Twilight's Burning

by Diane Guest

  Sylvanus was rocked by a series of shock waves. He turned. "You unholy, vile bitch!" he roared, and took two thundering steps toward her.

  She stood waiting in the path of his fury, motionless, unflinching, a faint smile of anticipation drifting across the planes of her face.

  Sylvanus stopped dead. Horrified, Be covered his face with his hands. "Jesus Christ, "he groaned. "You want me to kill you, don't you? Your last sick moment of triumph. That's it, isn't it, Caroline? You want me to kill you so I can go to prison. Or worse. Maybe they'd hang me. That would please you, wouldn't it? Then I could never live with Susannah."

  He backed away from her, slowly, toward the door. "Sorry, my dear," he said softly, "but you lose this one. I wouldn't touch you. Not even to break your filthy neck. Good night, Caroline. Sleep well."

  He was all the way to the first landing and yet he still heard her whisper, "You'll never leave me, Sylvanus. I promise you that. You'll never leave me."

  OCTOBER 8, 1871

  Edwin was prouder of himself than he had ever been before in his life. His right arm was free. It had been free for hours, but he just lay quietly, loving himself.

  The pair of scissors John had used yesterday to cut the bandages for his arm were there on the night stand. All he had to do was reach over and pick them up. Then he could cut the rest of the ropes.

  But he didn't do it. He was savoring each small step in this process of deliverance. They thought he was dead. He was sure of that. He had fooled them all.

  His thirst was gone. He had willed it away. So was the crackling pain in his arm. Nothing was beyond him.

  He listened. Was she coming? No. She couldn't be. He wasn't ready yet. Quiet. Quiet.

  Abigail came into the room, crossed to the window, and opened it. A shower of ash floated in on a cool breeze. She turned. "Edwin? Would you like something to eat?"

  Stupid. How can a dead man eat? Lie still. What are you looking at, stupid? Haven't you ever seen a dead man before?

  Abigail left without saying more. Edwin was glad. Glad it hadn't been his evil wife. He hadn't wanted to hurry. He wanted these moments to last. He had waited so long. But you'd better be ready, Edwin, he thought. Soon. She'll be here soon. And then. Slash. Slash. Slash.

  He reached across the table, picked up the pair of scissors, and cut at the air below his shoulder. It felt so good. So good.

  Better hide them>he thought, or she'll see. If she sees that you've cut the ropes, she'll do something. She won't take her medicine. Oh no, Susannah, that will never do.

  He put the shears under his sheet. Cold against him. Metal eyes against his leg. Looking out. He stretched and settled in against the mattress. "Oh, Susannah, oh don't you cry for me," he sang to himself. And after a time, he fell into a light, peaceful sleep.

  Susannah stopped in front of Edwin's door for the sixth time since lunch. She didn't want to see him. No, I won't go in, she thought. Not now. I can't. You can, she told herself, but you don't want to. "No, I don't," she said out loud and walked past and out the front door.

  The children were waiting for her outside. The circuit-riding minister was going to hold afternoon services, and nervous people had been drifting toward the church for the past hour. Looking over their shoulders, thought Susannah, as if they think something's behind them.

  People were beginning to think that these fires were different from those that had come in other years. Some said nonsense, all the fears were groundless, the fires were drying out as they always did. All the same, believers and nonbelievers alike were heading toward the church. Just in case, Susannah thought. Just in case we are in real trouble.

  Seeds of fear blew down the road on the breath of a small breeze, and Susannah shuddered. She hoped that this minister—Reverend Thaddeus E. Moseley by name—would spare them a sermon about hell and damnation. People were frightened enough already. What we need is some reassurance, Susannah thought as she crossed the road with her family. Everyone could use a little reassurance. And maybe I'll find the strength I need to go in to see Edwin. Somehow I have to.

  Opening the front door, Mame Keefe was startled to find Caroline Morgan standing on the front porch. "I 'm afraid everyone's gone to church," she said. "If you'd like to wait, I'm sure they won't be long."

  "It's Reverend Snell I've come to see," Caroline said without smiling, and Mame frowned, trying to understand why she suddenly felt cold in spite of her long Johns.

  She motioned Caroline inside and closed the door. "He's not very talkative," she said. "In fact, he may be sleeping, but I can't see that it would hurt anything for you to visit."

  Caroline said nothing and after an awkward moment of waiting for her to speak, Mame realized that she wasn't going to. She led the way down the hall to Edwin's door but before she could open it, Caroline laid a cold hand on her arm. "I have something of a confidential nature to discuss with Reverend Snell," she said. "I would appreciate seeing him alone."

  Mame shrugged. "Of course, Mrs. Morgan," she said, and decided that she didn't like this woman at all. She had had no intention of standing guard over the minister like a mother hen, but her back bristled at the tone Caroline had used. Then she smiled to herself. Maybe if Mrs. Morgan went in alone, he'd put on one of his queer acts for her.

  She went back to the kitchen, still smiling. Maybe he'll wet the bed for her, she chuckled. That would bring the grand dame down a peg or two.

  Caroline stood motionless for a minute before going in. Her face was set, but her eyes shone hard with anticipation. She knew that Edwin would not be pleased with what she had to tell him. She put her hand out and turned the knob, knowing with certain pleasure that Susannah Snell was going to pay for her infidelity, that if anyone would punish her, Edwin Snell would.

  Edwin heard them outside the room. She's coming, he thought. His head was hurting now. Bitch. He'd waited too long. No more. There you are. Now I'll teach you obedience and humility. His head filled with black sound. Purple. No, black.

  He lifted his arm. That was better. She'd never keep him down again.

  The door opened and she came in. His eyes were closed tight. Now. Take your medicine, you bitch.

  He waited until she leaned over the bed just slightly. "Reverend?" she said quietly.

  Reverend. Hah! Now she was going to be respectful. Too late, bitch. He was holding himself down. Wait until she can't get away. Then swoop, swoop, swoop.

  "I'd like to talk to you if I may." She was still leaning over him. He could smell her.

  "Of course you do, you liar!" he cried, and with whistling speed he buried the scissors up to the handle in the soft flesh of her stomach.

  She never screamed. She just made a wet, liquid sound deep in her throat. Her eyes opened wide in surprise and then she went board-stiff.

  Hah, he thought. I guess you know now, you bitch. He watched, fascinated as the blood soaked through the cloth of her dress and onto his hand still gripping the pair of scissors. It reminded him of the gravy he spilled once on his best white trousers. It never occurred to him that she didn't look anything like Susannah.

  He pulled on the scissors and was surprised at the ease with which the shears disengaged themselves from her flesh. "There," he said as she slumped against the bed. "Say you're sorry." She was silent, her life draining out onto the sheets.

  The weight of her body across his legs made him feel sick. "Let me go, bitch," he said. "Get off of me." And he pushed her with his foot until she lid down onto the floor. "There," he said with a great deal of satisfaction.

  Singing. His soul was blending with the singing. Sounds of voices raised in prayer, coming to him through the open window. Waiting. They're waiting. For me, my dear, for me. Of course.

  He swung himself off the bed, filled with a delirium of anticipation. They are waiting, he thought. His arm ached. Pleasant, joyful, fulfilling pain.

  He nudged her with his toe. "Liar," he said as he worked his way into some old woolen underwear that he found hanging in th
e closet. All of his clothes were upstairs in his room, but he knew better than to try to get them. "Ghoul," he said to the corpse on the floor. "Did you hope to keep me away from my lambs by keeping my clothes from me?" But then how could he have expected stupid, vile Susannah to know about the lilies of the field.

  He turned toward the door, a bizarre, skeletal figure, clad only in a nightshirt and long underwear. Lilies of the field, he smiled to himself as he slid out of the room and down the hall. How like her to forget about the lilies. Stupid, stupid Susannah. He opened the front door without a sound and stepped out into the yellow afternoon.

  Ash sifted down from a jaundiced sky as he crossed the road and slipped into the shadow of his church. Mustn't be seen, he thought. Not yet. He had to get to the pulpit. Then he'd be safe. They couldn't take him back then. The people wouldn't let them. The Almighty would smite them where they stood.

  He went up on tiptoe and looked in a window. He was ecstatic to see throngs of people inside, waiting for him. They were frightened. He could smell it. Their fear came out the windows and hung like a cloak around his shoulders. "Fear no more," he whispered. "I will save you." Like a blind man who hears a voice, but cannot see who speaks, he turned his face to the smoke-shrouded sky. "Thy Will be done," he said and hurried behind the church.

  The back door was ajar but he stood for one minute just outside, gathering himself in majestic triumph. Then he heard it. A voice. He looked in. Someone was standing behind the high pulpit. In a ministerial frock. Speaking in ministerial cadence.

  Edwin was seized by a fit of trembling. Rage boiled up in him like molten lava. Judas! Juda! He fell to his knees beside the door, his brain seeming to expand and contract. Traitor! Fake! Someone has usurped my place!

  I'm here! I'm here! He opened his mouth to scream out his identity, to claim his place, but the words stayed in his throat and gagged him.

  He dropped beside the back steps and huddled, head between his knees until the red streaks inside his mind began to change color. Now purple. Now gray. Another test. I am being tested again. Forty days and forty nights.

  His arm was a massive stump of pain. It's trying to grow back, he screamed to himself. It wants to come back. It wants to deny me my sacrifice. I can't let it. Then they'll never know.

  He had to hide. To think. Inching along on his buttocks, he worked his way under the steps. There was just room for a man to fit. If he stayed crouched, knees to chest, they would never find him. Not until he was ready. Ready to drive the money changer out of the temple.

  The smoke was so thick when they left the church that Susannah didn't see Mame until the frantic woman was almost on top of them. Her mouth and eyes were frozen in the same round expression of horror. She was dry-eyed until she saw Susannah and then, like a child whose injury has been borne in stoic silence until first glimpse of his mother, she put her hands over her face and burst into incoherent wailing.

  Someone is dead. Susannah knew it with such certainty that she took an instinctive count of her children. All there. Then who? Dear Jesus, not Sylvanus. She put her hands on Mame's shoulders, holding herself in rigid control. "Mame! What is it?"

  "Mrs. Morgan." The words were barely audible. Susannah's mind went skimming from one thought to another like a flat stone across the water. Whatever is she saying, she wondered. She felt a surge of anger at Maine's babbling and began to shake her.

  "She came to see Reverend Snell," Mame sobbed.

  "Who came? Mame, for God's sake, what is it?"

  "She's dead. Mrs. Morgan. With blood all over. In the Reverend's room."

  Susannah heard Mame's voice from far away. Caroline Morgan. "But how?" she whispered. Dear God, Edwin. Now you've done it, she said to herself.

  She was dimly conscious of the expressions of horror on the faces of her family around her. She wanted to scream, to faint, to lie down on the road, to throw up. She was drained, numb. She leaned against Mame for support. It was only the pressure of one body against the other that kept them both from falling down.

  And high above their heads, unconcerned with the trivialities of human folly, the heavy layer of smoke stretched unbroken, keeping the still air trapped below it like a great suffocating blanket. And the hundreds of fires smoldered on, awaiting a favoring wind.

  In the nature of things, even as the water in a kettle bubbles to the surface when exposed to a cooking fire, so the heating of an air mass close to the ground causes it to rise. Such was the case at Penobscot Landing on that eighth of October, 1871. With one significant difference. Under normal conditions, the air heated by the hundreds of small fires burning in the ancient forest would have risen to the upper atmosphere a little at a time.

  But the hot air around the Landing was able to rise only until it bumped against the smothering roof of smoke that stretched for miles like a canopy over the forest. And the fires below burned sluggishly, without fresh oxygen to give them life, their swirling columns of heated air rising but held in check by the smoke, kept prisoner by the heavy covering above.

  And then a surface breeze began to blow in from the south, gentle to be sure, but enough. And the fires were fanned by the soft breeze, their columns of convection growing larger, hotter, more powerful. And then all at once, with a mighty rushing, roaring whoosh, the columns swirled skyward, pooling their strength in one final and absolute effort to break through the suffocating layer of smoke that had held them captive. And break through they did, releasing a monstrous surge of energy into the cold air high above the forest.

  Penetrating the break in the smoke cover, a frigid current of air swept down from all directions. With a sinking, swirling circle of motion it created its own whirlwind, fanning the fires slumbering below, giving them new life, new hope, replacing the hot air that now rushed upward toward the heavens.

  In places, the columns of heat began to come together with such violent force that they created single, terrifying cyclones of fire. The heat was unbearable and, where there had been no fire before, the air currents themselves began to ignite the bone-dry underbrush.

  The churning, blistering currents swept deadly embers high into the sky to be carried on the wings of the wind far ahead of the scorching walls of fire, dropping them down into the tops of the trees as the air around them cooled. Wherever they fell, they ignited the forest, some running parallel to the ground, driven by the wind that began to blow with fierce insistence from the southwest.

  Jets of fire began to streak ahead, incinerating everything in their paths, calling to the flames that still smoldered in the partially burned tree trunks to come out, to finish the job they had begun days earlier.

  The terrible night sky was illuminated by spinning fireballs, each one more fearsome than the last, that streaked ahead through the tops of the trees, exploding everywhere with thundering, cataclysmic force.

  The time had come. The waiting had not been in vain. The fifes began to roll northward without concern for man nor beast, the only warning of their coming a low, sullen, terrible, unearthly roar.

  The half-breed hunkered down and with one fluid motion slit the half-dead beaver from throat to groin. He scooped out the entrails and tossed the pelt onto the pile of dead things heaped beside him. He was hungry and he knew that the Woman would have something for him when he got back.

  Normally, he would have fed himself. But not tonight. The wind had begun to blow from the southwest, a strong, steady wind. There was something about it he didn't like, a sound that he couldn't identify.

  He tossed the bundle of pelts over his shoulder and turned north, in the direction of the deserted logging camp that he shared with the Woman. He didn't run. Rather he moved with a catlike motion, more characteristic of an animal than of a man.

  The sound followed him. He began to sweat. It had been cold that morning but now it was hot. Thirsty, he veered off toward the west, heading for a spot deep in the swamp where he knew there were still some deep water holes. Where he set most of his traps.

 
Once there, he squatted down Indian fashion and scooped up some water in his hand. He drank, but he felt an urgency now. The sound was louder, a strange, ominous roar that made him suddenly fearful. Waves of hot air began to swoop down at him from the tops of the trees as though the sky itself were breathing fire.

  He picked up his pelts and began to run, not with the easy, loping gait that had carried him into the swamp, but now with the driving, full-muscled charge of a wildcat in full flight.

  All at once, a thin sheet of flame swept through the trees high above his head, causing him to stop and watch in horror as huge splinters of woods streaked through the sky, igniting the forest in all directions. Instinct told him that the main wall of fire would be coming from the south with the wind.

  He began to run north, breathless now, buffeted back and forth by aimless cyclonic winds that whipped the trees like the tails of giant cats. The trees, doomed themselves, rooted as they were to the burning ground, screamed at him to escape. Blinded and choking in the thick smoke, he fell to his knees and, digging down in the hot soil, he buried his face in the earth in a desperate attempt to find cool air.

  He knew that his back was on fire and, rolling over, he found himself looking up into the great open jaws of a firestorm the immensity of which he had never seen before. The whole earth was vibrating and he hurled his bundle of pelts into the throat of the inferno, hoping insanely that if he fed it, it would be satisfied and spare his life.