Nathaniel

by John Saul

  A moment later she felt the soft folds of a blanket.

  Her heart began to beat faster as she worked, and then she pulled the object she had uncovered free from the earth that had hidden it.

  She stared at it for a long time, afraid to open it, afraid it might actually be what she thought it was.

  But she had come too far to turn back now. With a shaking hand, she folded back one corner of the blanket.

  She could only stand to look at it for a second. Already, the flesh had begun to rot away, and the skin was entirely gone from the skull. Her stomach lurched, and involuntarily, Janet dropped the tiny corpse back into its grave. Her face pale, her whole body trembling now, Janet turned to gaze at her son.

  "How did you know?" she breathed. "How did you know?"

  "Nathaniel," Michael said, his voice steady. "Nathaniel told me."

  "Where is he?"

  Michael fell silent for a moment, then his eyes filled with tears.

  "He's gone home," he said. "He's gone home to die."

  Michael stopped, his eyes fixed on the window of his room. Janet, too, stopped. Following Michael's gaze, she looked up. The house was dark except for a single, oddly flickering light that glowed from Michael's window. Shadow bounded ahead to scratch eagerly at the back door.

  "What is it, Michael?" Janet asked.

  "Nathaniel. He's here. He's in my room."

  "No," Janet whispered. "There's no one here, Michael. There's no Nathaniel." But even as she said the words, Janet knew she no longer believed them. Whatever Nathaniel was, whether he was someone real, or a ghost, or no more than a creature of Michael's imagination, he was real. He was as real to her now as he was to Michael, and to Anna.

  Slowly, Janet moved toward the back door of the house. Michael followed her, his face suddenly gone blank, as if he was listening to some being that Janet couldn't see.

  She pulled the door open, and reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. Shadow slipped inside, immediately disappearing through the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Janet could sense the presence in the house now, and her instinct was to flee, to abandon the house to whatever had invaded it, to take Michael and run out into the darkening night.

  Instead, she went into the living room and picked up the poker that hung from the mantelpiece. Then she turned, and as if in a trance, moved toward the foot of the stairs, and started up.

  Michael followed. Once again, his head was pounding, and once again, his nostrils seemed filled with smoke. And once again, Nathaniel's voice was whispering in his head.

  "This is my house, and I have come home."

  Michael moved on, his vision starting to cloud.

  "This is my house, and I will never leave it. Never again."

  They reached the landing. The presence of Nathaniel was almost palpable. Shadow, too, was there, his great body stretched on the floor in front of Michael's door, a strangled whimpering coming from his throat.

  "This was my mother's house, and this is my house. I will not leave my house again."

  Michael stopped, staring at the closed door, listening to Nathaniel's voice, knowing what Nathaniel was going to ask him to do.

  Janet, too, stopped, but then she moved forward again, and put her hand on the knob of the door to Michael's room.

  She turned it, then gently pushed the door, letting it swing open.

  In the center of the room, his empty blue eyes fixed on her, his ashen face expressionless, Nathaniel stood, illuminated by the soft light of an oil lamp.

  "This is my house," he said. "I was born here, and I will die here."

  Janet recognized them all in the strange face she beheld. It was an ageless face, and it bore no emotion, and all of them were there.

  Mark was there, and Amos.

  Ben Findley was there.

  And Michael was there.

  For endless seconds, Janet searched that face, her mind reeling. Even now, as she saw him, she still was uncertain if he was real or only an apparition.

  "Who are you?" she breathed at last.

  "I am Nathaniel."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want what is mine," Nathaniel replied, his toneless voice echoing in the small room. "I want what was taken from me. I want—"

  "No!" Janet suddenly screamed. All the torment that had built inside her over the last months, all the tensions, all tht fears, overwhelmed her now, focusing on the strange being in Michael's room. "No," she screamed once again. "Nothing. You'll get nothing here."

  She raised the poker, swinging it at Nathaniel with all the force she could muster. Nathaniel staggered backward under the blow, and then Janet dropped the poker, hurling herself forward.

  "Help me, Michael!" The words thundered in Michael's head as he watched his mother throw herself on Nathaniel. Then, again, Nathaniel's words came: "Help me!"

  Everything Michael saw was fogged now, fogged by the smoke that was choking him, and by the sound of Nathaniel's words ringing in his head.

  "Help me, Michael. Please help me…"

  His mind began to focus, and Nathaniel's wish began to take shape within him.

  And then, as Michael silently commanded him, Shadow suddenly rose to his feet and launched himself into the room. To Michael, it was as if he was seeing it in slow motion: the dog seeming to arc slowly through the air, his lips curling back to expose his gleaming fangs, his ears laid flat against his head, droplets of saliva scattering from his jowls.

  "Help me!" Nathaniel's words filled the room now, battering Michael's ears as well as his mind.

  Then Shadow reached his target, his body twisting in midair and knocking over the little table that held the oil lamp as his jaws closed firmly on a human throat.

  A scream filled the room as the oil lamp burst, and flames suddenly shot in every direction. The bedcovers caught first, and then the curtains.

  Suddenly the room was filled with real smoke, and Michael understood with certain clarity that this was the smoke he'd been smelling all along, that Nathaniel, while showing him the past, had been showing him the future as well. And now he could hear his mother's terrified screams drowning out Nathaniel's bellows of pain and anguish.

  His fogged mind cleared, and he watched for a moment, frozen to the spot, as his mother began flailing at the quickly spreading fire.

  On the floor, his throat bleeding, Nathaniel lay calmly beneath the still attacking dog.

  "No," Michael screamed. He hurled himself into the room. "No, Mom. Stop it—it's too late! Out! We've got to get out!"

  Without waiting for her to reply, Michael grabbed her arm and began dragging her from the burning room.

  For Janet, none of it was real anymore. Not Nathaniel, not Michael, not even the fire. She was caught in her nightmare again, but this time, she had to save them. Her family was going to die, and she had to save them.

  She fought against the hands that restrained her, tried her best to stay in the burning room, tried to combat the growing flames.

  Then, out of the smoke, a great weight hurled itself against her, and she fell to the floor. She recovered herself and got to her knees, then once again regained her feet.

  But the weight was pressing at her now, pushing her toward the door, while the insistent hands still pulled.

  And then she was out of the burning room and on the stairs. Her mind began to clear, and she recognized Michael in front of her, pulling her along. Behind her was Shadow, barking furiously, prodding at her, his large body preventing her from going back up the narrow stairs.

  Then they were out of the house, huddled together in the yard, watching as the flames consumed the tinder-dry wood. Once, as she looked up, Janet thought she saw a face at Michael's window, but a second later it disappeared as the house crashed in on itself.

  Then people began to gather around her; first the Simpsons, then the Shieldses, and then others, until soon most of Prairie Bend was there.

  No one tried to save the house, no one tried to save a
nything that was in it: as the house burned, Janet's labor began.

  EPILOGUE

  "We'll take her to our house," Leif Simpson said.

  Janet lay on the ground, her head cradled in Laura Shields's lap. Her face, glistening with a film of perspiration, was a mask of pain made grotesque by the orange light of the fire. The first violent contraction of her premature labor had wrenched a scream from her lips, and only Buck Shields's strong arms had kept her from collapsing. But now she drew on what few reserves of strength she still had. "No," she whispered. "Anna's… I want to go to Anna's."

  "But there's no time, Janet," Ione protested.

  "There is," Janet gasped. "I'll make time. But I want to have my baby at Anna's. Please… please." Another contraction seized her, and she moaned.

  "I'll take her," Buck Shields said. "We'll put her in the back of the Chevy. It won't take more than an extra minute or two." He glanced at Ione Simpson. "Can you meet us there?" As soon as Ione had nodded, Buck leaned over and picked Janet up in his strong arms. "It's going to be all right," he told her. "We're taking you home." Janet sighed, and let her eyes close, blotting out the sight of the smoldering farmhouse, giving in to the pain that was wracking her body.

  As Buck carried her to the car, she numbly tried to remember what had happened that night, how the fire had started.

  But all she could remember was being at the kitchen table, then going upstairs to bed. A few minutes later, the house had burned.

  She had no memory of going out to Potter's Field that night, no memory of what she had found there.

  She had no memory of seeing Nathaniel that night.

  For in dying, Nathaniel had taken her memories of him with him.

  Ten minutes later, Ione Simpson arrived at Anna Hall's house, a determinedly cheerful expression masking the dread she was feeling. Janet's baby, she knew, was at least a month early, possibly more. And from the look in her eyes, Ione had known that Janet was in shock even before she went into labor. Nonetheless, she did her best to ease the fear that was plain in Michael's eyes as he sat in Anna's parlor, staring up at her. "Isn't this going to be exciting?" she asked. "Just like Magic foaling last spring, except this time you're going to have a baby brother or sister." Then, when Michael failed to react to her words, her tone changed. "Where's your mother?"

  "Upstairs," Michael replied in a dazed voice.

  "All right. Now, I want you to do something for me. I want you to find all the clean towels you can, and bring them into your mother's room. Okay?"

  Michael seemed to come out of his trance, and nodded.

  A few minutes later, his arms filled with folded towels, he appeared in the doorway of his mother's room. He stared at Janet, who was propped up against the pillows, her face drawn, lines of pain etched around her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with anxiety. "Does it hurt?"

  Janet said nothing, but Laura Shields took the towels from Michael and eased him out of the room. "She's going to be fine, Michael. She and the baby are both going to be fine."

  Michael gazed at the faces around his mother, but in none of them could he see anything to give him a hint about what was going to happen to his mother. His grandmother was sitting beside his mother, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, while his uncle hovered in one corner. At last, understanding that right now no one had time for him, Michael went back downstairs to wait.

  It was just after midnight, and Michael was in the parlor doing his best to shut out the sound of his mother's labor as it echoed through the house. Outside, the wind had begun to rise. He was alone—had been alone for hours as everyone in the house gathered upstairs to help with the delivery. Michael had wanted to be there, too, but his wishes had been denied. It would be easier for everyone, particularly his mother, if he stayed downstairs.

  He was lying on the sofa now, staring out the window into the darkness, listening as the wind rose, howling around the house. Then, slowly, in the back of his mind, he felt something reaching out to him. It was a voice, and though the words were unclear, he understood the meaning.

  Someone, somewhere, needed his help.

  There was something oddly familiar about the sensation. It seemed like something that had happened before, but that he had forgotten about.

  Then, as the wordless pleas for help became more insistent, the sounds of the wind and of his mother's agony began to grow dim. Unconsciously, Michael folded his arms over his chest, then drew his knees up, curling himself into a tight ball.

  There was something surrounding him. Something damp and warm, and very comforting. And then, slowly, he began to feel pressure on his head, and the damp warmness around him began to move, producing an undulating rhythm that seemed to rock him gently.

  The pressure on his head increased, turning into pain, and suddenly Michael moaned, a soft cry muffled by the damp folds that bound his limbs. The pain sharpened, and he felt as if his head was being crushed. Then the moist strictures of his bonds suddenly tightened around him, squeezing him, moving him…

  "It's coming," Ione said. "I can see the top of its head now. Bear down, Janet. It's almost over—just bear down hard."

  Janet, sweat running off her body to soak into the already damp sheets, groaned softly, and tried to comply with Ione's instructions. But it was hard—so hard.

  Suddenly Michael's bonds closed tightly around him. He felt as if he were being crushed, and he tried to fight against the restraints, but he had no strength. He screamed now, a long, high-pitched howl of agony.

  Shadow, who had been asleep on the floor, suddenly awoke and rose to his feet. He moved to the couch, paused a moment, whimpering, to lick at Michael's face, but if Michael was aware of the big dog's presence, he gave no sign. Then, with Michael's next scream, Shadow turned and trotted upstairs to lie by the door to Janet's room, his ears laid back against his head, his tail twitching nervously, an odd sound halfway between a whine and a snarl drifting up from his throat.

  In the parlor, the terrible pressure on Michael's head suddenly stopped. He tried to move his body, but couldn't. And then there was something else.

  Something seemed to be twisting itself around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

  He began struggling, fighting against the new restraint, but he couldn't get loose, couldn't throw it off. He could feel himself choking, feel himself beginning to gag.

  Then, in the distance, he heard a voice.

  "Here it comes," the voice whispered. "Here comes the pretty baby." Then: "Once more, Janet. Just once more."

  Suddenly the pressure on Michael's body increased, squeezing, squeezing him ever harder, and he could feel himself being moved forward.

  But with each forward motion, the pressure on his throat increased. There was no air now, and he could feel something strange happening in his brain. His sensations were growing dim, and his pain was easing.

  There was a blackness around him, a gathering darkness that threatened to swallow him up. For a moment, he fought the blackness, tried to fight his way into the light. In the end, though, the darkness won, and he gave in to it.

  "The umbilical cord," Ione Simpson gasped. The baby had stopped moving, only its head having emerged from the womb, and she knew instantly what had happened. "The cord's wrapped around his neck. It's strangling him. Hard, Janet. Bear down hard. Now!"

  With a final effort that was more sheer will than strength, Janet forced the last of her energy into her torso. Her body heaved on the bed, and she cried out in exhaustion and agony. But slowly, the baby moved.

  "Now," Ione whispered. "Now…"

  With sure fingers and strong hands, she grasped the baby's body and drew it forth from the womb. Working as quickly as she could, she cut the umbilical cord away from the child's neck, then gave it a gentle thump on the back.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried again, a little harder, then felt for a pulse.

  There was nothing.

  Her eyes left the baby for a moment and
scanned the room. Anna still sat by the head of the bed, her face pale and impassive. Laura Shields, her eyes fixed on the motionless infant, was crying, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. In the far corner, Buck Shields stood, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his entire body quivering with tension.

  "Like Laura's," he said softly. "It's like Laura's."

  Then, though she knew it was too late, and that there was nothing that could be done, Ione tried once more to bring the baby back to life.

  Michael opened his eyes in the dimly lit room. Upstairs, he knew, his brother had been born, and he'd helped in the birth. Already, he understood that the odd voice he'd heard in his head a little while ago had been his brother's voice, and that his brother had needed his help. And he'd given his help, taking on the pain of the birth as he would take on whatever other pain his brother ever felt.

  His brother, he knew, was his responsibility. It would be up to him to take care of the tiny child, comfort him when he was unhappy, tend to him when he was sick.

  And protect him from evil.

  Michael got up from the sofa and started slowly up the stairs. As he approached the landing, Shadow got to his feet, then moved slowly toward Michael, his tail low. He whimpered softly, then licked at Michael's hand.

  Michael opened the door to the room in which his mother lay, and stepped inside.

  His gaze roved through the strangely silent room, drifting from one face to the next. Finally his eyes fell on the tiny bundle that was cradled in Ione Simpson's arms.

  "Let me see him," Michael whispered. "Let me see my brother." Ione hesitated, then slowly shook her head. "I'm sorry, Michael…" she whispered.

  "Let me see my brother," Michael repeated.

  Now it was Anna Hall who spoke. She rose to her feet and moved slowly across the room until she stood in front of Michael. "He's dead, Michael," she said quietly. "Your little brother was born dead."