The Gathering

by Isobelle Carmody

  26

  It was a bleary morning where a grey sky intermittently drizzled a grey, misty rain and dark clots of cloud hinted at a pending thunderstorm.

  My mother was asleep. I had poked my head in the door to say goodbye, but she didn’t wake. She looked small and young, curled on her side with her hair all over the pillow. Once my father had slept curled with her, but now she lay alone and maybe she would be alone for ever until she got as old as Anna Galway.

  The Tod howled as I closed the gate. I hesitated, thinking I ought to put him inside, but I looked at my watch and realised I would miss the city bus if I didn’t go straight away.

  The others were standing at the bus stop in an assortment of raincoats and parkas, all except Seth. Just as I arrived at the stop, the bus trundled round the corner, its tyres hissing on the wet road.

  ‘He’s not going to come,’ Danny said disgustedly.

  Nissa scowled at him as she climbed on the bus and then we were heading towards Ercildoune, Willington, and the St Mary’s Hospital. It was too late for school kids, the bell having rung a quarter of an hour back. The bus driver watched us in his mirror.

  The hospital took us no time to find. It was on the corner of a big intersection right on the Cheshunt border, a big Gothic-looking place with fake turrets and cupolas. At the desk, Nissa asked the receptionist where Lallie was.

  ‘She’s our sister,’ Danny said with such guileless innocence he appeared almost half-witted.

  The nurse frowned around at us, then told us to wait while she fetched a doctor.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to be allowed to see her,’ Nissa said. ‘We’d better spread out and see if we can find her ourselves.’

  Danny found her and fetched the rest of us.

  She was in a small room with three other people on flat hard-looking beds. They were all hooked up to monitoring equipment, Lallie a pale splinter under stiff white sheets. In spite of the small beeping noise from her monitor registering a heartbeat, she already looked dead, her face cold and waxy. Her breathing was so erratic and difficult that listening to it made me feel breathless. Strangled.

  ‘She sounds awful,’ Danny whispered.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Nissa hissed, pushing Indian towards the bed.

  He stumbled like a sleep walker, took a deep steadying breath and set the bowl down. It must have had mud on it from the night before, because it left a dark smudge on the snowy sheet.

  He took Lallie’s thin, limp hand and tried to hang it in the bowl, but it fell away with such lifelessness that I felt sick.

  ‘Hurry,’ Nissa said urgently, looking over her shoulder at the observation window.

  Indian clenched his teeth and picked up the bowl, running it gently over her whole body. I heard him whisper fiercely, ‘Heal Lallie, please.’

  At that moment the receptionist bustled in with a security guard. She yelped at the sight of Indian and his bowl and flushed with exasperation as Indian blurted out that we were going to heal her.

  ‘Religious maniacs,’ she muttered, and commanded the security guard to get us out of the hospital and make sure we stayed out.

  ‘It didn’t work,’ Indian said in a desolate voice, oblivious to the rain.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned to find the Examiner editor, Mr Sharone, looking down at me. ‘It’s Nathanial, isn’t it?’

  I nodded and the others melted away, signalling they’d meet me at the bus stop. Mr Sharone’s sharp eyes ran over them then came back to me. ‘Skipping school, eh?’

  I opened and shut my mouth without saying anything.

  He smiled quickly. ‘I’m not going to report you. Fact is, I’ve been thinking a lot about you since you came into the office.’

  It was raining harder and he squinted up and grimaced, then drew me under a narrow awning over a flower shop.

  ‘I’m glad I ran into you because I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mr Sharone stared into my eyes for a long moment, as if he were trying to read something there. ‘You know, there’s always a lot of stuff collected for stories that never make it into print in a newspaper. Sometimes because it’s too weird, or it can’t be proven or because it’s too sick.’ He hesitated as if trying to decide what to tell me.

  ‘The last few months I’ve spent researching a story on youth crime and violence in Willington and Ercildoune. No one is game to be quoted, but the word is that the gangs come out of Cheshunt. Some say right out of that school of yours – Three North. You can imagine, then, that I was interested when you walked in my door.’

  He looked around and that made me feel uneasy.

  ‘Your looking up that old murder case made me curious because apart from the fact that it happened at the school, you didn’t act like a kid doing an assignment.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, that mightn’t have got me because, though I’m a journalist, I don’t believe in minding other people’s business for them. What really got me was reading through the old file of non-printed stuff about the time of that fire of yours.’

  He squinted out at the rain which was really hammering down now. ‘You see, what is happening now, happened back then. Exactly the same, but on a smaller scale. Gangs of kids from one side of Cheshunt came over to the other and ran amok, burning, stealing, attacking people.

  ‘I read the articles too, Nathanial. Koster was the guy the caretaker left all of his money to. The interesting thing, though, is that the old man’s death seemed to be the start of all the really bad violence. Before, it had been petty stuff but after his death, it escalated. Terrible things happened, sick things that never got in the papers for fear of copycat crimes: devil worship using people’s pets, dead animals found with their heads cut off, dressed in women’s clothes; rape and torture. Even murder – men going section eight and killing their whole family, claiming they were possessed, triple suicides. Cheshunt came to be a very dark place indeed.

  ‘That went on until about a year back. About the time I came to take over the paper. Then it all just stops and almost overnight, Cheshunt becomes a squeaky clean model neighbourhood. And then, about a month back, it all starts up again. Kid gangs, bashings, robbery, intimidation, all coming out of Cheshunt and that school of yours. And so I think to myself: what if it was some sort of cult then, and for some reason it’s started up again?’

  He stopped as if he expected me to say something. After a minute he shrugged. ‘Now I might be right off base, but just theoretically, what if some sharper than average school kid looking into the past comes across this stuff and sees the connection? This kid has the inside edge because he goes to the school where the gangs come from. And what if he gets the idea in his head of building a case to expose the whole mess.’ His eyes widened speculatively and went beyond me to the bus stop where the others were waiting. ‘And maybe he enlists the help of a couple of other like-minded kids.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said. ‘Cheshunt is a quiet town.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ he said quietly. ‘Then again, maybe it’s the eye of the storm?’

  His choice of words made me jump and he noticed. ‘What do you think, Nathanial? You think there might be some storm clouds swelling over Cheshunt?’

  I shrugged, too scared to trust my voice. There were storm clouds all right. They were gathering over my head and it felt like all hell was waiting to break loose. My heart was hammering away so loudly he should have heard it. Mr Sharone was watching me closely. I don’t know what he saw but he nodded.

  ‘I’m not crowding you, Nathanial. I’m just letting you know that if it gets too big for you kids to handle, give me a call. But remember, you don’t want to let it get as far as it did all those years back.’

  ‘I… don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do,’ Mr Sharone said with gentle certainty. ‘I think you know a lot of things you’re not saying. The paper has a file about Three North now too. We started it when I did a stor
y about the curfew. There are some letters in the file that suggest the curfew was set up so that demons can roam in the streets. Then there are letters claiming that the gangs that operate in Willington and Ercildoune come from Cheshunt. Same as before. There are even letters that say the school is evil. Or that something in the school is evil. They’re crackpot letters all right, but no smoke without fire. Excuse the pun. And I read these and I think to myself: what if whatever is happening now is connected to what happened then?’

  Mr Sharone took my silence as an answer. ‘All I’m saying is, if you need help, call me.’ He took a card out and reached across to slide it in my pocket.

  I opened my mouth, but he held up his hand to silence me. ‘My home number is on that card too.’ He turned and walked away without looking back, turning up his collar against the downpour.

  I watched him disappear into the veil of grey rain, my mind in turmoil. I couldn’t help wondering if the man that had frightened Nissa the other night, and the one driving the car that had hit Lallie and Mr Sharone had all been drawn to Cheshunt just the way we were; called by what was best in them, to the light, or called by what was worst in them, to the dark. The lines of battle being drawn up.

  And who knew how many others, dimly sensing the Call of light or dark, had been drawn to Cheshunt over the years?

  In the end, I didn’t tell the others.

  They were still shattered about Lallie and I felt guilty at having completely forgotten about her for a minute. Besides that, rain was thundering down on the tin roof of the bus stop with a deafening racket, and Nissa barely had time to remind us to meet her that night to try the healing again, before we had to get on the bus. It was packed so I just stood there, rain from my wet hair dripping down my neck. When we got off the bus, the school siren was sounding, so we had to run for it.

  I don’t know how I got through what remained of the morning classes. It was all a blur. At lunchtime, I went to the library to get away from the other kids staring at me, wondering and fearful, knowing me to be marked. It made me think of that book written by the guy my grandfather and I were named for: Nathaniel Hawthorne. In the book, there is this woman who has to wear a big red A sewn on her dress so that everyone will know who she is and despise her. The librarian’s assistant gave me an uneasy smile because somehow she saw the big red A on me.

  I found myself drawn back to the wall where the photograph hung. I looked at Anna. She looked proud and strong willed. Determined. Zeb was beside her and on his other side I was startled to recognise the blonde girl from my dreams.

  And, suddenly, the hair all over my body stirred because I recognised her!

  The blonde girl with the bright serene face and the sad eyes was Lallie as she would be in about five more years. It was seeing her look older in the hospital that made me able to see it.

  But what on earth did it mean? Was she related to the girl in the photograph? Had she somehow been reincarnated?

  I sat down before I fell down.

  The older Lallie seemed to be looking straight at me, her eyes burning. Urging me to understand… what?

  I thought of Anna’s diaries, and the way The Tod had tried to make me read them and, suddenly, I was convinced there was some secret hidden in them.

  The remainder of the day passed in a frenzy of impatience. Leaving the school after the bell I noticed the year twelve mural had been worked on. A lot of trees had been blocked in and some wild-looking mountains. But the thing that chilled me was the red moon painted above the scene, shedding its garish, bloody light.

  I was almost running by the time I reached my street. I broke into a jog as soon as I could see the house, relieved to see the driveway was empty. It wasn’t until I was inside that I remembered The Tod was out.

  In spite of everything I felt guilty at the thought of him getting rained on earlier in the day, because I hadn’t put him in. I called but he didn’t come, which meant he was mad at me, sulking in his outside kennel. I went down the side path whistling, trying to ignore the wretched foulness of the air. It was incredibly strong, a putrid, decaying stench. The death smell.

  ‘Grab him!’ someone hissed, and I found myself locked between two big boys from the school patrol. My heart started to judder in panicky fright.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Bring him around the back where he can see,’ Buddha called.

  There were three more boys and an older girl, all from the school patrol. The girl was holding The Tod, patting him, but he was cringing away from her hand.

  Fear and anger warred in me. ‘Put him down!’

  The girl just smiled, a baring of crooked teeth and something in her expression made me feel sick with fear.

  I looked at Buddha. ‘What are you trying to do?’

  Buddha smiled too. ‘We’re not trying to do anything. We’re doing it. We’re teaching you a lesson. Challah?’

  The girl came forward and held The Tod out. He started to whimper as Buddha poured something over him.

  The smell cut through the putrid abattoir stench.

  Petrol.

  A dread more terrible than any I had ever experienced clawed into my chest. I was shaking violently, unable to tear my eyes away from the dark liquid glugging out over The Tod, darkening his honey-coloured fur.

  ‘B… Buddha… Please,’ I breathed. ‘Please don’t. I’ll do anything you want but don’t do this.’

  Buddha smiled and his eyes were dark and cruel. ‘You say you’d do anything, but you don’t really mean it. You see, Mr Karle knows you’re one of those bad kids. He knows but instead of turning you in, he’s trying to save you …’

  He screwed the lid onto the container and put it on the ground.

  ‘He said you need to be taught a lesson you won’t forget.’

  Buddha reached into his pocket and held something up.

  I stared at it with a feeling of indescribable horror.

  A box of matches.

  I started to struggle violently, screaming, ‘No! Help! Don’t. Don’t. Tod!’

  The Tod started to struggle in the girl’s arms. She held him tighter.

  ‘Take him back there and put him down,’ Buddha said, and Challah went down to the back of the yard.

  ‘Please. Please. I’ll do anything,’ I moaned, tears pouring down my cheeks.

  ‘I could almost believe you because that dog means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Nathanial? Mr Karle told us that. He said people need to lose something precious before they become properly… what was the word he used?’ He smiled. ‘Receptive. That was it.’ Still smiling, he turned to Challah. ‘Put him down.’

  Even before The Tod’s feet touched the ground he was struggling to be free; to get to me.

  ‘No! No! Run Tod. Run away!’ I screamed.

  But it was no good. He pelted towards me, drawn by the fear in my voice.

  Buddha lit a match.

  I struggled savagely, kicking and screaming. I managed to get one boy away from my arm and I punched at the other, raking my fingernails down his face. Tried to gouge his eyes out, but the other boy grabbed me again, punching me in the ribs.

  I pulled forward, tried to drag them with me, a wild notion in my mind of shielding The Tod with my body.

  But the match flew through the air just as The Tod drew even with Buddha.

  ‘Nooo!’

  I screamed in utter horror, helpless. The match landed in his tail and flames swept forward up over him. Devoured him.

  He arched and coiled, yelping in pain and fright, and then he screamed, a long inhuman howl of agony and terror. For one terrible second, his eyes looked at me from out of the flames, bulging and pleading.

  And then there was nothing but the cracking sound of burning meat.

  ‘Next time it won’t be a dog,’ I heard Buddha say, and dimly I registered running footsteps.

  The boys holding me let go and I flung myself at The Tod, beating my hands on him with some insane idea that I could still save him. The flames
burned my hands, seared them, but the pain was nothing compared to the terrible sorrow threatening to choke me.

  At last the flames were extinguished and, incredibly, I thought I could feel him shudder under my hands.

  ‘Tod! Tod?’ As I turned him over, I found myself praying to God. Pleading the way I had with Buddha. ‘Please. Please. Please let him be alive. I’ll do anything.’

  But if there was a God, he was as incapable of undoing what had been done as I had been of stopping it.

  The Tod was dead, the fur seared off him leaving charred, blistered flesh. His tongue, pink and obscene, lolled out from blackened jaws.

  And all I could think of was the dismal way he had howled at me when I’d left him that morning, as if he knew what was coming to get him.

  I screamed.

  27

  It rained then, and somehow that was the worst thing. Five minutes sooner and it might have saved The Tod.

  I cuddled his limp, gruesome body to my chest, rocking backwards and forwards. My hands stung and I wanted to cut them off, thinking how much more agony The Tod must have felt. I cried until my stomach and my throat and my eyes hurt, all the time getting wetter and wetter. I couldn’t bear to think of the way I had looked at my watch and left him out because I had been late for the bus. If he had been locked inside, they could not have got him.

  The rain stopped and a fly came and buzzed around his body in the curdled air. I brushed it away with a feeling of hopeless rage, knowing it would not matter to The Tod, knowing nothing would matter to him ever again. He would never smell a story in the wind, or growl at the stars or go to a stranger who called him in her windy voice. He was dead, and there was nothing more final than that.

  Then a picture came to me with a jagged, tearing force: Lallie staring into The Tod’s eyes and saying she was sorry. And The Tod cringing away from her.

  Guilt was like acid, burning me as I remembered Lallie saying there would be a price for her helping me. Now she was in hospital and The Tod dead.