by Ari Berk
Of all the money e’er I had, I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I’ve ever done, alas it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit, to mem’ry now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all.
Oh, all the comrades e’er I had, they’re sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e’er I had, they’d wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call, good night and joy be with you all. . . .
Mrs. Bowe’s voice trailed off, and she brought her fingers away from the glass bowls of the armonica.
“In memory of your mother,” Mrs. Bowe said. “She once favored such airs. I am sorry I couldn’t attend the funeral, Silas.”
“It would have been good to have you there.”
“I think you know my feelings on such matters as relate to those folk of your mother’s family that go that way. There would have been no need for my services in any event. Occasions such as that are not really appropriate for the living, I believe.”
“I attended.”
“I know you did, dear.”
“I was only saying it would have been good to have you with me.”
Mrs. Bowe wetted her finger, about to play again, but then paused and asked, “Is your mother truly among them now?”
“She is.”
Mrs. Bowe gently shook her head. In acceptance or disapproval, Silas couldn’t tell.
“And you? Are you well pleased to have her with you still, or does it . . . trouble you?”
“I don’t know how to feel, really. I’m trying not to think about it.”
Mrs. Bowe pursed her lips slightly. “I miss my father and mother. Their deaths were sad to me, but not mysterious. I love them very much. Love and longing go side by side in death, if all goes as it should. But now—”
“Now I can’t mourn her death, can I? I saw her lying dead on the table. So that is in my head. Then I saw her get up. And, of course, we’ve spoken. She is as she was—mentally, I mean. Better, maybe. More reasonable. So, partly, it’s like nothing has happened. But things have happened. I saw them. So now what?”
“Dear God, your poor heart, Silas.”
“Maybe it’s not for me to judge. It is what it is. She is still here. I mean, I don’t want her gone. . . . I think she is happy, in her way.”
“That does not surprise me. Anyway, it is very hard to avoid family traditions. Sometimes they simply must be accepted as part of ourselves.”
Silas nodded. She would know that, of course. As a wailing woman, much of her life had been dictated to her by custom and obligations. And so, he increasingly felt, was his.
“It is especially hard when we are not raised in those traditions and then are forced suddenly to accept them,” she said. “Even harder for those outside the family to accept.”
Silas paused. He could sense she wanted to tell him something.
“There is some talk in town, Silas, about the Restless. And if I’ve heard it, nearly everyone must know. People are scared.”
“So soon?”
“You speak like you know nothing of small towns. Gossip, like the dead, travels fast. A few hours, at most, is all it takes for everyone in the Narrows to know something; another hour or two for news to spread up into higher Lichport if it’s gossip worth hearing. Bad news runs fastest of all, for it has fear whipping it along. Don’t forget how small this town really is, Silas.”
“I know. But why such fear? They know who the Restless are. They’re just relatives, neighbors.”
“Yes. Some are your relatives. And relatives of others. But most people are displeased to see their kin return to them from their graves. They put them away for a reason. To the others in town, they are simply The Dead. Even here, in this necropolis, people fear the dead, Silas.”
“But the Restless have been here all along. They are all over Lichport.”
“Times have changed. There’s no mystery in this. People lay aside their ancient practices and customs as time goes on. It’s called assimilation, or wanting to be modern. Why do you think most people have left Lichport? Most folk, you’ll now find, just want a quiet life. Such a life doesn’t generally include corpses coming for tea.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Silas, if the Restless are known now, it is mostly through stories, or by family members who are trying to forget them. What the people in town see are the dead proceeding out of Newfield and walking out of ruined houses, and they believe you are the one who has called them up and out of their tombs, and that now your mother is one of them.”
“Well, that’s sort of true. I went to Newfield and invited some to my mother’s funeral because it was required. Others came too. It wasn’t a secret. What should I do now? How can I speak with everyone, tell them it’s okay?”
“You can’t. And it’s not okay to them. Most people think of where they live as theirs. How do you propose to dissuade them from believing that?
“So what are you saying? Some people hate me now?”
“I suspect they fear you more than hate you.”
“But I’ve helped some of them. They loved my father.”
“Yes, some loved him, but most feared him too. You really do not understand people at all, do you?
“Not living people, apparently. The dead, it seems, I understand perfectly.”
Mrs. Bowe walked over to him.
“Knowledge can be a burden, Silas. We both know that. And what of your recent journey? What did you learn, out there, at that house beyond the marshes?”
“I learned not to look back,” he said flatly.
Mrs. Bowe smiled, perhaps trying to draw back the conversation away from recent troubles. She reached out and held his hand.
“So, may we forget our hard words, then? Are we are friends again?”
“I’d like to be, but I think, Mrs. Bowe, I can never be a very good friend to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I know what you need, and you’re never going to have it so long as you’re close to me.”
“And what is that?”
“To feel safe. I will never be safe, and neither will anyone near me. My work will not allow it. But I can’t stop. I’ve crossed the threshold now, and there is no going back.”
Mrs. Bowe rolled her eyes and tried to laugh. “Heavenly Mother! But he’s his father’s son!”
“So, if you can accept that, then I can be your friend. I already know you’re mine. You have been from my first day here. A very dear friend.”
“Oh, Silas. If you only knew . . . I just don’t want to see any more harm come to you. Not after what you’ve been through, how you came into the world and now your parents, both your parents . . .”
“I can’t keep you from trying to help. After tonight, I know I mustn’t. But I’m asking you not to work against my wishes without talking to me, please.”
“I can do that, Silas.”
Silas put his arms around Mrs. Bowe. She gave him a tight squeeze, then kissed his cheek.
“I imagine you have missed your own bed.”
“I can’t tell you how much.”
As Silas turned to make his way back to his side of the house, Mrs. Bowe, hearing the loud squishing of his wet shoes said, “Oh, Silas, the carpets! You really must clean yourself up.”
Silas looked back and saw watery footprints behind him. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Bowe,” he said, leaning over, trying to take off his shoe. As he pulled at it, he stumbled backward, bumping into the table holding the crystal and candle. The crystal rocked in its stand but remained where it was. The candle fell over and rolled toward the table edge. In several places, where its wick touched the tablecloth, the lace caught fire. For a brief second, Silas and Mrs. Bowe stared, unable to move. Three flickering blue flames rose from the cloth as the candle rol
led off the table and fell to the floor. Silas whipped off his heavy outer coat and threw it over the end of the table, immediately extinguishing the small fires.
Mrs. Bowe was still staring at the air where the flames had been. Her face had gone pale.
“What does it mean?” Silas asked in a low voice.
Mrs. Bowe looked at him and tried to compose herself. “Oh, Silas, there is no need for so much superstition. Besides, there are a hundred ways to read an omen.”
But her words rang hollow. Gently, Silas pressed her as he brushed off his coat. “I thought we’d just agreed to be more honest with each other?”
“Yes. You’re right.” Mrs. Bowe looked intently at the table, at the pattern of the burn marks on the lace. She closed her eyes and slowly turned, raising her hand, pointing to the wall, through it, and beyond. “Look to the east,” she said.
Silas pulled his coat on and ran outside.
The moon hung over the town, a pale and distant thing. The stars had fled. In the east, over the Narrows, smoke was rising, and above the uneven rooflines and teetering chimney stacks, the firmament was smeared with blood.
LEDGER
Joyous bird, heir to thine own life!
Death, who weakens the work of all, but gives thee strength . . .
. . . no destruction shall overcome thee;
Enduring body, you shall live to see the earth subdued;
Against you the Fates gather not up their threads,
powerless to do thee harm.
—RETRANSLATED BY AMOS UMBER FROM HENDERSON’S 1922 EDITION OF CLAUDIAN, VOL. II
THREE STARLINGS SAT IN A tree as the house on the corner of Coach and Silk Streets was burning. On thin cords about the birds’ necks, each wore a small bone awl.
In the street in front of the house, before a circle of ashen sigils, stood a specter wearing a sharp-tipped silver crown. He held an iron rod in his hand and pointed at the circle, shouting into the air where cinders rose, gathered, and pressed themselves into foul, winged shapes that flew at the house and added to the fury of the fire.
The starlings coursed swiftly over the Narrows to survey the damage. The roofs of several other houses were burning. It might have been worse. Passing low over the streets, they overheard voices blaming Silas Umber, who “carried grief with him back to Lichport.” Who “went out into Newfield and woke the dead.” Who “burned some kind of pyre at his mother’s funeral,” and now “she’s one of them, and who’s to pay the price for all their irregularities? Regular folk, that’s who!”
Beating their black, jewel-feathered wings swiftly, the three starlings left the conflagrations and the complaints behind and flew east over the Bowditch family cemetery and down Temple Street. They landed in front of Temple House and there assumed their more habitual forms.
“Well, and hasn’t our little man been busy?” said the second of the three.
“Indeed, and haven’t we suffered as well for his lack of good sense? Was he born in a barn? Can’t he close a door?”
“I think we’re owed something,” mused the first of the three. “At the very least, a little hospitality.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could reside with a bachelor,” said the third. “Really, I simply cannot abide untidiness.”
“Yes, boys make unpleasant roommates. But his is not the only unpaid debt due to us,” said the second. “And, if we’re all thinking out loud, I must say, I believe it’s time we went back to temple living. A house is so common. But a temple . . . that must always be accounted very fine. . . .”
“Here? Truly?” asked the third of the three. “She didn’t even invite us to her funeral.”
“Indeed,” said the first. “She owes us, so I think we shall find the rent most agreeable. And look at the proportions. The house will be more than accommodating. And she hasn’t a friend in town to help fill all those rooms. She’ll be glad of the company, I warrant you.”
“Unlikely,” said the third.
All three laughed together.
“Besides,” said the second, pulling small downy feathers from her long hair, “Dolores Umber’s needlework is more than passable. And now she has so much time to fill. With a little patience, who knows what might yet become of her? I still predict an impressive career could be in her future. All’s a bit of a tangle now, but it may come right for us. She may yet serve. Let us look upon her as an investment—”
“And keep a good eye on her,” concluded the third.
The three walked up the front path and onto the porch.
“Shall we knock?” asked the second.
The first of the three smiled. “Don’t be absurd. This is our home now. Might as well make ourselves comfortable.” But as the three moved toward the heavy iron door, it opened. Dolores Umber stood in the doorway, her animated corpse limned in light from the chandelier hanging behind her in the foyer.
“What took you so long?” Dolores said. She clicked her tongue. “Ladies, won’t you come in?”
“Yes,” said the first without hesitation, striding past Dolores and across the threshold. “We most certainly shall.”
LEDGER
At this time, it was not uncommon to learn of dog burials within the smaller and more rural cemeteries and churchyards. It was believed that the spirit of the last body to enter the hallowed ground would become the Watcher, a soul charged with standing guard over the corpses of its fellows. Few aspired to this honor, and the custom of burying a black dog after human interment began. The poor creature’s spirit was bound then to the earth, to serve as guardian, until the time of the next burial. But then, another dog might be put in the ground then too, to keep up the watch and save the next human soul the trouble. And so, such burial grounds became like kennels for those who could see them rightly. Leaving aside the general unpleasantness for the poor animals, it must be admitted that this was, and is, a very ancient practice, hearkening back to the foundation and hearth sacrifices of antiquity and perhaps still practiced in the most primitive of towns and villages.
—FROM THE PAMPHLET GRAVE NEIGHBORS BY RICHARD UMBER
Est Nobilis Ira Leonis
“The wrath of the lion is noble”
—MARGINALIA OF RICHARD UMBER
THE AIR OF THE TIGHT Narrows streets was thick with smoke.
Narrows folk were running buckets down to the sea and back, hurling water onto the burning roofs of houses.
“What’s happened? Did you see who lit the fires?”
Silas moved among them, asking what he could do. Some did not see him. Others turned away, refusing to look him in the eyes as he passed. But Silas could hear them whispering to one another. Some muttered loudly and deliberately.
“The dead are put away for a reason,” said one.
“They have their place. We have ours.”
“They infect the very air!”
“Did you see the bone-fire on Temple Street? Who lit that, I wonder!”
“. . . not the first Umber to bring a curse upon the town!”
So they thought he’d done it, or that by going to Newfield before his mother’s funeral, he’d called up the dead and the corpses had cursed the town. None of it made any sense. But when he looked at the desperate faces of the people running with their buckets, trying to save their homes, he knew it was fear and not good sense driving their minds.
Silas stepped forward into the middle of the lane, but before he could speak, Joan Peale grabbed his arm and pulled him back against one of the cottages, saying, “It’s always the smallest mind that’s the first to turn, my mother says. And hasn’t tonight proved it!” She moved him out of the lane and under the shadow of a wall.
“Joan! What have they seen?”
“Nothing but the fires. But, Silas, the flames rose up from nowhere. The sound of a horse’s hooves rang upon the cobbles and there was terrible laughter in the air. Folks are scared half out of their wits and speak of the Dark Huntsman. I’d have laughed it away—my mother told such tales to me as a child
—but, Silas, I saw those fires myself . . . just dropped out of the air and onto the roofs, and I heard the laughter. Can you tell me nothing?”
“They are not entirely wrong. But the specter is not here for you. It’s come for me.”
“Oh, Silas!”
“I should speak with your mother,” he said.
“She has taken ill and gone to her bed. My mother feels so for this town. She whispers in her sleep about it. Her dreams tell her the town harbors an illness, and it must be driven out. She says it will come for the firstborn. She says her illness is a portent of more sickness to come. She told me what’s befallen her is what’s comin’ for others that is first born too. Others have heard her. They think she means you’re the cause of this.”
“What?”
“I know she doesn’t. She loves you like her own son.”
“Your mother’s right. I was followed from Arvale by a very terrible spirit, and now, unable to kill me, it will continue to put its hatred on Lichport and trouble whatever and whomever it can. It is this spirit who has set the fires in the Narrows. I’ll try to find a way to get rid of him, but for now, we must drive him from the Narrows so the fires can be put out. I’ll try to lead him away, but I need you to help me.”
“If can help, I will,” said Joan.
“Go ring the soul bell.”
“Now?”
“The sound of the passing bell keeps evil spirits from harassing the souls of the dead. It may help drive Cabel—” Silas stopped himself. The town already believed that Silas was somehow responsible for the trouble. How much worse would it be if they found out it was one of Silas’s own ancestors attacking them? “Joan, evil spirits are driven before the sound of the bell. I think it will help.”
“But is it right to ring it when none of our own have died?”
“Joan, someone is always dying. Ring the bell and keep ringing it until the spirit is gone and the fires are out! I’ll try to draw him away.”
Without another word, Silas ran. His feet pelted the hard cobbles, and twice he slipped on the icy stones of the street. He came up Dogge Alley and turned onto Silk Street, looking up every alley he passed for any sign of Cabel Umber. From what Joan had said, it sounded like no one had actually seen him. As he approached the corner of Coach, he considered using the death watch to find Cabel, but the street was already glowing in reflected fire.
