And still thinner.
“They oughtn’t to have took no water.”
“Tell the grown folks to fetch it back.”
Until Mr. Clayborne called a halt to the draining of the swamp, the Boggy Mun would strike with the swamp cough, and strike and strike again.
Strike and strike again—oh, you idiot Briony: Ask the ghost-children, quick! “My sister—does she have the swamp cough?”
“Them London men oughtn’t to have took—”
“Don’t go—does she have the swamp cough? Please tell me!”
Please tell me no!
“Them London men—”
The children’s voices skimmed themselves into extinction. Gravity turned itself right side out. The world bounced up to chase her ball, which was sick making, although it would soon be over. But I’d wish myself sick again if I could do it over. I’d asked the question too late.
“I don’t have the swamp cough.” Rose came into focus. She smiled her anxious-monkey smile, which is the only smile she knows how to make.
“Of course you don’t,” I said, just as Rose hunched herself into her chest for a comfortable paroxysm of coughing. What exquisite timing. If she weren’t Rose, you might think she was indulging herself in a paradox. In a paroxysm of paradoxysm.
But she is Rose.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose, squeezing her words past the last crumbs of coughing.
“Right you are, Rose.” We were alone in the graveyard. Even Eldric, the newcomer, knew that every good mourner makes merry in the Alehouse with roast pork, and pies, and funeral biscuits, and sherry and ale. Especially the sherry and ale. A funeral is a thirsty piece of business.
I was dizzy and seasick. “Give me a minute.”
“People can’t give minutes,” said Rose.
Rose, literal Rose. “It’s just one of those things people say. We talked about that, remember, when Father tried to catch the barkeep’s eye?”
“Quick!” said Rose, all in a rush. “Cover your ears!”
I clapped my hands to my ears, pretending I couldn’t hear the church bells chime twelve o’clock. Rose has a peculiar relationship to the notion of time: She won’t let me listen to the clock strike twelve. I can’t say why—I’ve told her often enough that I like the hour of noon—but there’s no understanding Rose.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats.”
“Off we go, then.” Us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.
“I want you to read to me,” said Rose. “I want a story where I’m a hero.”
Oh, Rose! I launched into my litany of the library fire and the books burning, and then she said what she always said:
“I wish my book had burnt in the fire.”
That blasted book again! Just tell me about it, Rosy dear. I’ll see that it burns. But Rose never tells her secrets. That would be breaking the rules.
Us be asking you for help. Don’t think about that, Briony!
Rose never breaks the rules.
But reminders of the ghost-children were everywhere. In the cemetery, the ground puckered with death. Outside the cemetery, the gravestones pointing every way but up, like bad teeth.
Stepmother lay beneath one of those careless gravestones, in the unconsecrated ground set aside for murderers and witches and suicides. How could Father have been married to Stepmother and not known she’d never kill herself?
The cemetery lay on Gallows Hill, the highest bit of the village. In the distance, the swamp stretched out in a crinkle of gray crepe. Below sat Hangman’s Square, anchored on the south end with the Siamese church-and-Parsonage twins. The other sides of the square offered everything one might need in life: the Alehouse, the jail, and the gallows. Sometimes, when a person visits the Alehouse, he goes right on to visit the others.
The present occupant of the gallows was Sam Collins, of the upriver Collinses, each of whom was born with an extra finger, the better to steal from you, my dear.
The ghost-children wanted me to tell the villagers how to stop the swamp cough. Let’s pretend I do. Here’s how it would go.
It would turn into a House That Jack Built.
This is the girl called Briony.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew.
This is the girl called Briony; who lived in a swamp that was being drained; which angered the Boggy Mun; who sent the swamp cough; which Briony found out about through the ghost-children; whom Briony was able to hear because she has the second sight; which Briony has because she’s a witch; which the Swampfolk found out when she had to explain how she knew; which meant she was hanged by the neck until dead.
That was the girl called Briony.
I’m not really the sacrificing type.
“It’s time for the funeral-baked meats,” said Rose.
We descended Gallows Hill, each in our own way. I’m no longer a wolfgirl, but still, I’m fast and Rose is slow. She’s slow and clumsy and afraid of heights and speed and danger.
An’ now us be asking you for help, girl what can hear ghosts.
This is the girl called Briony; who wanted to hurry to the Alehouse; which would distract her from the memory of the ghost-children; which kept coming back to her until she wanted to scream; which she felt like doing anyway, because Rose doesn’t know how to hurry; which goes to show that Briony’s always waiting for Rose, and if Briony ends up on the gallows, it will be for murder.
This is the girl called Briony.
8
When in Rome
“I don’t like that man.” Rose spoke loud enough for Mad Tom to hear.
“Where be my wits?” shouted Mad Tom, who, aside from being irritatingly mad, stood between us and the funeral-baked meats. “They be lost, O my stars an’ strumpets. Lost forever an’ aye.”
“I don’t like that man.”
He rattled his umbrella. “It be you lovelies what taked my wits. I seen you when you done it. I spied you with my little eye.”
He’s harmless, poor thing. That’s what everyone said. It was true, but who cares? Lots of people are harmless, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them.
“Two hundred twenty-six steps until the Alehouse,” said Rose. “But we have to pass that man.”