by Ari Berk
The corpse’s words were beginning to weigh on him. Silas felt, truly felt for the first time, that everyone was right and he was a child and he had no idea what he was doing. From his honest ignorance, fear began to flow.
“Will you go with me tomorrow?” he asked his great-grandfather.
“Silas,” the corpse said tenderly, “I don’t think I could enter beyond the gates unless I was invited.” He continued with a wan smile. “It’s a very exclusive crowd up there, my boy. Not sure even I’d pass muster.”
“Why not? You, great-grandfather, are a unique individual.”
Augustus Howesman nodded his assent.
“Very true, but for one thing, my name’s not ‘Umber.’ Even now, that house’s front door stands wide for you because of who you are. It’s the house of your kin, your ancestral mansion. Anyone you meet there, good, bad, or in between, they are more than likely part of your family. Besides, your father told me to give that place a wide berth, and so I have, and so I shall as long as I have a choice in the matter. Though it will be my honor to walk you to the gate. Besides, it is there I may be of some assistance, and it will delight me to help you, even in that small way.”
“How do you mean?”
“Only the dead and recognized kin can pass through those gates. You have not been received at the house, so are not yet “recognized” and may not yet be able to open them yourself. I, however, being . . . as I am . . . may open the gate for you if it is required, because the road to that house is a lychway and it cannot bar the way of the dead. Not ever. That’s Old Law. I helped your father several times, actually. He could never open it by himself. I expect he wasn’t very popular up at the big house. He did have his own way of doing things. Untraditional, he was.”
The corpse looked down at his hand and said, “That reminds me, there is something I wish to give you, Silas.”
“Sir, you have given me too much already. Really.”
“I shall brook no refusals. I would like you to have this.” His great-grandfather was already twisting and turning the great ring on his finger so severely that Silas thought the finger might come off with the ring. At last it worked free and the old man handed it to Silas. The ring gleamed bright blue and gold against the dark skin of his great-grandfather’s corpse-hand.
“Folk from this street and others have gone past the gates to Arvale. I have heard the call of the mighty trumpet from beyond the gates and watched their departure. Those like me who pass beyond those gates do not return. Your father told me never to heed that trumpet, even should I hear within its call the sound of my own name. He told me that in times past, folks like me were feared by the living, even by their own families. He told me how there yet endured, in some prejudiced corners of the world, pockets of those who might still bear the old hatred toward, well, toward people like myself. Then he gave me this ring and said it would keep me safe down through the years. And so it has.”
“I can’t take that.”
“Of course you can,” his great-grandfather said. He reached over, opened Silas’s hand, and slipped the ring onto his middle finger. “That is well, most well. Besides, if you are in residence over there, what have I to fear? More to the point, if you are the one going to Arvale, maybe you could use a little more protection. Besides, I’ve never felt better a day in my death.”
Silas laughed lightly, and looked closely at the large sapphire. He could see that it was actually carved. Lightly engraved lines passed over its surface and shaped it into a beetle, a scarab, the kind the pharaohs wore in ancient Egypt. The bottom of the gem was not covered over by the mount—perhaps so that when worn, the stone would always be touching the skin of the wearer—and on it, tiny, intricate hieroglyphs had been inscribed. The heavy gold setting looked medieval. It was some kind of relic, Silas guessed, a precious object handed down over and over again, treasured through time. Who else had worn this ring? he wondered.
“Your father said it would keep my mind clear. Now you take it and keep it. Do not take it off no matter who may ask it of you. I feel strongly about this, so indulge me. Wear it in memory of me and your father. Let it be a reminder to keep your wits about you and not to do anything stupid that might embarrass your remaining relatives.”
“All right, then, I will wear it. It will be like a part of you is going with me.”
At the top of the glass in the windows at the end of the dining room, the stars had risen. Augustus Howesman got up from his chair.
“Silas, it’s late. Why don’t you stay here tonight and we’ll make a fresh start in the morning? I don’t like the idea of you going through those gates at night. No sense in going all the way home to sleep just to turn around and come back again. There are many rooms along the upstairs corridor, and most of the ones on the inside wall are serviceable if you don’t mind a little dust.”
“All right. We’ll leave in the morning, then.”
“Silas, you may recall I don’t really sleep. So should you hear any noises in the night, it will just be me, stretching my legs.”
“All right. Good night, great-grandfather,” Silas said, taking a candle from the table to find his way to a room upstairs. And as he climbed the steps, he realized quite suddenly that the idea of hearing his great-grandfather’s corpse shuffle about the house in the middle of the night brought him nothing but comfort.
LEDGER
It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.
—FROM WILLIAM BLAKE, “AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE,” TRANSCRIBED BY AMOS UMBER
“SILAS? WAKE UP, SON!”
Silas opened his eyes. His great-grandfather was standing over him, holding him by the shoulders. A low light was crawling through the window.
Tears stung Silas’s eyes and his throat hurt. His body was glazed in sweat and his hair was soaked. He sat up, rubbing his neck.
“What has happened?” his great-grandfather asked.
“I don’t know. . . .” Silas struggled to find the words. “There was water in my throat. Someone was holding me under the water. I could feel their hands grasping my legs. At first it was okay, they were holding me, and it felt warm, but then I couldn’t breathe and the hands were like claws and they wouldn’t let go. There was light above me, but I couldn’t reach it and the light kept pulling back farther and farther, or maybe I was sinking. I tried to call for help, but none came, the water filled my throat. I couldn’t cry out.”
“Well, you certainly did. Sounded like bloody murder in here. Who was holding you down?”
“I can’t remember. I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’m okay now.”
“I’ve brought a basin. Why don’t you wash up and I’ll meet you across the hall in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
Silas looked into the bowl of water, but couldn’t bring himself to splash any on his face. When he crossed the hall into his great-grandfather’s room, the room in which they’d first met, Silas saw an open cedar chest and a large old-fashioned coat laid out over a chair.
“You should wear something a little more formal, I think. Something bespeaking your rank and station. This coat was mine, in my youth. Smells a bit of mothballs but that will shake out, I think.”
In his large, dark hands, the corpse held up a black mourning coat, long with a high velvet collar. Silas pulled the coat on awkwardly over his dad’s sports jacket, which he always wore when going out.
“No matter,” said his great-grandfather, “it looks more interesting this way. You are a man who bestrides the very ages of fashion! You’ll be glad of another coat; I think it’s rather cold outside, is it not? Might be colder where you’re going. You never know.”
The coat was voluminous—not too big, just made with a great deal of fabric—and when Silas turned quickly, the bottom of the coat followed him a second or two slower. It was a little like wearing a cape, and Silas admitted to
himself that the eccentricity of his outfit really appealed to him. He also liked feeling wrapped in the layers of his family. Great-grandfather, then father, then himself on the inside, protected from the elements by layers of kin.
“Yes. That suits you very well indeed. You are a Howesman as well as an Umber, and should look respectable. If there is nothing else you require, let’s get started toward the gates. I find that when walking, things are always a little farther away than you think.”
They emerged from the house into a gray morning. The sun had not yet pushed its way through the low clouds. The air was very still, and it nipped at the exposed parts of Silas’s skin, his ears especially. He pulled the collar up on his coat so that it lay high and close to his neck. His satchel hung over his shoulder beneath his coat.
Silas strode across the yard to open the gate for his great-grandfather. The corpse walked steadily if not a little slowly, but still much quicker than Silas was expecting.
“You see what a boon your company is? Why, I’ll be running soon!”
Silas took his great-grandfather’s arm in his, saying, “I am in no rush, I promise.”
They turned onto what had once been a sidewalk, now broken by up-thrust roots and saplings into slabs of ruined concrete, jutting this way and that. The middle of the street was a little clearer, so that is where they walked. While at the top of Fort Street a thin path through the tall weeds had been trod down by Silas’s frequent visits, the street past his great-grandfather’s house was still very much a wilderness, even in winter. The farther they walked down Fort Street, the denser the undergrowth became. Branches pale as bone, some sharp with thorns or brittle vines, others grown thick and interwoven with their neighbors, made passage slow and difficult. Still, Silas was unbothered as he sought the easiest ways through, helping his great-grandfather step over fallen branches and pull the clinging vines from around his occasionally dragging feet.
His great-grandfather looked at Silas’s face, confident, stoic, and asked, “Aren’t you scared at all, Silas? I like a bit of bravado, you know, when confronting the unknown, but your calm is spooking me.”
“Sir, as long as I’ve lived, I’ve felt there are two of me. I walk about and there’s one of me doing things, just living in the moment. But then somewhere there’s another me that I can’t seem to find, though occasionally, that other me feels really close, almost breathing down my neck. I find the rift a little distracting, and maybe that makes it harder to get scared. But I do get frightened sometimes, truly.”
“Could be several things, you know, that ‘other’ you. Might be your ancestors. I can certainly feel mine sometimes, that long ancestral road stretching out behind you. Though just at the moment, yours is both before you and behind you. Arvale ahead, Lichport back there. That feeling could be your kin, for your ancestors are, when you get right down to it, another you. Often they rally around you, stand by you.”
Silas remembered the group of spectral women that had gathered around his mother while she and Uncle lived in the house on Temple Street.
“But, when folks don’t honor and remember their departed kin, those folk of the past stay hid in the shadows. When you keep them in your heart, they fly to you and then you’re whole and in that house where your love is. You are one person, but you’re never alone.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it.” But Silas knew there was more to it, something not as nice.
“Of course,” his great-grandfather continued, “it could just be your death following you around like some old dog. Waiting.”
“Now you’re trying to frighten me.”
“Lord, no, son. But I’m sure you know this already. Everyone has his very own death.”
“You mean the ‘fetch’?” Silas said.
His great-grandfather nodded.
“C’mon. Really? Do you think there’s one following me? Right now?” Silas said tentatively. Something in his great-grandfather’s tone told him that the old man already knew the answer.
“I expect that you do. Would you like me to look and see what may be seen?”
“No. No thank you. But, have you ever seen yours?”
“Yes. I think I have, but only recently. It’s hard to say with certainty.” And his great-grandfather paused in the road and looked at Silas with such affection and sadness that Silas said, “Maybe we’ll just change the subject.”
“Perhaps that would be best.”
They emerged from the overgrowth into a cleared space before the gates. It was as if the trees and bushes, even having grown so bold, pushing through concrete and cobblestone, street and sidewalk, had, upon reaching the gate, become suddenly fearful and retreated. The wild plants kept their distance. Now Silas could see the gates clearly and for the first time.
The massive iron gates stood more than two stories tall. They were covered in decorative metalwork in carefully wrought, sharp-toothed shapes of animals: lions, tigers, birds, serpents, and wilder things sprung from the considerable imagination of the blacksmith. To each side, elaborate castellated stone piers held the enormous hinges. Next to the piers, decorative lodges built to look like classical tombs joined the gates to the high stone wall that ran off to the left and right, an endless ribbon of dressed stones disappearing in the distance, perhaps encircling the whole of the estate and its environs.
As he put his hand on one of the thick iron bars, the usually warm pendant at his chest went ice cold. He felt dizzy until he drew his hand away.
“As I thought,” said his great-grandfather. “Stand down, grandson, and let the old pater be of some assistance.”
Augustus Howesman slowly straightened his spine, tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and wailed so loudly that Silas was nearly knocked off his feet. The sound vibrated on the air and Silas could feel it humming in the midst of his very bones. Then, as quickly as the cry went up, it fell back down, lower and lower into the corpse’s throat.
Almost at the moment the cry subsided, the gates began to tremble on their massive hinges. In the middle, a space opened, wider and wider, and Silas and his great-grandfather stepped back to avoid being hit by the gates as they swung out toward them.
The path to Arvale lay open.
Both men leaned forward, looking for they knew not what.
“I see only mist. Silas, can you make anything out?”
Silas took a small step forward and said, “A great avenue of trees, the largest I’ve ever seen. Trunks wide as my house. They must be really old. Cedars, I think.”
His great-grandfather stepped up even with Silas, leaned in close, and whispered, “Now hold fast a moment. If it’s like it was for your father, they’ll return the call.”
A horn blasted from somewhere far beyond the trees. Deep and round was its call and the gates shook with the sound of it. Silas and his great-grandfather looked at each other. Here was no shrill, modern trumpet, but a sound instead like some giant-blown saga-horn, calling out its bellowing welcome from the mead hall of an ancient northern legend.
His great-grandfather looked nervous, but he quickly conjured calm back to his face. The corpse put his arms around Silas and held him for many minutes, while that mighty horn sounded again and again, reverberating in both their ears.
Augustus Howesman stepped back, but kept his hands on Silas’s shoulders. “Grandson, I think it’s time you got on your way. That horn sets my teeth on edge, I swear! Silas? Have a care, my boy, and come back to me.”
“I will, sir. I promise.”
And without another word, Silas walked away from his great-grandfather and through the tall gates and into the land beyond. Behind him, the gates shut with a crash. When he turned and looked through the bars, back at where he’d come from, he could no longer see his great-grandfather or any other familiar thing.
THERE WAS ONLY THE ROAD.
Silas walked and walked, unsure of the time or of how long he’d been traveling. He knew he’d passed through the gates at late morning. Was it dusk now? The sky h
ad grown darker, and the land was now aglow with a golden, lingering light.
The road wound its way through the wood. Great trees formed into lines, flanking the road on both sides, casting wide shadows across the path. So large were these cedars, oaks, ash trees, and birches, that each looked as though it might have been planted on the first morning of the world. Their high limbs formed a canopy over Silas as he walked. When he looked up, stars seemed to descend from among the branches, and the air before him was suddenly alight with small white moths that flittered about the path, but parted like a tattered veil as he approached.
Farther on, the lines of trees became intermixed with slabs of stone, growing up from among the roots and boles. Long slim fingers of rock, crude gravestones, small tombs, carved granite sarcophagi . . . crawling up from the soft soil, crowding out the trees. Worn hexagonal stones paved the road, pushing up through the moss and leaf-mold. The path ascended and went over a small hill. What lay on the other side of the rise stopped Silas in mid-stride.
All along the roadway, a forest of monuments towered before him in mad Piranesian splendor. It was as if all the funeral structures of the world, from the earliest grave mounds to the most elaborate Roman tombs to delicately carved gothic mausoleums, had all been broken apart and erected here to form canyon walls rising above the avenue.
Among the tombs were massive carved busts rendered in marble, jade, jet, chalcedony, and quartz. Many of the faces felt familiar, bore what his mother might have called the “Umber look.” These adorned the tops of decorative columns, plinths, and pediments. Other pedestals bore skulls, some in their natural bleached state, others adorned with precious stones. In front of some of the older-looking tombs stood figures of tall youths in the Attic style, their plaited hair carved close to their heads, eyes blank, arms held straight down at their sides. Near these were tall fluted columns, on top of which perched stylized marble griffins, those ancient composite creatures once known as guardians of gold and the dead.
