by Ari Berk
By the work of the Brotherhood, the idol had been here preserved.
Here is providence indeed, thought Cabel.
And without another thought, Cabel Umber began speaking the words that would rouse the god of plague from its sleep within the stone.
Nergal!
Lord of Pestilence!
Raging King!
God of Plague!
Oh, terrible god of wrath, awaken!
Let your evil fever fly up!
Let it fall upon the bodies of the firstborn!
Now it pierces with teeth of fire.
Now it poisons and consumes their bodies.
Rise up, oh flame of pestilence, and go forth!
Shroud our enemies in fire
so that they may perish
and you may be fed!
And from that low and hidden place, that sepulchre of old gods grim and long forgotten, a vapor poured from the statue of Nergal and rose, twisting like the cords of a hanging rope, up and through the stones of the chamber’s ceiling, through rock and soil, up and past the frozen earth and into the air of Lichport. There it joined the night winds, and formed a miasma of poison fumes, yellowed by evil and hatred for the living. The airborne curse sought chimneys, cracked windows, and the gaps beneath doors. It writhed along the floors of cottages and mansions both, and when it found the throats of the firstborn, it settled into the flesh as fever.
All that night and into morning, Cabel Umber gibbered his song of sickness with delight.
Fever come and strike the heart like lightning.
As shadow
it is born.
As a poison breath
may it pass into the mouths
of the firstborn.
Hold them in your hands, O Death,
And put them into the earth!
And he beat his chest in supplication to that god of distant Babylon, welcoming pestilence, again and again, into that town he sought by terrible spell to put beneath his thumb.
The cold earth around Temple House was awash in a dark miasmic mist. It seeped up from below the ground and flowed along the streets of upper Lichport. Freezing winds pushed it through the town, where it washed like waves into the sides of houses and crept in tendrils under doors.
When the mist reached Coach Street, the winds fell, and it flowed fast down into the Narrows, pooling in its alleys, coursing through its lanes. Many in the Narrows took ill. Some blamed it on the cold winter. A few, who saw the mist rise or had heard rumors, spoke the name of Silas Umber with blame and anger in their voices.
The pestilence was quick and, like a hunter, it sought the weak out first.
A few of the elderly fell that night. Two old sisters in a cottage on Pearl Lane were found dead in their parlor by a neighbor. Parents wrung their hands as they stood over their children’s fever beds. And where the mist found the firstborn of Lichport, it was especially harsh. The mist clung to them, and choked them and bound up their breath. Some feared they would not survive the night. Poultices were applied. Medicines taken. Cold cloths were placed upon the brows of the feverish.
Sick or not, few slept that night.
Those that were inclined prayed continuously to whatever gods still listened to the prayers of the people of Lichport.
And Mother Peale, who had already succumbed to a winter chill, was struck by a fever that lit madness in her mind. She ranted in her bed and threw her head from side to side, even as some of her neighbors, sick with fear if nothing else, filled her cottage to bring her comfort and wait out the long night.
LEDGER
Come, therefore, blooms of
settled mischief’s root:
Come, each thing else what fury
can invent,
Wreak all at once! infect the
air with plagues,
Till bad to worse, till worse to
worst be turn’d!
Let mischiefs know no mean, nor
plagues an end!
—FROM THE MISFORTUNES OF ARTHUR, BY THOMAS HUGHES, 1587. MARGINALIA OF AMOS UMBER
. . . Also sometyme the blind beteth and smiteth and greveth the child that ledeth him, and shall soone repent the beting by doing of the child. For the child hath mind of the beting, and forsaketh him and leveth him alone in the myddle of a brydge, or in some other peril, and techeth him not the way to void the peril.
—FROM TREVISA’S BARTHOLOMAEUS ANGLICUS, 1398.MARGINALIA OF JONAS UMBER
Now is afraid of thee,
all thy kin . . .
—FROM THE MIDDLE ENGLISH POEM “DEATH,” TRANSLATED BY JONAS UMBER
THE AIR OF THE NARROWS was foul, as though something dead had been unearthed from below the cold stones of its streets.
No wind moved down its lanes. No salt breezes came in off the sea to wash the staleness from the air. Silas hardly noticed.
He would have walked past Mother Peale’s house. He didn’t want to talk. The sooner he reached the anonymous barstools of the Fretful Porpentine the better. Or maybe he would walk past it, into the abandoned warehouse district, or out onto one of the rotting wharfs. He just needed to walk. But as he approached Mother Peale’s house, despite the early hour, the lights were blazing. He heard voices and his name spoken sharply.
So he stood by the window, listening, and in only a few minutes had learned what certain of the Narrows folks thought of him now. Some had very suddenly fallen ill that night. He hadn’t heard how many, but enough that their relatives were ready to believe the sicknesses were all somehow connected.
“You can bet it’s the Umber boy who’s done it to us!” cried the voice of Mrs. Halliwell. “Fires in the Narrows and ghost lights seen about the millpond. All those corpses walking right out of Newfield! Who do you think invited them?”
“Don’t speak so against him in this house,” said Joan Peale.
“The truth has always been welcome in the Peale home,” continued Mrs. Halliwell. “Some of our folk are struck down, and all in a day! Unnatural, I call that! And more to come, no doubt. Like lightning out of the blue the sickness came on! Unnatural! Even now you can hear them coughing and crying out as you walk the Narrows. We all know it’s his fault. I don’t say he’s cursed us by intention, but whatever he’s been up to has gone a bad way, and who’s to pay the price? Us, it seems! Two of my cousins stricken with the fever. And your own mother, Joan! Struck down! Those who have fallen have all been firstborns. So how do I know Silas Umber is the cause? Why, isn’t he himself a firstborn child? And has he taken ill?”
“No!” someone shouted. “He’s right as rain! I’ve seen him, this very night, walking along the waterfront!”
“So that proves it,” said Mrs. Halliwell.
“Witchcraft!” yelled someone.
“It’s them dead folk coming back. That is the cause! It’s been years since any of those Restless have been seen on the streets. But since Silas Umber has returned, here they are, up and about again! The boy’s own great-grandfather has come out of Fort Street. To the store! And now the rest of them. They followed him out beyond the marshes to the old Umber place. Then the other night! Right out of Newfield they followed him. Does anyone here find comfort in that? It’s them that’s brought about this sickness, you can be sure of it!” said Mrs. Halliwell.
“Well, look at the mother!” said another. “He could be one of them. Or worse. Umber and Howesman . . . what do you even call one of those?”
“Enough! Any more talk like that and you can all get out of this house and never come back. My mother wouldn’t stand for it, and neither will I. Just wait until one of your own dead needs settling! Who will you run to then? And don’t forget the season! We’ve always had bad fevers and agues when the weather turns, this close to the sea. And I am sure not every firstborn in Lichport has taken ill. Who could know that already? Have you spoken, Mrs. Halliwell, to every family in town? I reckon you have not! Don’t borrow trouble or you make it so!” Joan shouted over the rising protests.
“T
here’s no question those Umbers are useful. No one is saying they ain’t, but only as far as they keep trouble away. This one’s invited trouble right into town. Left the old Arvale gate wide open, I’ve heard and all! And Joan, you can’t deny, there is something not right about Amos’s boy.” Silas couldn’t put a name to the voice, but it was one of the older Narrows men.
Mrs. Halliwell chimed in again. “Joan Peale, you can’t tell me there isn’t bad blood run right through the Umbers. Charles Umber, who got up to God knows what just down the street from the house where I raised my children! And who can say when bad blood rises to the surface. Remember from where the dyer’s hand takes its color? From the work! From. The. Work. Is there anyone here who wasn’t at least a little afraid of looking Amos Umber in the eye, even when he’d done your family a good turn?”
More mumbling assent rippled across the room.
“So don’t lecture me on what I can worry about and what I can’t, Joan Peale. Maybe your mother’s only been so kind to the Umbers to stay on their good sides all these years . . . and now look where that’s gotten her! Flushed with fever, thrashing in her bed. And for that matter, since no one’s answered my question, why ain’t Silas sick? Free of trouble: caused the trouble, I say!”
Mrs. Halliwell was ranting and trying to incite the others. Perhaps not wanting to fuel the rising fires of accusations, Joan ignored the question, but said, “Well, what are you suggesting we do, send Silas from town? Where could he go? He’s got kin here. Silas can’t leave, if that’s what you’re saying. This is his home! Who would be the Undertaker?”
“What kin has he got? All of ’em’s dead, one way or another!”
The room erupted in voices, some shouting, some beseeching others to be calm, but there was no quieting the room. People were scared and needed to talk, or yell it out. Silas waited a little longer, but the clamor wasn’t subsiding. He opened the door and went inside.
The moment he entered the room, every voice went silent.
Joan Peale ran up to him and took his hand. “Silas, come in. You find a place near the fire and warm yourself. You’re cold right through! Let me bring you something.”
“No. There’s nothing I need.”
Every eye was on him. Silas looked at the floor.
Again, Joan Peale jumped in the gap. “The fires are all out. I think all’s well. Everyone was just leaving.”
“I’ll go,” said Silas. “I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your gathering. I shouldn’t have come.” He looked around the room; most avoided his gaze.
“He’s sorry, he says. Now he’s sorry. Half the Narrows scorched and he’s sorry!” said Mrs. Halliwell.
Silas said, “I suppose my apology isn’t much help to you.”
“Help? Some help! What help are you?” she snapped.
“You’re right. What would you like me to do? Cast a spell? Conjure a ghost? How would you like me to magic it all away for you?”
No one answered.
“No. Really. I will die trying to make sure everything is just how it was and you can get back to living out your days while the town falls down around you. You fear the dead? Most of you act as though you are dead already. Hiding in your houses. Only coming out to accuse someone who is your friend and would help any of you who asked. I heard what you said a few moments ago. Is that how neighbors speak of one another?”
Mrs. Halliwell gasped at the word “dead.” People began moving about the room, whispering in each other’s ears. Some of the women made signs over their chests with their fingers, muttering desperately. Others hung their heads, ashamed to have had their harsh words heard.
“You know, I never asked to be Undertaker. You assumed I would take over my father’s work, and I have. If I step down, you will have to see to your own dead, all by yourselves. And when everything goes wrong, and this town is thick with ghosts and homeless corpses, well, you’ll have only yourselves to blame then and no one else to turn to.” Silas shook his head in frustration. “You know, the Restless are your kin. Or the kin of your neighbors. Why not welcome them? For God’s sake! They’ve been here all along. You can’t shut your eyes to the world around you.”
“You see? He has no fear of it—whatever it is that brought sickness on this town. That’s because it’s him that’s done it!” screamed Mrs. Halliwell.
Joan Peale got up again, but Silas stepped in front of her.
“You’re right. I am not afraid. But that’s because I know what’s out there. And behind that darkness, there is more, and I’ve seen that, too. I also know that when you turn your back on shadows instead of facing them, more shadows come.” He turned his head, making eye contact with all of the people in the room. Most looked down again and avoided his stare. “There is something out there. Something very terrible, very old.”
“What is it? Tell us!”
“It would not help your fears to know what is haunting this town. But rest assured, it is hungry. It set the fires.”
Terror lit the faces of the room.
“But I will find a way to put it down.”
Silas stood away from the fire, moving closer to the door. “I think we all know that ghosts are not your real problem. Ghosts are everywhere here. You’re afraid of something else.”
“Oh? Yes? How’s that?” Mrs. Halliwell called out.
“It’s the most common thing in the world, and so long as you fear it, you will be miserable every day of your lives. Death is what you fear. And it’s waiting for each one of us. But Death is calm and patient. One way or another, our time is running out. If not today, then tomorrow. So go back to your homes and let me get on with my work of keeping the shadows off you a little longer. Just remember as you close your drapes tight and lock your doors against the night: Many of you stood in my father’s house and shook my hand and drank at his funeral. I have helped you before and will continue to do so as best I can. When the ghost of the lighthouse sent nightmares across the Narrows, who ended them? Who brought peace at last to the Sorrowsman of Dogge Alley? Please remember this when you’re condemning the only person who . . . when you speak of driving me out of the only place where I’ve ever felt, ever known. . . .” His voice broke. Silas turned his back on the assembly, and said, “Who are you to judge me? To weigh my heart and deeds upon a scale when you have repeatedly asked the Umbers for help and expected us to serve you?”
Silas’s lip curled. “You know, when I came in, many of you were walking about the room counterclockwise, widdershins. Very unlucky. You should be more careful with yourselves. Who knows who might be the next to fall?”
People drew away from him.
“Silas, this is not helping,” whispered Joan, pulling at his arm.
“I’m just being honest with them,” said Silas, not lowering his voice. “If they are determined to see the devil in every corner, then they should take precautions. Not walk under any ladders, or let any black cats cross their path!” He began to shout. “Beware the dog that barks at your door! And the sound of bells at night! And chirping crickets! All those are dire portents.”
“Silas! Enough,” said Joan.
Silas pulled away from her. He looked at the room. He’d only added to their fear. He needed to calm them, not berate them. He had chafed under their judgment. Wasn’t this precisely why he had himself backed away from some of the more terrible rites at Arvale? He felt, in his heart, that there was peril in the act of judgment. Peace must be sought another way.
He turned back to the room. His voice was steady, measured. “Listen to me now, all of you. Your fears are real and understandable. Something terrible has come among us. It is very old, very strong. But it is a ghost, and no ghost is all-powerful. Each one is a puzzle, and I haven’t figured this one out yet. But I will. I will find a way to put it down, or bring it the Peace. I am asking you for patience. Patience and trust. Nothing more. Can you give me that?”
Most of the people in the room nodded. Mrs. Halliwell drew up her shawl and stormed out. A few
followed her.
What else could he have said to them? It wasn’t their fault people were sick with fever, a ghostly pestilence brought down on Lichport by his ancestor Cabel Umber. Silas should be the sick one. His mother had already borne the weight of a curse meant for him, now Mother Peale and other firstborn of Lichport families were suffering on his account. A few had just lost their homes. Of course they blamed him. There was no point yelling at them about their fears and intuition. They felt it was somehow Silas’s fault. It was his fault. For who had led Cabel Umber back from Arvale by the breaking of a vow?
As he was about to leave, Silas paused.
“Joan, I’d like to pay your mother my respects. May I see her?”
Joan Peale hesitated, but then said, “Of course, Silas. You know the way. I’ll tend to the others.”
On the wall outside of Mother Peale’s bedroom, a mirror hung. Silas paused and stared at his reflection. The glass was dusty, but he could see how awful he looked. His hair was disheveled and his coat was wrinkled. Dark crescents colored the skin below his eyes. He straightened his coat, knocked lightly on the door, and went in. Mother Peale lay on her bed in the dim light. Her brow was covered in sweat and she was moaning softly.
She turned toward the door. Her eyes were open, but she said, “I cannot see you. Come closer. Who comes here from the field of flowers? I will not be taken.” She threw her head to the side.
Silas could smell the sickness in the room, the sweat in the bedclothes and sourness of her breath. There was a shadow upon the quality of the air, and dark, barely audible words were woven through it. This was curse and no natural contagion; more confirmation of Cabel Umber’s wrath. Yet Silas wondered why, as Mrs. Halliwell had said, as a firstborn child he had not gotten sick? He felt fine. Maybe he hadn’t succumbed to the fever yet. Maybe it was only a matter of time?
