Maplecroft

by Cherie Priest

  • • •

  No. She was not drowning.

  Even in the violence and water that moved us both I could see it, how she wasn’t choking or bubbling, and she didn’t gasp or gurgle under the water. She simply did not breathe, and it didn’t bother her in the slightest as far as I could see.

  Well, it bothered the hell out of me.

  • • •

  Emma’s bell was ringing, ringing, ringing, off in the background someplace, like the water had been dripping in the back of my awareness not five minutes previously. She was alive, then. I’d like to say that relief washed over me, but here while I’m being honest, the only thing that washed over me was the tepid bathwater that Nance splashed out in vast, violent arcs as she rallied her resistance.

  But Emma was alive, yes. And that was good, a good thing to know, there in the back of my awareness. I would not worry about her. I had more pressing problems. Frantic, coiling, flailing problems, for Nance was running out of water and there was less and less for her to cling to, barely a foot’s worth to hold her, and she was determined to remain there.

  Her foot shot out for the handle and to my great surprise, she grazed it—and water burbled out from the tap.

  “No!” I shrieked at her, reached one arm over and wrenched it off.

  Her hands pushed against my face, not clawing exactly but not showing any tender gentleness, either. I blocked them, left and right. I used my hands to stop hers, and to hold her wrists when I could catch them—but it was like grasping buttered eels, and I was getting tired.

  At first I thought that she was getting stronger, drawing some resilience from our struggles, as if it fed her to fight me; then in a moment’s instinct . . . some weird little snap of connection, I had an idea: I reached for the drain plug and pulled it.

  She shrieked, there under what water remained. I could barely hear it, just a wet warble that could’ve come from the middle of the ocean. I halfway thought that her cry would become an earsplitting wail when the water was gone, like that liquid buffer was all that stood between me and her wrath.

  She twisted in the tub, feeling for the drain, trying to cover it with her feet, her hands, her shoulders; but I pulled her back, away, and when the water spilled down it wound itself in a circle, and then it was gone, and she wasn’t shrieking anymore.

  She was gasping, but not for air. She was gasping for water—I could see it in her eyes, where there was terror if not recognition. Bathwater gushed in coughed-up waves over her chin, down her cheeks, into her hair, and her body convulsed as I ripped it from the tub.

  (Not a baptism but a birth, and a terrible birth at that.)

  She fell on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs, but only briefly. I locked my arms around her and rolled until I was atop her, able to pin her in place and holler her name, over and over, demanding that she look at me and remember me, and understand that I loved her and was calling for her. I had to call louder than whatever else was calling her; I had to make myself heard over this maelstrom in the washroom, in her head, in my house.

  I do not know if she heard me or not.

  When she weakened enough to allow it, I let go of her arms and shoved at her chest, determined to force the last of the water free. She would breathe again. I would make her breathe again.

  She cried and cried and cried, and the sobs became drier and drier.

  I considered that I might’ve made a mistake. She was weakening, failing right there on the floor beneath my well-intentioned ministrations, though she’d been vigorous in the water. But no—in the water, that was not Nance. That was something else, whatever had overtaken her. And I meant to banish it. Cast it out, like Christ with the Legion, if I might dare to be so bold. And why shouldn’t I? Fortune favors the bold. Maybe Christ does, too.

  Her head rolled to the side, and she panted like a nervous dog—that swift, shallow breathing through the mouth that’s one part plea and one part self-comfort. And still she breathed, even after I’d stopped pressing on her chest and belly. Even after I tried to take her face in my hands, but she closed her eyes and I let her go. Back and forth her head lolled. Back and forth, until I stopped it with a firm hand on her chin. I grabbed her with surprise and urgency, and I held her face immobile.

  I’d seen something.

  I wanted to see it again.

  “What was that . . . ?” I asked quietly, holding her chin aside, stretching her neck. There: a small slit of skin, fluttering. As light as if it’d been cut with a razor, a tiny fillet of flesh that wrinkled when I touched it. I felt the two more horizontal flaps before I saw them. That made three altogether, with the start of a fourth, not quite as long. Not quite as defined.

  All of them sucked shut against her throat, lying so flat that if I hadn’t known they were present, I would’ve never noticed them. I tried to touch them again, but felt almost nothing. The faint texture of paper cuts, or maybe the delicate, almost not-even-there-ness of a small fish’s fins.

  Her lungs were working again, heaving and hauling air in and out of her chest. It was a ragged, damp sound and I hated it, even though I’d been fighting for it all this time. She was breathing, and she still was not herself—no more so than when she’d been below the surface, taking oxygen through what must have been gills.

  I write the word again: gills.

  Nance had grown gills, or been granted them, or acquired them as part of her affliction—I don’t know. But she had them, and I am not such a great liar that I could pretend otherwise.

  Whatever had happened, however she was being changed, she wasn’t changed all the way yet. I’d pulled her out in time, even if doing so had still failed her in some awful way I did not understand. Her body still functioned, if reluctantly, the way it ought to—and not through some unnatural mechanism that ought to be left to the fish in the sea.

  “Nance—” I begged her, and it sounded like I was crying, too, but I wasn’t. My eyes were the only thing dry in the entire room, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’d finally happened: I was all cried out.

  Nance didn’t respond, except with that awful wheeze that had become the sound of her breath.

  • • •

  From down the hall came the never-ending ringing of Emma’s bell, but I scarcely heard it. It’d become just another noise, like the dripping of the faucet or the hissing fuss of something that struggles to breathe air. Just another sign of horror, another note of impending awfulness that I was no doubt powerless to stop.

  Over my shoulder I shouted, “Emma, I hear you—shut up!”

  The ringing stopped, from surprise or satisfaction I cannot say. But it stopped, and that was all I wanted. That, and for Nance to breathe and open her eyes and look at me.

  Might as well have wished for the moon.

  Owen Seabury, M.D.

  APRIL 30, 1894

  LETTER TO CHRISTOFF DANE, C/O UNIVERSITY OF RHODE ISLAND, KINGSTON

  Hello there, Christoff—and I hope all is well at that wonderful new university of yours. Not quite ten years on, is it? You must be very proud; I’ve heard only exceptional things about you and your research programs, particularly with regard to that very fine agricultural experiment station; and although I realize it’s been some time since last we spoke, it is because of that station (and its general subject matter) that I write you today.

  To be more specific, I’m interested in your progress and practice concerning a vaccine against Clostridium tetani—a vaccine which I’m led to understand you’ve developed with some degree of success. Or if not you, personally, then I seem to recall that you’re performing further development and refinement upon it. I hope you’ll forgive my lack of clarity on the matter, as it’s been a trying series of months, and I’m not at my sharpest right now.

  I suppose you think my request must come out of the clear blue, but I must impress upon you the dire nature of my inquiry: Here in Fall River, just a handful of miles to your east, we find ourselves afflicted with a particularly virulent s
train—one that’s striking willy-nilly throughout the town. I can’t say how it’s evolved in its present aggressive state, only that I’m somewhat confident that this is indeed the bacterial foe we face.

  I had considered taking the morning to ride out and visit you in person, so that we might have this conversation over coffee or breakfast, but I pray you’ll understand why I’ve decided against it. My reasons are many and varied—not least of all because I have a sudden new wave of desperately ill people suffering from the condition, and to the last man, woman, and child, they seek my guidance. And besides that, what if it turns out Fall River is inadvertently incubating some terrible strain that might spread? I could not live with myself if I were to carry it with me, against my knowing, and pass it along to you or your students.

  I realize that this must sound paranoid, but I ask you to trust me. I would also ask you to remain where you are, and to speak of this to no one. I do not wish to cause any panic. I only wish to contain the situation before it grows wholly out of control.

  Ours is a little place, close-knit and quiet. Our people prefer their privacy, even in the face of danger. Please allow me to make some serious effort toward solving the crisis quietly, before we take the next obvious step and involve more public authorities.

  I honestly believe that we can solve this problem. If I did not, I would’ve summoned higher assistance already.

  To this end, I was hoping I could impose upon you for any literary works you may have on hand—any lesson plans, research notes, or the sort—that you could share with me. I have access to a very good laboratory, and there’s a chance I can generate a vaccine or treatment of my own if I could only learn what is required; but I do not know how many days that is likely to take, and we seem to be short even on hours. So if there’s any chance you have any serums already made, I would beg of you to send whatever you can spare with all haste.

  It’s a peculiar request, I know—and I’m giving you few enough details that you must wonder at my sanity. You could absolutely be forgiven for doing so! I’m exhausted and frightened, and overwhelmed, if you want the truth. I fear that I’m standing on the brink of some tipping point, between this town and wholesale peril . . . and it terrifies me to feel such responsibility.

  But I know what I’m looking at. The connections between the affliction are clear—there are very sharp parallels between what I’m seeing, and an advanced strain of tetanus, so I have been shown a direction and a pattern, and I will extrapolate the rest with cunning and science.

  (It is not my imagination that leads me to this conclusion; it is research and observation, and consultation with another great scientist who lives quietly here in town.)

  I will with all haste reimburse you for any expense you may incur through the university, should you opt to assist me. Likewise, I shall send this missive by expedited courier from the contents of my own pockets—and anyone you send with a speedy response will surely be compensated in kind.

  This is an emergency, Dane. But it is also an opportunity to do something great, to resolve a frightful mystery, and contribute to the annals of scientific knowledge. And on a more personal note, it might well save the lives of my neighbors and friends, who fall one by one to this sickness that I can’t thwart with my own limited, conventional devices.

  If there is any aid you could lend me, I would be forever grateful. The whole town will be in your debt eternally, and I will see to it that should we succeed in our lifesaving interventions, the papers will give all credit and praise to you and your department. Fall River may serve as your case study, and you may build your department upon its salvation . . . or if not, then you may rest assured that no mention of your involvement will ever become known.

  I would not ask you to gamble your reputation on my inconstant hunches. I am prepared to absorb all the risk, and all the guilt should I fail. I am only offering you the chance for public approval and, I should think, a fine endowment for your program—that your research may continue, better funded, with better equipment.

  Please, Dane. I am begging you.

  Send word with haste?

  Sincerely,

  Owen Seabury, M.D.

  Fall River, Massachusetts

  Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.

  MAY 1, 1894

  Doctor E. A. Jackson is a slippery soul, but I’ll find him yet. I feel him, his general presence, his life pulsing somewhere yet to the south—but I knew that much already, so it might only be a psychosomatic sense (in addition to an address on a package) that draws me toward Fall River, origin of his missives.

  To the origin of the sample.

  • • •

  For some weeks, the sample has been diminishing.

  It was not my imagination, though that’s what I told myself at first. At first, what was there to mention? Precious little. An added space inside the jar where she lived, a greater presence of fluid and a lesser presence of her amorphous bulk. In time, I could see the sun’s rays through the glass if I held it to the light, so little of her remained.

  But that was before I moved at night. Before the sun became too much for my eyes, now so sensitive that I can see every line of every blade of grass . . . in the darkest night without a moon. And now I am reminded of the strange, small things that live in caves and go white, for there is no illumination by which they might compare their colors. I recall small crawling things with eyes that look like milk inside a cup, yet still they see—for all they are called blind.

  Physalia has left me, even as she has come to me. I knew it when I rose one dusk and dressed myself, counted out the slim contents of my earthly lot, and saw that what remained of her could’ve fit in the palm of my hand. Not dead, not dying. Living stronger than before, and needing less of herself to do so. That which was left, fit easily in my mouth.

  And I do not carry her jar anymore.

  I buried it beneath the floorboards of a house, one perhaps forty miles from my goal. The house burned behind me, so I do not think it’s likely to be discovered anytime soon. Not unless she decides that it ought to be found.

  She might. She is a mystery to me, beloved in all her uncertainty.

  I can imagine a day, some months from now when the weather begins to cool, when all the charred beams and all the black cinders and all the white ash that pooled in the corners, dusting the remains like sand dunes or snowdrifts . . . I can see the foundations being cleared. I can see workers prepared to build anew on the old spot, undeterred by anything that happened there.

  Brave men. Or ridiculous ones. Doomed ones, I should think, regardless.

  But who among us isn’t?

  • • •

  For a while I dithered, considering how I ought to dispose of her carriage, that ridiculous jar with the ghost of an old jam advertisement on the side, and the residual fluids of her body left within. I ought to take it to the ocean, perhaps? I ought to bury it in some holy spot, some aquarium or castle? Some church? Some intersection between two streets where no men ever walk, but the night creatures pass back and forth—knowing one another and saying nothing, exchanging only glances and signs . . . ?

  She did not express an opinion.

  If I am forced to speculate, I might conclude that she does not care, and it does not matter. Regardless, I cannot shake the feeling that whatever she leaves behind is too holy to discard, and too powerful to remain hidden. I am only an acolyte, but a devout one.

  So I did not bury it deep, and I did not hide it well. I only left it there for later, in case she should find some use for it—or have some interest on another day. I know where it is. I will retrieve it upon her request, should she make one.

  • • •

  Sometimes she speaks to me so clearly. Sometimes her silence shames and worries me, though she tells me it should not. All I can offer her is my service, and my best execution of her will, as I understand it.

  She says that we are right, and we are pleasing unto her. She says we are doing Her wor
k, and that our journey will be completed soon enough.

  I trust her, and I trust Her.

  • • •

  (I have only recently come to understand that there is not one, but many. Likewise, there are many, and there is One. The many I have become, having taken her into myself—having been blessed with that task, a better vessel than a jar. And the One who waits for us, Physalia zollicoffris and Doctor Jackson alike, on the other side of this strip of dirt, where the ocean meets the rocks, and we will walk upon the sand. But briefly.)

  • • •

  She tells me—not she who lives within me, but She who calls from without—She tells me that we are not alone together, the doctor and I. Through Her mind I sense another set of many, pinpoints of light that cluster together for warmth or comfort. I see them flickering as individuals, operating as one.

  I know how this feels, but I do not know what this means . . . unless the doctor has become as I have become (this I have long suspected), and has taken on others with his form. Yet my gut suggests it isn’t quite so, that the small swarm of lights I feel at Fall River are too distinct to operate on one directive—but what do I know of the Mother’s wants? Perhaps the doctor has some greater favor in Her eyes, having found Physalia first, and shared her so kindly with me. It might be the proximity to the ocean. It might be anything.

  It feels like a woman. Or if not a woman, than a womanlike thing—a creature or creatures who birth and bleed, and so it is fitting. So it is right, I have no doubt. I have only questions, and they are not important questions.

  All will become clear in time. And not much time, at that. Only as much time as it takes me to make these last few miles into town, and inquire more precisely if I cannot follow the beacons She lays out before me, but I do not think it will come to that.