by H. Duke
He examined her face, his brow furrowing. “Thou must accept my apologies,” he said. “I do not recognize thy face.”
Oh, right. The cover story. “I’m visiting relatives,” she said.
“You must be John Goode’s cousin visiting from Capeton.”
She smiled, glad that she didn’t have to supply these details. “That’s right. You are the minister of this church?”
The man nodded. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Arthur Dimmesdale. What brings thee here at this late hour?”
What did bring her there? She couldn’t tell him the truth.
When she didn’t immediately speak, he said, “Perhaps thou seeks holy counsel?”
Not sure what else to do, she nodded.
“Come, child. There is nothing you can’t say to the Lord. It will ease thy spirit’s burden.”
She struggled to come up with a believable cover story, but he was looking at her expectantly, so she spoke. “I caused someone to die. It was an accident… but my fault, still.”
“Hmmm,” Dimmesdale said. “That is quite a cross to bear. Have thou spoken to anyone else about this?”
She shook her head. “Everyone thinks it was an accident. It was an accident, but…”
Dimmesdale looked down at her, pity in his eyes—and something darker. Empathy? “Thou have done well to bare thy soul. God forgives all if you ask him to, but thou will not find peace until you face the consequences for your actions.”
“What?”
“Thou must do penance.”
“I’m doing good deeds,” she said, “Helping others.”
The minister smiled sadly. “Child, good deeds are admirable, but thou wouldst do them anyway, wouldst thou not?”
She hadn’t thought of this. If Andre hadn’t died, she’d still be clearing up the rot, wouldn’t she? So she really wasn’t doing anything extra. She nodded, her heart sinking.
“Then what penance art thou really committing? Purifying the body purifies the soul.”
A crash outside the church made them both jump. Dimmesdale turned towards the noise.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Dogs have been digging through the graveyard these past few nights. I’ll chase them off.”
She shook her head, clearing it of Dimmesdale’s words. She didn’t have time to think about all of this, about whether or not he was right. She had a job to do. She walked to the door at the front of the church and pushed the door open. She smelled the sickly-sweet rot before she saw it. Tendrils spiraled across the floor and up the walls. They originated from a plain wooden trunk in the far corner. Dark splotches marred the floor around it. At first she thought they were drips of rot, but they were red, not black.
The trunk was closed but not locked. She opened it. Inside was a wooden handle, smooth from repeated gripping. Long strips of leather ending in sharp metal barbs hung from the other end. The barbs were covered in blood that was already starting to dry to a dark, rusty orange shade. The bottom of the trunk was stained the same color.
She’d seen a similar device in a horror movie once. The movie had centered around a satanic cult. Cult members walked around holding the handle in both hands and swinging the device back and forth so that the barbs bit into the skin of their backs.
She thought of the red on Dimmesdale’s white shirt and shivered. Some religious people practiced self-flagellation, right? Maybe this wasn’t as weird as it seemed… but he’d been awfully quick to hide what he was doing.
She decided it didn’t matter and focused her attention on the ink rot. It was worse than what had happened to the small boy. Dimmesdale was lucky it hadn’t spread to him yet.
Dorian had told her to wait until he came back if the rot was extensive, but if she did, she was sure he’d keep her from doing anything. He’d say it was too dangerous, that she needed to rest and gain strength.
But she couldn’t do that. Dimmesdale had been right. She couldn’t even begin to make up for Andre’s death if she did the same things she would have done otherwise. She had to do more, sacrifice more, risk more.
And if you fail… well, that will be a form of penance, won’t it?
She reached out and touched the rot, and it moved up her arm like it had the previous night. She was surprised to find it almost sentient. Aware. It knew she wanted to destroy it, and it began to pulsate.
Sentient had been the wrong word. It wasn’t sentient. It was more like a virus, a thing that consumes not because of need or desire but simply because that’s what it does. It didn’t care about the destruction or pain it caused. It didn’t even care to protect itself. It reminded her of the way the UNCs—the unnamed characters—protected the gate indiscriminately when it was threatened. She knew, somehow, that the two things were related.
It advanced up her arm, stopping an inch from her elbow. It contracted slightly, and she felt pressure on her arm, and then a sudden wave of exhaustion overcame her. It swelled and contracted again.
It was feeding off her like a leech. Sucking away her energy and lifeforce. Was this what its victims felt?
“April!”
Dorian’s voice came from behind her, and then he was at her side. She could barely keep her eyes open to look at him.
“Damn it, woman,” he said. “I told you to wait for me!”
“Don’t yell at me,” she said sleepily. It would be nice to sleep, now…
“April?” Panic rose in his voice. “You have to fight it!”
“Can’t.” The one-word response was all she could manage.
“You can,” Dorian said. “You have to. Mae was able to do this like it was nothing, so it’s not impossible. You have to try.”
She tried to respond to him, to tell him how the fatigue had settled into her bones, but the words didn’t come out.
“You have to try,” Dorian said. “Otherwise what’s happening to you now will happen to everyone else here. And it doesn’t end with this, April. You’ll still exist, but you’ll only be a shell of yourself.”
She tried to listen to what he was saying, but he seemed to be drifting away. It was like he was speaking to her over a bad telephone connection.
“If you give up now, all of this would have been for nothing! Andre would have died for nothing!”
Her eyes shot open. No. She thought of finding Andre. She had felt so angry at herself. She found that anger again and turned it outward towards the rot. She would not let it win, no matter how much it hurt.
The rot hissed and pulled away. Its edges curled up like a slug touching salt, but it was her turn to not let it go. It tried to pull away, but she held fast, feeling it dry out, watching as flakes of it blew into the air.
Then the whole tendril of rot turned to dust and dispersed in a cloud of powder.
She fell backwards, Dorian catching her.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so,” she said. She felt as tired as if she’d run a marathon, but it wasn’t the soul-sucking weariness that she’d felt when the rot had her in its clutches. “It’s alive,” she tried to explain. “But not really. It just consumes and destroys.”
“Shh,” Dorian said. “Tell me about it later. Save your strength.”
“April!” Randall was in the room. “What happened?”
“What happened is that April doesn’t know how to follow directions.” Then his voice softened. “She’s exhausted. We need to get her back to the library. Maybe Barty can whip something up to return a little of her energy.”
They gripped her elbows and led her back out into the church’s main room, where Arthur Dimmesdale had re-entered just in time to see them emerging from the anteroom.
“Have thou entered my private chamber?” He asked, the color draining from his face.
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” Dorian said smoothly. “Our cousin is not well. She’s prone to fits as of late. She blames herself for an accident that took place in our home town.”
April couldn’t tell if the Reverend bel
ieved the excuse because Dorian and Randall whisked her away before he could react. She allowed them to half-carry her back to the gate. She was too tired to do anything else.
Once back in the library they deposited her on the couch in the sitting area. Randall and Barty went down to the break room to make tea. Dorian remained behind.
He spoke, and his voice was low and intense, almost angry. “I’m all for getting the ink rot under control—it was my idea from the beginning, if you remember—but killing yourself wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“I’m fine.”
“You certainly aren’t.”
“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”
“What about the people in the books? If you overestimate your abilities again, what will happen to them?”
“They’ll be fine,” she said.
Dorian let out an exasperated breath. “How, if you’re not here to clean up the ink rot?”
“You’ll find someone else to replace me,” she said.
There were several beats of silence, then he said, “Is that what you think? That you’re replaceable?”
“Well, yes.”
Barty and Randall walked back into the room before he could answer. A steaming cup of tea was thrust into April’s hands. She took a sip, not paying attention to its contents.
She almost spit it out but forced herself to swallow. The scalding liquid, though nearly odorless, was almost unbearably bitter. The closest taste she had reference for was ear wax.
Her gag reflex protested, but she managed to keep it down. “This is awful. It’s tea?”
“It’s whatever was in the Tupperware container in the cupboard. I cast a small energy-replenishing charm on it. Got me through many a cram session at college,” Barty said, grinning. “The magic causes the bitter taste. I can’t figure out how to get rid of it.”
“Huh,” April said, examining the mug. She felt like she’d chugged an energy drink, but without the jittery side effects.
“You’ll want to drink the rest of it before it cools down,” Barty said apologetically. “It’s even worse cold.”
She pinched her nose and poured the rest of the bitter liquid down her throat before her taste buds could react. When she’d finished it, the corners of her mouth pulled out into a grimace.
She set the mug down. Despite the aftertaste lingering in her mouth, she felt better than she had all day.
She stood. “Okay. What’s the next book?”
“Are you mad?” Dorian said, “You nearly fainted! What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived in time?”
For a split second, April’s mind flashed to the moments where she had almost given in to the rot. If Dorian knew how close she’d been…
“It would have been fine.” That’s all she’d been doing since she came back to work, telling people that she was fine.
“Bloody hell it would have.”
Randall and Dorian stood between her and the gate. She addressed Dorian. “Look. You’re the one who’s always saying the rot’s gotten out of control. So what’s the problem?”
“What will you do if the same thing happens again?” Dorian asked.
“Barty can make more of that awful tea.”
“Actually,” Barty said, “I can’t. If you take too much in a short period of time you’ll get addicted.”
“I thought this was magic, not a drug.”
“It’s no more a drug than coffee. It just loses its effectiveness until you need impossibly large quantities for the same effect.”
“Okay. We’ll do a book where the ink rot is more manageable.” She crossed her arms. “I’m doing this, so if you guys want to stop me you better be ready to take me down.”
Dorian pressed his palm to his temple. “One book,” he said finally, “Of my choice, and no tomfoolery this time.”
“Of course,” she said.
With a sigh, he went over to the bookshelf and rifled through the volumes.
Chapter Four
April’s dreams that night started in Dimmesdale’s church, and ended with smoldering fire and hot coal against skin. The heat had soothed her muscles, sore even in her dreams…
When she finally opened her eyes, the unexpected brightness made her sit up in bed. She’d overslept again. She checked her phone—nearly noon. Gram would kill her.
She scrambled out of bed and padded out into the living room. She still wore her clothes from the previous evening.
Gram was in the kitchen. April steeled herself for her harsh admonishment for sleeping so late. Gram leaned over the kitchen table, scribbling. April thought she was working on a crossword puzzle, but she was writing something on a piece of lined notebook paper.
“Hey, Gram.”
“Oh, hey, April.” Gram flipped the notebook paper over when she saw her. “You slept late. You’re not still sick, are you?” Gram’s hand stayed firmly on the back of the paper.
“I’m fine, Gram,” April said. “I went out with some co-workers last night and I guess I overdid it. I didn’t even hear my alarm go off.” She didn’t mention that she’d never set it.
“Oh,” Gram said. “It’s good you’re making work friends. You don’t go out often enough. Just don’t make it a habit.” Gram tapped her fingers impatiently on the table and glanced down at the paper in front of her. What was she up to?
Gram squinted down at April’s chest. “What is that?” she said.
April looked down. Barty’s amulet had slipped out over the neck of her t-shirt. April tucked it back in. “One of the kids made it at a craft program and gave it to me. I forgot to take it off.” Trying to steer the conversation away from the amulet, she asked, “What are you writing?”
“Nothing. A letter.”
“Does it have something to do with your diagnosis?”
“No.” Gram touched her neck, a sure sign that she was lying. Gram was a terrible liar.
April shook her head. What could be so bad that Gram wouldn’t want to share it with her? “If you’re trying to protect me from something, don’t. I’ll just worry more wondering what it is.”
Gram sighed. “There’s nothing to worry about. I was going to keep it a secret. I mean, it probably won’t even happen…”
“What won’t happen?”
“Well… you know that trip we always talked about taking when you were in high school?” Gram asked, her voice hopeful, almost girlish.
There was only one trip they’d ever really talked about taking. “The one across Europe? Yeah. But we could never afford it. That was just wishful talk.”
“I know, but… you’ve heard about the Make A Wish Foundation, right?”
April nodded. “Yeah, they grant wishes for kids.”
Gram nodded. “There’s a similar foundation called Senior Star that provides the same service to seniors. One of my friends from spin class told me about it. Her sister had emphysema and she wrote them a letter, and they sent her and her husband on a cruise.”
“Oh.”
“I feel a little selfish even applying. if I get picked, does that mean some other poor person gets denied? But… we could take the trip we always wanted to take.” She paused hopefully. “So, what do you think?”
“Oh, Gram,” April said. If Gram had told her this three weeks ago, April would have told her to mail the letter. She probably wouldn’t get selected, but there was no harm in applying. But what if she was chosen? A trip to Europe would take at least a week, maybe longer. April couldn’t be away from the library for so much time, not with the ink rot looming over her head.
“You think it’s stupid,” Gram said. The light that had been in her eyes extinguished. “You’re right. Why get my hopes up?”
“Gram, that’s not what I meant.”
“Of course not.” Gram looked away. “I have to get ready for yoga. I promised Ethel I’d go with her today.”
She walked down the hall, and April felt too exhausted to stop her. Maybe Dorian was right, maybe she had ta
ken on too much the night before.
~~~
They spent each night of the following week attacking the ink rot. Dorian watched her closely, making sure not to leave her alone. There weren’t any more close calls, but April went home exhausted every night, feeling like she’d been physically beaten, and each morning her muscles were as sore as if she’d been lifting weights. But it was never enough; every night she dreamed of Andre, and each dream ended in burning fire.
At the end of the night the following Monday, April sent Barty and Randall home. Barty had given Randall a ride, and as soon as the illuminated delivery topper on Barty’s beat-up sedan disappeared down the street, April walked back to the shelf that housed the Werner books.
“What are you doing?” Dorian said as he crossed his arms.
“This isn’t for work.” April lifted the book cover so he could see it. One Thousand and One Nights.
“Why would you go back there?” Dorian said.
“I want to visit an old friend.”
“The djinni?” A look of understanding came over Dorian’s face. His lip curled.
April’s face flushed. “I never thanked him.”
“He owed you a favor. Anyway, didn’t he threaten to leave you in the desert? What if he does something like that again?”
“He won’t.” At least she didn’t think he would.
“Well, I’m not going in with you.”
“I don’t recall inviting you.” She thought of the genie’s burning kiss. “You’d probably be uncomfortable, anyway.”
Dorian’s face darkened even further. “I see.”
“Look, I need this, okay? It’s been a hard couple of weeks.”
“You can do what you like. You’re a grown woman.”
“And you’re not my father.”
“Fine. Just be careful, and don’t come running to me when you get hurt.” He turned away and walked to Mae’s office, slamming the door behind him.
She looked down at the watch on her wrist. A little after two. She should be back by four-thirty. With time moving faster in One Thousand and One Nights than in the library, it shouldn’t be an issue. Still, she shouldn’t lose track of time. She opened the book to around the same place as last time but didn’t bother to make sure it was exact. The genie would find her.