. Well done, Willard Little Hawk. You didn’t go into town after all.

  32

  Aut vincere aut mori.

  Either to conquer or to die

  The volunteer fire brigade arrives, but the men just stand by their wagons and watch the mansion rage. The Revels is a lost cause, and everyone knows it. Noah Kelly is only a few minutes behind them, and I hear the fear in his voice from my place in the well. He calls for me until Willard yells that I’m all right, just stuck in a hole. Kelly laughs quietly at this.

  Little Hawk has already bound the still-unconscious Sim, leaving him in a heap by the barn. He also knots a loop in a rope and throws it down to me. The loop feels like a huge noose, but I slip the thing over my head and tuck it under my arms. Kelly and Willard pull me up. The handyman snickers when he sees my camisole and drawers, but Kelly just gives me his coat. After borrowing a bucket from the fire brigade, he dips his handkerchief into the water and washes the ash from my face.

  Willard disappears to wherever it is Willard goes, and Kelly takes me home to his housekeeper. She and I become close acquaintances over the next hour as the old woman helps me clean myself. Kerosene is difficult to remove from one’s hair, and even now, after so much scouring, I still smell vaguely of table lamp.

  My borrowed nightgown and robe belong to the rotund housekeeper and swim about my body like a school of fish. This kindly lady introduces me to Kelly’s daughter—a decidedly awkward encounter. Alice seems like a shy child and since her father is over at the jail with Simmons Harrow, the last thing she wants to do is entertain a strange guest. Particularly the person who kept her father away in Ironwood City for two months.

  Alice joins me at the kitchen table and asks the housekeeper for a bowl of bread and milk, exactly the snack I’m having. It isn’t a companionable meal. No words at all from Alice, even when I smile at her. The only sound is the scooping up of soggy bread. After I’ve finished, the housekeeper shows me to a bedroom, but I don’t sleep well. Now that my opium supply is gone, I long for it. At four in the morning, I think of waking Kelly to confide my drug dependency to him and seek his advice. But I can’t bring myself to do it, not when he might think less of me for my condition.

  And he probably wouldn’t give me any opium anyway, the do-gooder.

  I eventually drift into slumber, until the sound of a carriage wakes me up. Is that one of Kelly’s patients? Must be. The woman says she’s in pain after having a tooth pulled. They talk for a while and then he gives her a small dose of laudanum. He had some? Why didn’t I try and find it? Criminy! It’s the last in his possession, he says. I hear Kelly toss the container into the trash.

  “Have your husband buy more laudanum at the pharmaceutical emporium, if you feel you need more. But if your condition grows worse, please come back.”

  His patient leaves and Kelly follows soon after to walk Alice to school. I rise from the bed and check a nearby chair for clothing of some kind, but it is empty. I expected one of the housekeeper’s dresses, since all my own were ruined in the fire, but there is nothing at my disposal but her cotton wrapper. I open the wardrobe, run my hands over the clothes inside, and find it filled with suits, overcoats, and shirts. Citrus, cinnamon, pine, and sandalwood—they all smell of Kelly. I should have noticed it before. The whole room carries his scent.

  At the moment, any odor makes me ill, and I dry heave into my hand. Tremors shake my body, sweat runs down my neck. Damnation. Desperate for relief, I grab one of Kelly’s shirts, followed by a pair of trousers, a belt, and some boots. I scramble into the clothes, cinching the belt tight and rolling up the trouser legs. Last night I worried what Kelly would think of me if he knew of my addiction, but I care less now. I scoop a handful of coins from a bowl on the dresser and shove them into my pocket. Deus miserere. It might not be enough. I need more.

  Leaning against a wall for support, I heave and heave at each step on the stairs, but nothing comes from my mouth except a string of spittle, which I wipe on the doctor’s shirt. I regain my equilibrium, and listen for the housekeeper, worried she heard my retching. No. She’s humming to herself and baking a cake in the kitchen. This clears the way to Kelly’s office.

  I am somewhat remorseful as I negotiate the unfamiliar room, hands outstretched, intent on stealing from my friend. But the wildness of Ironwood still remains despite Kelly’s efforts to tame me. I’ll explain the theft to him later. Another day—when the urge isn’t so strong, and I have more control over my body.

  Kelly’s boots are too big for my feet, and I catch a toe on a chair leg. My arms spin through the air like a whirligig in order to save myself from a fall. I grasp at the corner of his desk, a drowning sailor on his third trip down, but I bump into something on the floor and stumble to my knees. The object is square, tin. The trash receptacle? I shake it gently and hear a clink, the sound of a little bottle shifting within the metal can. In a trice, the bottle’s in my fist and a single drop of laudanum hits my tongue. Nothing else, just one blasted drop, even though I whack the bottle repeatedly. Lifting my head, I check that the housekeeper is still in the kitchen. Yes. Working on cake.

  After pulling myself up, I hold on to the desk until the dizziness passes. Then I reach for the middle drawer, the one from which Kelly took money for Alice’s new school books. I heard him count out two bills and give them to her. The drawer opens smoothly and I reach inside. Papers, a ledger, fountain pens, mints. Where’s the blasted money?

  My hand brushes something soft. Leather, rectangular—a bill fold. I flip it open and take out all the cash inside. He has plenty, a voice says in my head. He’ll never miss it.

  Yet as I am about to shove the money into my pocket, I imagine little Alice stepping into the office. What emotion would I smell on her if she caught me stealing from her father? Anger, loathi
ng? And she would be right to feel so. I’m betraying the one man who hasn’t hurt me. Kelly has only been my friend and this is how I repay him.

  Filled with guilt, I put all the money back but two bills, thinking of what I’d say if Alice were here and I had the ability to speak to her. She probably wouldn’t understand if I told her to stay as she is: a good, sweet girl. To remain as untouched by this world as long as she can.

  And never be like this, like me.

  Wiping the mingled tears and sweat from my face, I close the drawer and leave the house. The pharmaceutical emporium isn’t far, just down the street. Nausea twists my stomach, and I gag again. I extend my hand before me, trying to keep pace with the people on the sidewalk. Horses and wagons pass by at a fast clip, and I can’t gauge the distance of the oncoming traffic. Everything is loud, too loud. Stepping off the curb, I move forward cautiously and a carriage nearly runs me over. So close. A gust of air whirls around my face in its wake.

  The smell of headache powder and liniment is strong up ahead. Finally, the Emporium. I walk inside and bump into a man standing a few feet from the door. His inner happiness is sickening. Damn my gift of olfaction—the scent of flowers makes me retch.

  “Ill?” he asks. “Take my place in line.”

  I shake my head. The brain inside feels larger than the skull, as though it’s pushing out through my ears. Leave me alone—too cheerful. Someone on my left keeps talking to his coworker about taking a dinner break. Can’t you be quiet? Go to dinner, or not. No one cares either way.

  Nausea strikes again, nearly knocking me to the ground. I move in the direction of the employee’s voice, and run into a marble countertop. Kelly’s money in hand, I rest my head on the cool stone.

  “This station’s closed,” the clerk says.

  I wave the two dollars, without moving my head from the marble, but he gets up and leaves.

  Don’t need you, blasted clerk. I’ll find it myself. Feeling woozy, I stand upright, climb up on the counter and lean over it. I can’t make my body move. Someone stands behind me, hands on my leg. Is it the police? Are they taking me to jail for stealing the money? No. I won’t go with you. I kick at the person holding my leg but strong hands lift me off the counter. My feet hit the floor, yet I can’t move or run away. Still gripping my arms, the hands draw me back until my shoulder blades press against a solid chest. I smell citrus, pine, and sandlewood.

  “Never mind,” Kelly tells the returning pharmacy clerk. “We don’t need your assistance after all.” The doctor turns me toward the door and half-carries me outside. “I must admit, you look better in my trousers than I do.”

  He’s trying to be funny, but I’d choose hitting him over smiling. I want assistance even if Kelly doesn’t—that damn clerk needs to get the bloody laudanum. We walk along the sidewalk for a moment, back toward his house.

  No, I sign. Stop.

  Kelly continues pushing me forward. He doesn’t understand the gnawing inside. I’d do anything for relief. My lips move, forming word shapes as sweat drips off my chin. I can’t, throat feels so tight. “P-please.”

  He stops in his tracks. “Was that you? Did you speak?”

  I feel Kelly’s surprise. It ripples through me like an electric current on a telegraph wire. He pulls me closer, hands on my hips—his ear next to my mouth. “Do it again.”

  We are standing in the center of the sidewalk, people passing us at random. My throat burns, constricting painfully. Don’t want to, Kelly. Don’t make me. “Please,” I finally beg. “Need—”

  Kelly steps back a pace and gently takes my hand. “Sweetheart, I know exactly what you need. Let’s go home and see you get it.”

  The doctor leads and I follow, without any further thoughts of rebellion. I cover my aching head with my hands as he asks his housekeeper for a jug of drinking water, a ceramic basin, and towels. Then Kelly takes me upstairs to his room.

  He removes the hat from my head. “Sit on the mattress.”

  I do as he says, and Kelly slides his boots off my feet.

  “Lie down, Hester.”

  I curl up like a babe in the womb, and a soft blanket is draped over me, ripping the skin from my bones. No, not true. My flesh is still intact, it just feels as though it’s being scraped asunder. And cold, so cold. O di immortales. I’m back in the treatment room at Ironwood. No, never again. I’ll die this time. The icy liquid covers my face, and I claw it away, coughing and sputtering. “Answer my questions,” Faust whispers.

  The waking nightmare ends, and I grow lucid, back in Kelly’s bedroom. I shudder and retch into the basin. When the nausea passes, I hear him pour a small amount of water into a cup. “Rinse your mouth and spit,” he says, holding the glass to my lips.

  Soon he is wiping my brow as someone weeps and gags. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you, Hester.”

  My journey through the valley of the shadow of death takes nearly a week, and Kelly is with me every step.

  Shivering is one of the worst symptoms—and the hallucinations, the constant, sickening stomach ache, the veering from hot to cold, the chattering teeth and muscle spasms. At my sickest, Kelly whispered things I cannot utter, words so kind the mere memory of them causes me to tear up, filled with a gratitude so raw as to be painful. No man has ever spoken to me so, and I doubt one ever will again—including Kelly himself. Some situations call for a heroism never to be duplicated thereafter.

  During my coherent moments, he described how the toxins of a bad drug are flushed from one’s system. Nevertheless, I will always be tempted in varying degrees as time goes on, my body yearning for the poison it loves.

  This morning finds me in low spirits again. I sit abed, wondering whether I want to leave Kelly’s room. I haven’t for days, just staying in and napping, but the doctor keeps waking me up. He has brought me flowers that Alice picked from their garden and just-baked biscuits. He’s lain down on the other side of the bed and read to me. Sometimes Robinson Crusoe or The Three Musketeers, always stopping at the most exciting part. The man is utterly diabolical.

  Alice sometimes visits. Mostly she just peeks into Kelly’s room for a moment and then scurries downstairs without a word. The housekeeper has the day off today, which leaves the child in a perpetual state of boredom. She doesn’t trust me yet. I’m still the unwanted guest, stealing her father’s space, time, and attention.

  Listening for Kelly, I hear him in his office, telling Alice she may indeed look at his encyclopedia of North American waterfowl. Alice drops in front of the crackling fireplace, the book’s spine creaking a welcome as she turns its pages.

  What month is it? The end of April? Beginning of May? Wearing a borrowed gown from the housekeeper, I lift the long skirt, climb off the bed, and walk to the door, hoping I do not trip. I descend the stairs, gripping the handrail until I reach the bottom, and then exit through the door by the kitchen. The garden smells of growing things pushing clear of the wet soil. I kneel down and touch a tender shoot. The tiny leaf feels delicate against my palm, the dirt heavy and oppressive by comparison. It occurs to me that plants are rather brave, growing blindly toward the light.

  How pathetic, a voice whispers. Where has bravery ever gotten you? It didn’t save Davis. The whisper is like a brief thought, an impression, but I am profoundly sad again. Weary. Hopeless.

  Kelly walks out of his house to find me kneeling on the grass. “What are you doing out here? It’s going to rain.”

  I’ve lost my voice again, now the drugs are gone. But I have nothing to say to Kelly’s remark so I just shrug in response. He sits down on the bottom step. I hear him reach forward, and pluck a blade of grass.

  “Do you enjoy spring?”

  My favorite, I sign. As a child.

  “Really?” he asks. “But not now?”

  Older. Feel ancient.

  “At twenty-two?” Kelly plucks another blade of grass. “Bah! Your life’s just beginning. My Irish mother often told me—the sun may hide behind the clouds in May, but the
roses will bloom come July.”

  I can’t help smiling. Of all the absurd advice. What does that mean?

  “How should I know? The woman gave enigmatic counsel. She expected me to work things out for myself.” He tosses the grass aside and stands. “I don’t blame you for forgetting, Hester, but the future holds wonderful things for you.”

  Kelly climbs the stairs, and enters his home, calling for Alice. She meets him in the hallway and jumps into his arms. I hear him laugh softly, swing her side to side. My mind grows dark at their happiness, and the whispering voice returns. What do they know? They’ve never truly suffered. Not like you. I drop the little leaf I’ve been twirling, surprised at my thoughts. I love Noah Kelly, and Alice is just a timid, lonely child. I wouldn’t want either of them to suffer.

  Those words didn’t come from me.

  But I have a good idea who was behind them. All these miserable days I didn’t realize what I was hearing, who I was hearing in my head. And I didn’t kill Davis. His death was not my fault, even though I’ve been accepting the blame and hating myself for it. Wanting to die.

  Ah, Visionary. At last you see.

  I rise to my feet, violated by Scarlett’s evil presence. Leave my thoughts, liar. I know what you are. He whispers terrible things, things my father often said to me, things I’ve said to myself. Negative, hateful words that sound like my own voice. Get out. You’ve taken enough of my time. I won’t give you more. My body trembles, but I remain resolute. I don’t give in when he pushes and then the voice grows softer, until it completely disappears.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I smell the wild sage from the mountains on the wind. Thunder booms and rain splatters on the paving stones, the roof. I tilt my face to the heavens and water bathes my cheeks, runs through my hair. I smile at the sky and feel cleaner than I ever have, awash in the tears of the gods.