by Patrick Ness
—Tell me, Peter. Tell me everything that’s brought you here. Make me understand.
—You won’t judge until I’m finished?
—You have my word.
And so then the trip the following night to a house buried in the suburbs, safe in its own anonymity, to see what remained of poor Luther Pickett – quite a lot, it turned out – which, why understate things, had shaken every belief and non-belief Jarvis thought he had ever held. After viewing himself as a rational priest offering common sense and the good graces of a genial, half-understood Lord, here was incontrovertible proof of a miracle. On the surface, that is. Jarvis told himself over and over again that just because he didn’t understand it didn’t mean that it wasn’t understandable.
But what to do? Even dealt with on a moment-to-moment basis – what should he do right now? – the impossibility stuck like a parasite. Should he turn Peter in? For all he knew, Peter had killed Luther, for there was no question Luther Pickett was dead, and maybe Peter had then lapsed into some sort of quasi-religious ecstasy out of guilt. That seemed the likeliest possibility, and so Jarvis’ duty was clear. But what if? The young man’s veracity seemed as solid as terra firma, and as for the body …
The body was the whole other disturbing bit that had quite promptly set to monopolizing Jarvis’ dreams. There were the few obvious certainties: It was definitely a dead body with no heartbeat and no breath, but it was also 1) warm and 2) giving off a strange, barely-there hum that Peter hadn’t noticed until Jarvis pointed it out. Jarvis had performed eighty-one funerals in his years in the parish, a macabre personal tally that every priest knew by heart and wished they didn’t. He knew what a dead body looked like, even shortly after death. It didn’t look like this. Luther was flushed, decidedly odorless, easy to move, giving off the mysterious hum, and yet dead, dead, dead.
Jarvis didn’t believe in miracles as anything but illustrative allegories in the Sacraments. Honest-to-goodness ones never appeared in real life and certainly none that were so obvious. The blind were never healed except through limited science; limbs were never reattached except imperfectly and without their full usage; and the dead never returned to life under any circumstances. And still. And yet. Unless.
Unless it was a miracle.
Because how could it otherwise be explained? His rational mind told him to turn Peter over to the authorities, but there was a voice, too, that also questioned him. What if this were the one time he was presented with the miraculous, and his only response, as a clergyman, as a righteous, believing man, was to turn a blind eye? What if the one time he was offered a glimpse of the truly holy, he refused to see?
—Whose house is this?
—A foreclosure. I saw the address in a want ad.
—I don’t understand.
—Hennington Hills is full of all sorts of local thieves and things. Some truly not-nice people work there. You pick this kind of stuff up. Bank forecloses, family is evicted, then months go by while the bank and the government work out the sale. The house stays empty until then.
—But you’ve no idea when anybody might come back?
—No.
—So you’re not really safe then?
—Not really, but what choice do I have? I have to keep Luther hidden. I have to. That’s my only option. People are going to start looking for me soon, if they haven’t already. I don’t have much time anyway, but I have to try. I have to be here to bring him back.
—I’ll tell you what I’ll do.
—Yes?
—I’ll return on Monday. That’s four days. If nothing else has happened to Luther, if the body is in the same state, well, we’ll go from there. I’ll help you. But if he is changing—
—He won’t. He hasn’t.
—If he is, then we’ll have to start talking about other things. Call me every day. I’ll come back on Monday.
Jarvis left with a sick feeling in his stomach, a knot of doubt, confusion, and yes, a faint faith. Things got worse. When he returned home, the television news greeted him with a public appeal to find Peter Wickham, wanted fugitive connected with the disappearance of Luther Pickett, beloved foster son to multi-billionaire Archie Banyon. What had he done? A probable murderer had sat in his office and he had let him go free without a single word of counseling to turn himself in. He had ignored the horrible experience the family of Luther must be going through, and for what? A miracle? Who was he kidding? What had come over him? How had so many years of loyal service and devout worship failed him so utterly?
All this, and the pinnacle of the week had yet to come.
—Father Kingham? If I may.
—This isn’t an appropriate time for an announcement, Brother Velingtham. If you wouldn’t mind waiting until the end of the sermon when we have some time set aside for church business—
—But this is so much more important than mere ‘church business', Father. I think it might be too important to wait.
—After the sermon, Theophilus.
—I’m afraid not, Jarvis. I need to speak. Brethren and Sistern, hear me.
—Theophilus—
—The time has drawn nigh.
—Time for what?
—The light wind has encroached.
—What?
—I’ve spoken to some of you already. I’ve heard your murmuring. There is a man among us.
—Sit down, Theophilus. Now.
The congregation rose up.
—Let him speak!
—Let Brother Theophilus speak the truth!
—It’s the time of the light wind!
What in the wide green earth was this? Theophilus stood in his pew with an infuriating, smug grin that Jarvis had to quell an urge to punch.
—Theophilus, what is the meaning of this?
—Only what any good parish priest would know if he’d had his ear to the ground, if he had been listening at all to the voices of his flock. That very section of the Sacraments that you railed against so passionately a few weeks back is coming true. I say again to you good people, the light wind has encroached.
All became clamor. Voices shouting, one on top of another. Jarvis could sense that not everyone was following what was happening, which was good, because he was completely lost himself. Through it all, Theophilus accepted the support, the accolades, the questions, even the disagreements, with the same inflated, magnanimous smile and a look in his eyes that, despite the heat, made Jarvis shudder.
76. An End and a Beginning.
She stepped heavily across the pavement, raising clouds of dust with each round footstep. There was a field further up this street that they rarely grazed upon, the grass being so short it was difficult for them to grab even with their wide, strong lips. Still, it was a field, and one that stayed green no matter what the weather. She reached the spot and headed for a break in the fence. She led the herd across grass that changed color and height in stripes, into thicker grass along the edges. They interrupted the walking of four of the thin creatures, but she took no notice of them. What concerned her most was the sound the grass made under her feet. It crackled. Grass that crackled was not too dry to eat, but it was close. She walked until the crackling quieted and then finally ceased. It was a longer walk than it should have been.
Maggerty wavered outside the fence after the herd entered. There had been trouble on the golf course before, trouble which he could not quite put his finger on. He seemed to remember that he had been roughed up here, and he had a vague idea – its vagueness a plonking, ugly thing in this time of new mental sharpness – that he had been told not to trespass again. He could remember bowed legs and big, beefy arms, but try as he might, he could not get the images to coalesce into a bigger picture. Oh, well. It was hot, and he didn’t want to lose sight of the herd. He stepped through the open slats and stumbled after the drifting animals.
(Thomas sat on his perch in the golf cart more for the sake of an escape than any current business necessity. If he was really honest, he was also her
e for a boost in confidence. From this seat, he had dazzled and cajoled Hennington’s finest, accepting the money that he had managed to convince them was a mere gift for the treats he could offer. Stealing money was easy. Having your victim willingly, even happily hand it over was one of life’s great pleasures. But these recent months had filled him with unease. Jon Noth was turning into a more and more difficult wild card, Jacki Strell was still – still – missing, and his father, once so formidable, had fallen to pieces at the loss of the one son he loved, the son that wasn’t Thomas. Here in the golf cart, patrolling his greens, the greens he had personally supervised the building of the greens where he had conquered and vanquished, he felt the rush of return of the old Thomas, the Thomas that brooked no bullshit, the Thomas who made enemies quiver, the Thomas who was either feared or respected. He lit a cigarillo to aid the mood’s revival. As he put the lighter away, Thomas saw Maggerty follow The Crash across the course.
A slow, ugly smile spread across Thomas’ face.)
Maggerty had been right in his recollections. He had once before been thrown out by Thomas Banyon. On facts alone, no one could quite blame Thomas for his actions. Maggerty had used a sand trap as an opportunity to defecate while The Crash grazed. What one could object to was the vigor and seeming glee that Thomas had taken in grabbing Maggerty by the neck and thrusting him onto the pavement outside. Even the richest of Henningtonians agreed that, after the horror upon horror of Pistolet, necessary punishment should be meted out grudgingly with a stern face and serious demeanor, not a laugh and a smile. Maggerty’s nose had been broken, but it had been broken so many times in his life that he didn’t even notice the pain. The same with the cuts on his elbows and palms which were so scarred he barely even bled. He had very much noticed, however, the pain in the cut under his arm, the stab in his side that seemed to go all the way to his heart, a bayonet into an enemy soldier.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His fingers ran their familiar years-old path to his wound. For a few seconds, he actually thought he couldn’t find it. He ran his hand up and down his side feeling for the suppuration, the infection that had always been, if not an old friend, then a familiar acquaintance. Concerned now, he pulled his shirt open and then all the way off. He lifted his arm into the air, pulling back loose skin, searching for it. Then he saw.
It had healed over. Where the wound had always been was now a bright pink scar, tender still, now that he knew where to touch, but definitely there. No smell came from it, no blood or clear liquid. Just a frightened little scar that seemed to shrink from the bright sunlight. Maggerty touched it tenderly, with awe, even. He traced the smooth edges with the lightest brush his suddenly trembling fingertips could manage. He held his breath out of sheer disbelief.
Healed.
He brushed his fingers over the spot for the millionth and last time when he saw the ominous approach of Thomas Banyon in his electric cart.
Maggerty ran.
She smelled the approach of the thin creature long before she saw him. The smell grew stronger by the second. She heard the stamping of running feet along with an electric whine in the background somewhere. Then the smell, which had so briefly been tolerable, clogged the air, changing into the most ancient smell of all. Fear. Her nose filled with the dank, dirty scent of another’s fear.
(Thomas yelled with a jolly smile as he drove his cart towards the fleeing Maggerty. This was an unexpected pleasure. He was feeling better already.
—Come back here, you flea, you vermin, you shitrag!)
Though physically stronger than he had ever been, Maggerty ran with a sort of anti-grace that it hurt the eyes to see. He had fear on his side, though, and he was fast. With unconscious purpose, he ran beseechingly into the herd, his friends and protectors for so long. His arms were out, and he made a terrible moan for sympathy. He saw the lead animal and ran straight for her.
She heard the rumble of feet as the members of the herd shifted, startled once again as the strange-smelling thin creature ran wildly through them. She heard his lighter, faster steps as he ran towards her, finally catching sight of him rounding two of the larger males. The smell grew rapidly. She took an alarmed step back.
Maggerty unknowingly chanted a desperate whisper as he ran.
—Help me, help me, help me, help me.
(Thomas steered his cart wildly to avoid the animals in his way, driving Maggerty farther into the herd.)
Too fast, too fast, too fast. She thrust up with her horn, the instinctive reaction to threat.
—Oof.
(Thomas slammed the brakes of his cart, nearly lurching forward out of it at the sudden stop.
—Sweet God Almighty.)
The smell of blood was danger. She shook her head violently to get the weight off, and then she ran, three thousand pounds at thirty miles an hour. The herd thundered after her at full gallop, not knowing exactly what had happened except that when she ran, it only meant they should follow without hesitation. She could not see. There was blood in her eyes. She simply charged. She didn’t miss the fence opening by more than ten feet, but the wood was no match for her momentum. She tore out a section without even slowing her stride. The rest of the fence collapsed as the full force of the herd rammed through it. They disappeared down the city streets into a rising cloud of dust.
Maggerty lay on the ground. Such pain in his abdomen. From what he could see by raising his head, he could tell that his body was not shaped the way it should have been. He tried to lift himself up but failed. He slowly moved his right hand to his left side, his fingers at last failing to find the wound or even the scar. He saw Thomas Banyon drive up alongside him in the golf cart. Everything took on a terrible grayness.
(Thomas Banyon lifted a – still, despite all the years and pain and money – bowed leg out onto the green. He looked toward Hennington. The cloud of dust swarmed up into the blistering sun. Thomas did not hear Maggerty die because even if there was a sound, it was too quiet to hear over the machinery that was suddenly whirring away in his brain.)
Part V.
Hopeful Campaigns.
77. The Furniture Cave.
When they lifted the blankets off her and she squinted into the afternoon sunlight, Jacki was surprised that there were two of them, a shorter one with cropped hair and a mustache and a taller one with sideburns and a potbelly.
—Did you both drive?
The shorter one grinned.
—Not at the same time.
—She just called you and you came?
—Yes.
—She has that much stature?
—Not in and of herself. There are others, too, who we would help. And we are but two among others who would help as well.
—So a whole network of you?
—I can’t really say.
—But—
—Please. It keeps our danger level down, ours and yours, if you know less. We’ll leave you here, but we’ll return. You’ll have food and water. And you’re safe here for now.
—For now?
—I’m sure you’ll be moved again if there’s danger. Whoever you are, you’ll be protected.
—Yes, all right. That’s fair enough.
They wouldn’t tell her where they had brought her. It was obviously some kind of warehouse, but that was all she knew. Fine. The illusion of safety was easier to embrace if danger could be imagined at a distance, accurately or not. They also didn’t tell her their names, which was perhaps less fine, but she could understand their caution. If small, gentle-featured Davis had received a broken jaw at the hands of Thomas Banyon, a man three times her size, there was ample reason to believe that he saw himself as being outside of the normal boundaries of propriety. If Thomas found her, then, for better or worse, she was the only one who would bear the brunt of his wrath, not these friendly, anonymous men.
For the best part of two days, she remained alone in the little clearing they had made for her in a large room with access to a small bathroom and sink
. The rest of her new home was filled with piles of furniture, very nice furniture, hidden underneath tarpaulins or in towering stacks that reached a ceiling almost eight meters up. All kinds of burnished, polished chairs, tables made of heavy, dark wood, a whole delicate maze of mirrors twice as tall as herself. The warehouse was large but not huge. She wove her way around, wandering between rows of beautiful couches, armoires, ottomans, even bedsteads and sinks. At first, she assumed they were hiding her away in the warehouse for a furniture store, but a persistent feeling of déjà vu dogged her until, late on the second day, she realized what was causing it. She recognized the furniture.
—I’m in the winter storehouse, aren’t I?
The shorter one had returned alone to refresh Jacki’s food and water stores. Jacki’s face was so fierce, her voice husky with a tensile fear so pure that he answered her immediately.
—Yes.
—How could you bring me here? Didn’t they tell you who I was running from?
—Yes, that’s why this is the safest place.
—Have you lost your mind? It belongs to the man who’s hunting me!
—It’s the dead of summer. Hennington Hills won’t be wanting this furniture for the winter makeover for another three months. History has proven that the best place to hide is right under your enemy’s nose. He won’t think to look here because he won’t think anyone’s foolish enough to hide here. Plus, the place is guarded. He won’t think we could get past the guards.
—How did we get past the guards?
—They’re on our side.
—All right. Okay. All right. I’m calming down. I guess I can see your point. No one bothers the winter furniture until November. By then—
—By then, you either won’t be here or the situation will be resolved however it’s going to be resolved.
—I can’t imagine it being resolved at all just now. Isn’t that something?