A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  He held William gently, like his own child. “What are you proposing?” The reedy grate of his voice had changed—deepened into weariness and age, I think. My heart stoppering up my throat, I stepped right up to the near side of the gap in the floor and fished the jar of earth from my bag.

  “I have seen the cross-way,” I said, holding up the jar. “I know your name. I can arrange for your…remains to receive a Christian burial, in a churchyard in this village. With a proper headstone—for you and your son. Everyone will know the wrong that was done to you. In return, you will free my uncle, return my son to me, and vow never to trouble Stirwaters or my family again.”

  Spinner faltered. The arm holding William trembled, and he reached out for the jar with his other hand. I held it just out of his grasp.

  “Let me have it.” His voice was a scarce whisper. I might have imagined it under the din from the clattering loom. I steeled myself not to look at Uncle Wheeler.

  “Make your choice,” I said.

  All at once, his eyes narrowed and the grey glow flared up. “Take the mill and your uncle. I keep the boy.”

  “What? No!” I could feel the floor giving way beneath me. “Don’t—”

  “I like him,” he said. I couldn’t look at them. “He’s a fine boy, like his da’. You go, lass—make some other bairns with that pretty city gentleman of yourn.”

  I had failed. After everything. I felt ill, a wave of something washed over me, and for a moment I forgot myself. The thumping of the belts, the rattle of the window glass, the endless racket of the loom…I felt it all, deep in my bones as if I were part of the mill itself. But beyond the din of the millrooms, I heard a steady, calm cadence of soft voices coming out of the night. I could not make out what they said, but my mind formed their chanting into words: Great courage breaks ill luck.

  They had not come, all those Shearing folk, to stand in the cold November air and see me fail. This was no moment for my resolve to crumble.

  With fumbling fingers I unpinned the corn dolly from my collar and pulled the cork from the neck of my jar. Spinner’s head turned toward me, his eyes narrowing. I stepped over the crack in the floor.

  “John Simple!” I said, loud over the voice of the mill. “You will leave this place. Give me my son.”

  “Never!” He squeezed William to his chest and William began to whimper. “See what you’ve done?” Spinner cried, bouncing my baby with a nervousness I had not seen before. “Shh, little one,” he crooned. “Your da’s here.” William’s whimper became a wail.

  “Give me my son.” I dropped the corn dolly on the floor and poured a little of the earth atop it. Spinner started, grabbing for the bottle. William screamed.

  “Stop! Stop it!” Spinner patted William on the back, clutching him against his shoulder. He won’t hurt him, I told myself, willing myself to believe it.

  “Give him to me,” I said, very gently, holding out my arms.

  “No! He needs me!”

  I shook my head. “He needs his mother.” I spilled a few more grains of dirt. Spinner moaned.

  “What will happen if I pour all this out?” I said. “Will you vanish? What would become of William then? He cannot go where you must go.”

  “He needs me.” Two great tears rolled down his lined cheeks.

  “Robin needs you. You can go to him.”

  A shudder rumbled the mill beneath our feet—the gentlest of sighs, barely more than a breath through the old stone and wood. I stared down at the cracked boards beneath my feet with a sudden, belated understanding. My heart pounded. “Robin needs you,” I repeated. “He’s been alone all these years.”

  “Robin?”

  The mill sighed, creaking in the corners, whispering through the gears.

  Spinner listened, hope lighting his face. “My Robin?”

  “Go to him,” I said. I poured out a thin stream of earth, straight into the gap in the floor.

  Suddenly, Spinner thrust William into my arms, nearly knocking me over, twisting the jar from my hand. He fell to his knees and turned over the jar.

  “Wait!” I lunged for him, grabbed him by the wrist, staying the flow of earth into the gap. His arm was so thin—like a child’s. “You will never return. We are free of your curse. Those are the terms.”

  Spinner met my frantic gaze with eyes as clear and sane as anyone’s. He nodded. “Those are the terms.”

  “And my uncle?”

  “He’d not do the same for you.”

  I shook my head. “You do not know that.”

  Spinner shook his own head, but waved a hand toward the loom. All at once the light disappeared, and I heard a sickening thump as Uncle Wheeler slumped forward against the loom.

  I reached out my hand, open, to take his own. After a moment, Spinner grabbed it, shaking firmly. But he was fading, and I could barely feel the rough, cold flesh in my grip.

  “John Simple,” I said, “I will hold you to your word.”

  “Charlotte Woodstone,” he replied, “you have my bond.” He reached out one last time and brushed William’s fair head with his clever, clever hand. “He’s a fine boy,” he said.

  And dashed the jar to the floor, scattering the earth from his unhallowed grave all across Stirwaters’s floor. I jumped back, shielding William with my arms, but it was not necessary. Spinner—evaporated. Like a mist in the sunlight, like sand through a glass, he spun into air and slipped like a shadow down through the floorboards, and was gone.

  The mill gave one last great sigh, and the crack in the floor sealed itself tight once more. I sank to the floor, cradling William in my lap, sobbing. William reached up toward my face, and I let him grab as big a handful of my hair as he wanted.

  Chapter Thirty

  We sat there a long moment—not nearly as long as I’d have liked. It took all my strength and a considerable quantity of my will to pry myself to standing and lay William in his basket. The red spindle was on the floor beside him, and after only a moment’s hesitation, I passed it into his baby grip.

  Uncle Wheeler was silent, sagged against the loom. I could make out only his shape among the varied shadows in the corner.

  “Mercy, but it’s dark in here,” I said—and the moon came out. I almost smiled, but I didn’t have it in me then. I went to the windows and looked down. I could make out every single face in the little company below—Rosie and a strained Randall looking anxiously up at the mill; Rachel and Harte; Biddy Tom, grey head bent in concentration, hands busy with something I could not see. I had little time—they would not wait much longer for me.

  “Open the window, please,” I said, and the long-stuck frame fell out of the casement on top of me. I caught it and eased it to the floor. There was a soft creak, a small embarrassed rustle that was more than the November wind rushing through.

  “It’s all right,” I said softly. “No harm done.” I stuck my head out into the chill air. “Randall, I need you! Come here, please.” He gave me a quick nod and disappeared into the mill.

  “You need anyone else up there, Miss Charlotte?” Lonnie Clayborn waved cheerily.

  “No, just Randall for now, but there’s a bit of a mess here we’ll need to take care of tomorrow,” I said. “Rosie, take Harte home. He looks ready to fall over.” She’d probably be furious—but I didn’t want her up here. Not yet. “Rachel, go to the house and build a fire in the master bedroom. Mrs. Lamb, Mr. Smith, can you see to it that everyone gets home? Mrs. Tom, could you join Rosie and Harte at home, please? The rest of you—” I paused and forced myself to smile. I felt my jaw would crack because of it. “Thank you all for your help. I shall never forget it.”

  The Friendlies separated, satisfied that they’d done their part. I never should be able to thank them all properly, but saving Stirwaters would go a long way in the right direction.

  I had put it off long enough. I went to my uncle. He was breathing—merely unconscious—but an angry red bruise had flared up on his temple, where he must have struck the loom. H
e looked naked now, small and vulnerable without his wig; the tapestry jacket and waistcoat were nothing more than ravelling fringe held together by a band of cloth at his shoulders. The fine linen underneath was streaked with sweat. I put out a hand toward his cheek—pulled it back again. Had he always been so small?

  All at once, I whipped off my own cloak and wrapped it round his frail shoulders. He was tangled in the glittering threads, and I fumbled for the scissors I knew had to be somewhere at hand, and cut them away. I took him in my arms as gently as I could, and could have wept when his head rolled back against my chest. His feet would not obey me, and he was heavier than he’d appeared—and I had reached the limits of my own endurance for one night.

  Finally, I got him laid out on the millroom floor near to William. I knelt between them. Uncle Wheeler’s pale face looked waxen in the moonlight, and I was surprised—no, I was shocked by how young he was. It seemed impossible that this was the man I’d known. I wanted to hold his hand, and couldn’t bring myself to.

  With a truly incredible thumping of feet and banging of doors, Randall sprang into the room. Ah—a lantern. Have I mentioned he is clever and practical?

  Before I could make a sound, Randall was on the floor beside me, bundling me up in those strong arms, and holding me in a grip so tight it crushed every bone in my body. I’ve never felt anything quite so wonderful. Then we were both speaking, frantically, wildly, at once—and one of us was weeping; I don’t know who.

  “It’s all right—it’s over now.”

  “He’s gone—William’s safe.”

  “Shh—don’t worry. I’m here now.”

  I pulled back and looked into his tear-streaked face. His eyes were grey now, like the ragged sky outside. “I love you,” I said, not meaning for it to sound quite so desperate.

  He smiled and brushed the damp hair from my forehead. “I know.”

  For all that, it was a brief reunion. William had settled down to the serious business of sucking on his fists, and after a moment of admiring the perfection of his tiny wet fingers, we turned to my uncle.

  “Is he—” Randall leaned over his body, his cheek close to Uncle Wheeler’s mouth. “No—just out cold.”

  “He’s freezing—we must get him back to the house. Can he wear your coat?”

  At once Randall was stripping down to his jacket. “But I haven’t brought a hat. Do you think anyone will recognize him?”

  His compassion still surprises me. He saw clearly that some things are too private—too painful—to be borne in public. I shook my head. “Not—not like this. Can you carry him? He’s heavier than he looks.”

  Randall nodded. “Looks like the first strong wind will blow him right away. What’s happened to him? No—there’ll be plenty of time to tell me, soon enough.”

  I did, too, hours later. Randall got Uncle Wheeler propped upright against him, and we half carried, half dragged him back to the Millhouse. Our scene of welcome was—well, a bit awkward, really. Rosie’d have liked to have left Uncle Wheeler out on the street (“for the crows to find,” I believe was her precise wording), and I was too weary to fight with her. Harte took a convenient moment to crack his plaster painfully against a doorjamb, and distracted her. Since he couldn’t manage the stairs, Rosie stayed down in the parlor with him. I can never repay that George Harte for all I owe him. It bears repeating.

  Rachel determined that the lot of us must be starving, and took it upon herself to whip together a hearty early breakfast. I was far too tired to eat, but William wasn’t, so we withdrew to my uncle’s room for a quiet vigil. Randall came with us, and we sat there in silence a long, long moment.

  “Biddy Tom says there isn’t anything wrong that rest won’t mend,” Randall said at last. I nodded, not so sure. My uncle had suffered injuries in the last twenty-four hours that would surely take more than rest to heal. He slept fitfully now, twisting the bedcovers in his torn fingers.

  “He really does look so much like you,” Randall said. I had seen it, too—up in the mill in the shadow of the moon.

  I told Randall everything, then. I wished to spare Uncle Wheeler something, so I sketched out his sad dark tale as briefly as I could, but left out nothing important. This family had been burdened by secrets for far too long.

  Randall made no comment, passed no judgement; just sat and listened, nodding and holding my hand. He asked intelligent questions, some of which I had no answers for, others whose answers I shared in full, however reluctantly. I shouldn’t have been surprised if, now he knew everything, he turned right around and walked away again. But he is Randall, and of course he didn’t. Great courage, indeed. It had to do with more than breaking curses. It meant taking risks and giving your heart into the care of a stranger. Why must I nearly lose everything to learn that?

  Rosie wouldn’t stay with us, but she couldn’t stay away, either. Through the long telling and the long hours of that endless night, she was in and out of Uncle Wheeler’s room. Once she came to fetch William off to bed, once to bring us a tray of coffee and hash, once on an errand never fully explained. She never stayed long, never got closer to our uncle than a glance from the doorway. I could see she was troubled and bursting at the seams to know what had happened in the mill, but she could not bring herself to ask.

  Randall finally slipped into a doze, his hand still on mine, and I sent him off to sleep in my old bedroom, with William. He wanted me to join them, but I wouldn’t leave Uncle Wheeler. Rosie finally came in near dawn. Uncle Wheeler had not awakened. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him, silently.

  “What happens now?” she said, at long last.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was so tired the room seemed darker, instead of lighter, and I leaned my head back against the wall. Rosie took a blanket from the heap on the bed and moved to drape it over me. I shook my head.

  “I don’t understand you!” she cried, flinging the blanket back down on our uncle. “After everything he did, you’re treating him like a wounded war hero!”

  I sighed. “Show some compassion, Rosie.”

  “Why? He never did.”

  I pulled her closer. Her hands were cold; she must be as weary as I. “I’ve seen what comes of an unwillingness to forgive, and I’ll not pass that legacy on to William. And nor will you.”

  She glared at me, her face set hard, and then sank to the floor and laid her head in my lap. She sighed, and I twined my fingers into hers. I brushed her golden hair with my hand as she closed her eyes.

  Uncle Wheeler finally awoke, sometime late the next day. No one was with him—Randall and Rosie had finally persuaded me to sleep in a real bed, and I fear I overdid it a bit. When I rose late in the afternoon, I looked into the bedroom to find my uncle up and dressed, or partially so. He had donned a fresh shirt and the very plainest trousers I’d ever seen him wear; the shirt was open down the front and he wore no cravat, no wig. It was hard to see this man as our Uncle Wheeler. But I could see, at last, my Mam’s brother.

  I let myself in but did not sit down. He did not speak to me. There was a tray of tea and rolls beside the bed, so someone else had been first to talk to him. I wondered who.

  He was packing, and I watched him fold his beautiful things and lay them slowly in his trunks. There was the springgreen damask frock coat, the silver waistcoat, the purple shoes. Was it possible I could miss them?

  “I’ll clear out straightaway,” he said—and it was like his old voice, and unlike it. “I’ll get a room at Drover’s until the stage comes through at the end of the week.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, and he almost smiled.

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “Where will you go?”

  The thin shoulders shrugged—the briefest gesture. I could not tell if that meant he would not tell me, or if he did not know himself. I stepped in closer and—I do not know if I meant to put out my hand toward him or not, but I did not get the chance.

  “Please, just go,” h
e said, and turned away from me.

  I hesitated in the doorway. “He’s gone. It’s truly over now.”

  I could not see the expression on his face. “It’s never over,” he said, so softly I almost could not hear him. As I said, some things should not be borne in public. I shut the door behind me.

  True to his word, he left us that afternoon. Randall drove him over in the trap, and painful as it was to watch, our growing household all turned out for their departure.

  “Good riddance,” Rosie said as they pulled away. I think she might have spit on the ground behind him, if Harte hadn’t been there. I shook my head.

  “Rosie, we’re family.”

  “He’s not our family. Not the way he treated us.”

  The trap rolled down the road. No one turned back. I took Rosie by the hand.

  “We’re his family.”

  We took another day to repair the damage to Stirwaters, but save for a scattering of bobbins in the spinning room and a crack in the fulling stock headframe, the mill was in remarkably good shape. The broken floorboards had mended themselves, seamlessly, overnight; we could no longer feel each breath of wind through the walls. I held William to my shoulder and watched as Rosie and Randall hefted the attic window back into place; it fitted snugly in its frame and gave Rosie no trouble—no screws popped loose, no panes of glass cracked inexplicably.

  Was it the breaking of the curse that did it? Was John Simple’s ill will no longer fighting with the protective spirit of Robin, who had given his life to the building of the mill, and stayed many long years hence, watching over us all, speaking to us in the mill’s voice of creaking floors and crashing water? Which happenings were Simple’s doing, I wondered, and which Robin’s? And which were truly no more than bad luck? I should never know for certain.

  Except once.