All the Murmuring Bones

by A. G. Slatter

  While I’m hesitating, staring at the black lines until they cease to make sense, the horse shifts nervously beneath me and whinnies. I glance around: the sky has become grey and is getting darker as clouds scud above us and the wind picks up. Not just a sun shower then. Casting about for shelter, I spot what looks like a cottage atop the slight hill before me. I urge my steed towards it, and as we get closer it becomes clear that there’s another structure nearby.

  A gallows, occupied.

  Three bodies, all dancing energetically in the breath of the oncoming storm. The horse is reluctant to get any closer to the gibbet, stamping even when I tell him to stand still. I don’t know how long they’ve been dead, these gallowscrows; not so long, I think. I’ve seen corpses before, not just my grandparents, but tenants’ and those washed ashore by Hob’s Hallow, so they hold no fear for me. One’s barely a youth, there’s the merest hint of a beard on his cheeks, thirteen no more, wearing green and red plaid trews. The flesh hasn’t started to melt from their bones yet, but the birds have begun to have their way: eyes are gone, and mouths hang open to show only the stubs of tongues, sweet meat and a treat for the ravens and smaller birds. And there are flies buzzing loudly where other scavengers have made tender entry. One raven sits on the head of the man I take to be the oldest, and pecks to open a wound on the cheek, then tears a long strip that comes away easily. The man’s black leather waistcoat is open and flaps in the breeze, and the one in the middle twirls on his noose, bright blue jacket too vivid given his circumstances.

  Maura used to tell me that every brigand worth her or his salt sent a prayer to Galagatyr either before a job or on the scaffold. Never before a trial, for that would be a waste of breath: if you’ve been fool enough to get caught, the Gallows God won’t listen to you. But perhaps when you’re awaiting the long drop and the short stop you might squeeze a little pity from the hanging deity’s cold, cold heart. Looking at these three something tells me they weren’t the praying sort.

  Beneath the scaffold are lush and glossy gallowberries. They are a rich purple and look enticing, but Maura always said they’re not to be eaten. Required for the darkest of magics, you shouldn’t even pick them unless you’re prepared to use them; what good might come of a plant that grows in a place of death? I’m not in the least bit tempted.

  A drop of water, hard and slick, hits me on the forehead. At first I think it’s blood from the raven’s meal, but then realise the storm is breaking. The droplets come down harder now and the horse is unhappy. He moves swiftly away from the dead men and towards the cottage.

  I dismount and hammer at the door. No answer. The place has an air of neglect, but it never hurts to be polite. I lead the horse to the left side where there’s a small lean-to, closed in enough for shelter but not so much that the beastie will feel hemmed in. I steer him into the space and, to my surprise, see there’s a bale of hay waiting there as if left especially for us. I remove his saddle and blanket, find a bucket in a corner and fill it from the well in the garden, all while getting pelted with hard rain. I give him one last pat on his velvety nose, then scurry to the front (only) door of the building.

  The handle turns and the wind almost pushes me inside as I call ‘Hello?’ Again, no answer. The interior’s dark and I use my tinderbox to scratch up a quick flame on a piece of charcloth. In the flare of light, I see a lantern on a table just in front of me; there’s the swirl of fuel in its reservoir as I shake it. It sputters for a moment when I touch the cloth to the wick, catches and floods the cottage. It’s just one room, a hearth against one wall, three narrow beds, the table and four rough wooden chairs, all but one broken. There is a little kindling in the fireplace, which I use. I feed the small blaze with the fragments of furniture.

  There are two windows, the glass cracked, but still in situ. Through them I can see the storm clouds growing ever darker, the droplets thudding against the panes, hitting the ground and churning the dirt into mud. The sound of the rain on the roof is dulled by the thatch, and there’s a leak in one corner that drips down onto one of the narrow beds. There’s dust on the table and floor.

  I hang my coat to dry on a hook set into the wall by the fire, my trousers follow suit and I remain in just my shirt which is mostly dry. I untwist the bun my hair’s been in for days, feel the tension release in my scalp as I massage it with my fingers. There’s a rough scab over the cut from the Breakwater dock, and it itches rather than aches. Soon it will be gone entirely.

  I clean off the tabletop and make a meal of bread and dried meat, sitting in the sole solid chair. It feels strangely civilised after all the days on the road, eating by campfires first with the troupe, then on my own. How quickly that became normal that this should feel so alternate now. There’s a tin cup overturned but clean and a small cauldron beside the hearth. I put it outside the door until it fills with rainwater, and brew a strong black tea with the leaves Maura packed.

  I’ve not touched the winter-lemon whiskey, though I’ve yearned to, but keeping my wits about me is paramount.

  When I’m done, I wonder if I’ll ever bear eating bread and dried meat again, once I’ve found “home”. I take my mother’s three letters from the front of the duffel and read them once more – as if their contents might have changed – while I wait for the tea to steep. The first offers me as a price. The second merely tells how after a shaky start they are doing well, that she hopes he cares enough to hear this, that she misses him. She does not ask after her child. And in her last is the name of their new home and the promise to write no more.

  No other mention of me but that I am part of a bargain. It’s as if I ceased to exist once she gave me up. I read all the letters again to see if there’s something I missed. I hold them to the light of the lantern, thinking perchance something might be seen in the smoke, but no.

  North of Bellsholm, more or less. Perhaps it was all a lie. Perhaps these letters are nothing but untruths to lull Óisín into a false sense of security, to stop him from hunting for them, or perhaps merely a torment for the life he’d given her.

  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

  And I feel a rage erupt inside me, a fire shooting through my veins. In a fury that would have made Aoife proud, I stand then raise the only intact chair and smash it against the stones of the chimney breast. Tears, and inarticulate shouts are all I can muster, but it simply boils down to why?

  And how? How could my parents leave me behind so easily. It wasn’t as if I was newborn – I was three, a small person not a damp dribbling, shitting lump. Was I so unlovable? Did they dislike me so much? Was I nothing more, from conception, than a part of a plan, a toll to be paid?

  When my tantrum runs its course I’m so very tired – so tired that I almost don’t take precautions. I don’t like the smell of the beds, the two that aren’t wet from the leak, so I pull out my bedroll and spread it in front of the fireplace. I take the sack of rock salt Maura insisted I carry – it’s getting light now, but I purchased another in Bellsholm – and I make a rough circle around the bedding, with enough space that I can roll over in my sleep without fear of breaking the boundary. I also make a line of it in front of the door and across the windowsills. I put the pocketwatch beside me where it can be easily seen and I slide my knives beneath the bedroll. I lie down and am asleep in a trice, every ounce of spare energy seared away.

  * * *

  Three raps on the door come less than an hour before dawn, or so my pocketwatch tells me. My exhaustion was total and I’ve slept entirely through the night. I think perhaps the owner has returned. But who knocks on their very own door? The fire is still burning, brighter and longer than it should, and I can see clearly around the room. Three raps once more and I say nothing. Then again, three raps and I think perhaps that will be all, for three is a magical number, isn’t it? A number of secrets and messages and gods. Then a voice, a lad’s, ‘Please, Miss, we beg your aid. Please, Miss, we’ll not hurt you, but we need your help.’

  As I check the circle
of salt around me is intact, I slip my knives up my sleeves. I say, ‘Come in’ and immediately regret it.

  The three men from the gallows shamble over the threshold. That’s when I notice that the rain has run under the door and melted away the line of salt there. It’s taken so long otherwise I suspect they’d have been in here much earlier. Still, they didn’t need to knock, so perhaps they’re being polite for some other reason.

  The marks of death have been erased. They’re not quite solid, yet they lumber beneath their own weight as if all they remember is being men and alive, and are still anchored by that. I can see through them to the remaining night and rain beyond the open doorway. It’s not a clear view, not a perfectly clean window, but like a fog shifted in a breeze, a fog that thickens and thins, thickens and thins. Their faces are as they were before the birds took their tithe, but the young men don’t look any better for it: their expressions are avid, malign, and I’m grateful to Maura for her tales and the sack of salt, and especially glad I didn’t neglect to lay it out this night.

  ‘Evening, Miss,’ says the tallest, the oldest, the one wearing the leather vest.

  ‘Evening, Miss,’ says the middlest, his jacket brightest blue.

  ‘Evening, Miss,’ says the youngest in his red and green pants. His grin is worst of all.

  ‘Good evening,’ I say for it’s best to be polite in these situations. The knives won’t help me here and only the salt and my wits will keep me safe until the morning light burns these spectres away. Still, it’s not going to be comfortable. ‘How may I help you fine gentlemen? It’s rather later – or early – to come a’calling.’

  ‘And we apologise for that, Miss, but we don’t get around much in the sunlight nowadays.’ The oldest smiles, and it might once have been charming. ‘As you can see, we’re not the men we used to be, perhaps you’ll offer assistance with that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, Miss, a great injustice was done to us, our lives torn away,’ the middlest speaks and he’s got a lovely voice; I wonder if he sang when breath still filled his lungs.

  The youngest says, ‘We’ll tell you our stories and if you can decide which is guilty and which is innocent, then we might walk freely into the light.’

  ‘And if I cannot tell who is guilty from who is innocent?’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub, Miss. Then we get you, and that circle of salt won’t help you one bit.’ The oldest grins wider and there’s something wolfish in it.

  ‘I’ve hardly agreed to anything.’

  ‘Ah, but here you are, sitting in our fine cottage and all. Looks like implied consent to me.’

  I don’t know how he thinks he’ll get past the circle, and it’s probably a lie to make me nervous. But I’m not sure I have much choice for I can’t get past the circle either, not unless I want to be pickings for ghosts. I nod. ‘Then tell me your tales, and I’ll make my decision.’

  18

  ‘My name is Fox, and these are my brothers.’ The oldest takes the floor as if it’s a stage. The others lean up against the wall opposite, but they’re not solid, so their top halves pass through it and disappear. When they come back in, there’s no rain on their skin or dark hair. I focus on Fox.

  He’s got blue eyes and brown locks, he buttons up his waistcoat carefully as he speaks. I notice the ring on his right hand, a blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds; an engagement ring, a feminine thing, or something passed mother to daughter. ’I followed my father into the family business, commerce, and made a success of it. Enough to present my suit to a rich man and ask for his oldest daughter in marriage. They were delighted to join our houses – she brought a fat dowry – and a grand wedding was celebrated. We were happy for a time and when I asked my wife to help me with the acquiring and selling of goods, she readily agreed. But soon enough there were complaints: the goods were ‘hard’. She’d bewitched rocks and stones and fallen branches to look like bread and cakes, sheep and goats. She was ruining my business, not to mention being a witch. What else could I do? I had my family to think about, my reputation. I set her alight and watched her burn. I saved the world and those I love from a sorceress, yet for this the authorities hanged me.’

  ‘Thank you for your tale, Fox.’

  ‘And? Do you judge me true or false?’ he demands.

  ‘Oh, how I can tell when I’ve nothing to compare it to? I will listen to all your stories before I render judgment. It’s the only way to be certain.’ I say this politely but firmly and he glares at me but backs away nonetheless.

  The middle brother steps forth, while Fox hovers above the narrow bed where water drips. The moisture bothers him not at all. I squint at the next raconteur: in his hair are prickly-looking lumps. Large burrs.

  ‘My name is Jacob and I too joined our father’s business. I also married a rich man’s daughter, and we were happy for a time. She loved to ride, did my wife, and I bought her the finest steeds. We would gallop over hill and dale; but she distracted me so much from my duties that my part of the enterprise began to fail. I had to sell all but one of her horses to keep food on the table, and she became angry with me. The day came when I was obliged to sell her last, her favourite. But she spoke harshly to me and mounted the beast, it reared up, unsettled by her ire and noise, and she was thrown. Her neck broken, and I a widower so soon. But her father did not believe my tale and came for me with his men. And they hung me beside my brother.’

  ‘Thank you for your story, Jacob,’ I say.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘As I said, I will hear all before I give judgment and I have one last recounting to consider.’ I nod towards the youngest, who takes his brother’s place. Jacob goes and leans against the wall once again, careful not to pass through it this time.

  The lad smiles, holds up a finger – there’s a green stain on the tip – and begins. ‘My name is Joseph and there was a rich man’s daughter I would have married, but her father judged us too young for such things, though I had such potential to be just like my brothers. We made our plans to elope, she and I, but her father found us out and locked his daughter in her room. Seven days I waited to hear from her, for her to escape and return to me, but in the end only a letter came. Her father was right, she wrote, and we were too young. I wept. I wept but I sent her a gift to show there were no hard feelings, a dress of the brightest green; a blameless gift. But she died soon after and her father ensured I was hung beside my brothers.’

  All three move to stand at the edge of the salt circle, peering down at me. ‘And so?’ says the oldest. ‘Who is the innocent party?’

  I clear my throat. ‘Well, Fox, you are clearly lying because why would a rich man’s daughter who brought a fat dowry need or choose to cheat customers with hard goods? That ring,’ I say, and nod at it. ‘It was hers, and I can see there’s blood around its edge where you cut off her finger to take it. I doubt she was even your wife, but some poor girl kidnapped on the highway. You were justly requited.’

  The other two laugh. Fox steps back, hangs his head.

  ‘Jacob, why would you become poor when you joined the family business, which you are all at pains to tell me was so prosperous? And I can see burrs in your hair. You put them under your bride’s saddle, so that when she mounted the barbs bit into the horse and he reared, throwing her. It was happy, though predictable, chance that she broke her neck. The mark of your sin is upon you and you were justly requited.’

  Fox and Joseph snigger. Like his brother, Jacob steps back, hangs his head.

  The lad fixes me with eyes as blue as a summer’s day and smiles.

  ‘And you, Joseph, you learned your brothers’ craft well, yearned to do as they did much sooner than you should, and gave a woman the only value you deemed she should have. You sent your love a poisoned dress, did you not? I can see the marks on your fingers where you touched the thing; it made you ill. Perhaps it would have carried you off before long, but you were found out and they strung you up alongside your brothers. You too were justly
requited.’

  Joseph falls away to stand beside his siblings. I look at the three of them. ‘You were all rightly hung.’

  ‘Too clever by half. Not that it will matter to you, Miss,’ says Fox, and points to the floor. A trickle of water has run from the bed beneath the leaking ceiling along a runnel in the dirt floor and is about to reach the circle of salt. There’s no salvation for them to have and none for me. Despite judging their cases, they think they’ll get me anyway. I can see their rage burning up inside them, anticipation making them heavier, more solid. But I know something they don’t: that outside the sun is breaking through the clouds and the rain stopped some while ago.

  The beams of light pierce the brothers’ bodies and they all scream though one would hardly think it would hurt them. And then they are gone and I am alone, just as the trickle of water breaches the salt barrier.

  Before I ride away – the horse appears happy, well-rested, contented – I make a point of visiting the gallows. I kindle a fire from the sticks of the chair I broke in my temper, then use a flaming brand to set the corpses alight as they hang there – they go up like tinder despite being wet from the storm. I wait only long enough to make sure that bodies and gibbet all are certain to burn.

  19

  Another two days and I encounter no one on the road, which is partially luck and partially intent. Whenever I hear the sound of carriage wheels, of horses’ hooves, I duck off into the trees and hide. The horse, whom I’ve not named, keeps quiet too. Perhaps in hope of gaining a name through good behaviour. The last time I spoke to someone was just after leaving the gallows hut; a woman at a farmhouse gave me bread in exchange for some coin bits. I asked if she’d heard of Blackwater, but she squinted and asked if it was some new kind of plague. I’m still afraid of being noticed and remembered – would Aidan bother to hunt me this far?