by Frank Owen
‘Do we have anything edible? Feel like we worked up an appetite.’
‘I’ll see. Next time it’s your turn.’
‘You’re worse than Garrett.’
While he tied his bootlaces, Vida went through their bags and made up a breakfast: stonecrop, mostly, along with a hardboiled flycatcher egg, one each, small as a fingernail and almost as bad as eating nothing at all.
They ate sitting on the edge of the diorama, chowing down like two old-time cowhands who had found themselves thrown together on the dusty plains. The litter of egg shells flaked at their feet like confetti.
Then they gathered their things, already packed snug and ready for the day’s hike.
In the foyer, they both stopped and listened for wind outside – the droning hiss of it combing the grass, the faint tickle of sand on the wood.
Quiet.
Vida hated to say goodbye to the shelter of the museum. It was a happy place. A residual orgasmic shudder ran down her spine and arms, then all the way down to her feet so that she was earthed, electric. Lucky the storm’s not here yet, she thought. I am crying out for a lightning bolt.
Dyce opened the door and they were met with the orange glow of the sun hanging over the mountains. Dog Lady was gone.
‘Hang on,’ said Dyce.
Vida stopped, one boot dangling off the curb before they stepped out into the street.
‘What?’ She did the checks automatically: the horizon for wind; then turning quick to look up and down the street for animals, for bandits, for crazies; then over at Dyce for the sweats. So many things to fear.
‘Wait out here a moment.’
‘Why?’
‘I need a shit.’
36
They skirted the town and found no sign of the woman or her ghost dog. As they marched on south and the sun stood overhead, Dyce began to worry again that The Mouth might not exist. Everything he’d learnt about it had been hearsay – and with all the brain sickness circulating, word of mouth was hardly trustworthy. Since the viruses had arrived, the reports of sightings of mythical creatures had risen steeply.
‘You ever hear about the Bogum?’ he asked Vida.
‘The what?’
Whenever Dyce’s dad had turned on the radio, in the weeks before it died and no one was going to transmit anything, ever again, they heard about people being tricked into seeing monsters in lakes or shaggy humanoids loping freely through the countryside. It was as if the lid had been lifted on the underworld, thought Dyce, and all kinds of creepy-crawlies were working their way out.
‘The Bogum. The monster. Tall as a tree and covered in gray hair. He liked to watch women bathing in streams – and we ain’t talking no shampoo advert, either.’
Desperate traveling women would take their chance to get clean, leave their clothes hanging from a branch if they were smart, and then scrub themselves with handfuls of grit and herbs. If they had enough time, and no one else came along to interfere with them, Bogum would keep watching as they went on to rinse out their dirt-caked clothes. The story of every sighting ended the same way – with the woman hanging her clothes out to dry only to find the branch wasn’t part of the tree at all, but the leathery brown erection of the monster.
‘Garrett yukked it up every time he heard it.’
‘And did you think it was funny?’
‘Sure. I couldn’t help it. Come on! Think about it!’ Washing Line Richard was what they’d come to call him.
‘Dumbass. Those stories probably killed a couple more people.’
‘And how do you figure that?’
‘Too scared to wash properly. More infections. More likely to die.’
‘That’s the good Lord weeding out the stupid,’ Dyce said.
‘Not the good Lord.’
Deadly rumors weren’t bad news for everyone, though. Garrett had developed a pick-up line based on the story. He’d sidle up beside a woman and tell her that he had a terrifying secret, life-changing in magnitude. She’d ask what it was and he’d lean in close and take a hold of her arm.
‘It’s me.’
‘What’s you?’
‘I’m Bogum,’ he’d whisper.
The woman would laugh, and when she was done, Garrett would start up again – dead serious.
‘I’m not joking. It’s true. I can prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Come out back and I’ll show you the branch in my pants.’
Half the time it worked – they’d hustle out to some private space, leaving Dyce alone, red-cheeked and in awe of his brother. The other half of the time it was worth it just for the laugh.
Dyce smiled and Vida caught it.
‘What’s up?’
‘No, no. Nothing.’
They went along, sweating and itchy, but happy to be moving fast and unpursued. When they stopped for a break, sitting side by side on a log, Dyce offered up what he’d been thinking.
‘If The Mouth doesn’t exist, then I don’t know. What do you want to do? Maybe we could set up house somewhere round these parts. Keep a low profile.’
‘There’s the sea, isn’t there?’ Vida asked. ‘Isn’t that an option?’
‘Not for me. That was Garrett’s baby.’ He didn’t add, And I’m fucking terrified of water. Always have been. ‘We’ll find The Mouth pretty soon, I’m sure.’
‘Yeah.’
They got moving again, this time keeping close to a ridge line, always wary of the wind. The longer since they’d had to hibernate, the more anxious they got. They both knew from bitter personal experience that the best time – the safest – was always after a massive storm. These windless days wouldn’t last forever. The summer northerlies were coming and that would mean being locked away in some tiny space for weeks. The prospect didn’t seem so bad now that Dyce had Vida, and not just because of last night. There was a lot of talking they still had to do. He had never had to do that with Garrett since they’d known each other for ever. Brotherly love, Dyce told himself. It meant that there was no news to tell or fresh arguments to settle – just shared experiences to recount to one another over and over, and those lost their appeal soon enough.
The two dipped down into the valley, their path blocked by a crumbling cliff face that jutted out above. Before them the river looped and bent along the valley floor.
‘What’s the next marker we should be looking out for?’ Vida asked.
‘Not sure. Another ridge? Or else the one we’ve just walked is the one they meant.’
‘And after the ridge?’
‘A shallow river and one more hill.’
‘Let’s hope we have the same idea of shallow.’
They removed their boots and socks. Vida waded in, and the icy water slapped at her ankles and sent them numb. It would go right up to her waist, she saw. Manageable, and her clothes would get a good washing as they went. The best thing for bloodstains was cold water: every murderer knew that.
When they got to the other side, Dyce stopped to rub Sam’s blood from his pants.
‘Got to look presentable.’ He grinned at Vida, but it was no joke. They had to talk their way into the settlement: there was no other option.
The hill beyond the river was an easy climb, grassy underfoot with the odd shade tree. The two of them crested the rise. There were moments like these when Dyce was almost glad that the world had changed the way it did, when he felt like he was part of the living universe. Maybe I won’t mind all that much if I don’t track old Garrett down, Dyce told himself. It would be nice to carry on being my own boss.
He turned to Vida and got hold of her hand, and he squeezed it as hard as he could. He grinned and grinned at her. Maybe we’re looking for a place instead of a person, and maybe The Mouth will be it: heaven on earth, the new world.
They looked down at the mythical settlement.
‘We’re here. I can’t believe it. We’re actually here.’
And they were. From up high, they could see beyond the perimeter walls, i
nto an old mining town come to life again all these years after the shafts had surrendered their last nuggets of copper. Tiny fires were flickering, and people moved around the market just within the fence, then went on their way up or down the main street, which was edged with reclaimed structures.
And they could also see, right down at the cleft of the place, the tunnel entrance to the mines, black as night. The Mouth.
‘Comb your hair, Mister Allerdyce Jackson. That’s how they judge you. We are going to get ourselves in there.’
Dyce’s hands went to the tuft standing up on his crown, and he said, ‘Sure thing. But what are you going to do?’
37
The town was mostly inside the old perimeter wall – except for the lone building that stood outside, proud and unrepentant. It had the look of holiness: the original chapel, maybe. After a place gets treasure, it gets a saloon and a church round about the same time, Dyce thought, and usually for the same reasons. Now the wooden building leant on its splintery bones, a way station, neutral territory, with a decomposing outhouse settling beside it into the dirt.
‘More roof than walls,’ Vida murmured.
The steeple had once pointed straight up into the sky but had grown tired, sagging under the insistent prayers of the undeserving. Vida liked the specificity of it. Heaven was not just somewhere up above their heads: it was there. Her eye followed the line. Just left of the sun, apparently. Good to know.
‘Look at the graves,’ Dyce said. There were tidy rows beside the steeple, some sunken, all uneven with the passage of time. When they got closer they would be able to read the remaining headstones: mining accidents, mostly, and then car smashes and such. But there wasn’t time for the niceties now.
‘Where are the new ones?’
Dyce shrugged. ‘Inside?’
‘But why keep them so close?’
They went quiet. It had taken a year or so into the plagues before people could be held back from touching the bodies of their dead loved ones. Abandoning the last rites had seemed worse for some than anything that could come after. It was the grief talking, Vida knew. The grief and the regret. The infection reminder made her tug at the cloth mask against her neck. It seemed like a long time since they’d had to wear them.
‘Masks on,’ said Vida.
‘I know.’ Dyce patted himself down and adjusted his shirt. Then he pulled his mask up too. They walked to the door, which lay ajar to let the warm midday air circulate inside.
There were people inside the church, for sure. They could hear the voices, hushed conversation behind the door. Vida looked over at Dyce and then knocked on the wooden frame of the entrance.
The talking stopped. They heard the footsteps coming all along the length of the church, louder and louder as they drew nearer. Vida and Dyce stood back, squinting into the dimness.
A teenage girl appeared, pale, long black hair that reached down in strings to her waist. She wore a floral dress that had lost its elastic; she had to hold it up with one hand. In the other she was cradling a small cushion. At first they thought it was a baby, but that was just the way she was holding it.
Dyce knew he and Vida were thinking the same thing: that’s a witch if ever I saw one.
The girl looked out into the bright day, narrowing her eyes and lifting her lip in a snarl that the people behind her couldn’t see. But the ones in front of her sure saw it – all the way to the gumline. Her teeth were dingy at the roots. Dirty, thought Vida. But not sick, I’ll warrant. There’s some cold fire in this one.
‘Morning,’ the girl said. ‘What can I do for you folks?’
Dyce spoke through his mask. ‘Looking to join The Mouth. I’m Allerdyce and this is my wife, Vida.’
‘The Washingtons,’ Vida added, and Dyce flinched.
The woman leant against the doorframe and eyed Dyce, and Vida suddenly understood that the girl might have let him in if he was alone. But it was hard to tell her intentions. Maybe she would be fattening him up on cookies next – cookies or worse, because they weren’t going to waste good food on strangers. But she would keep coming back to feel how thick his fingers were getting as the weeks went by.
‘No space at The Mouth. We’re full up, and it’s a popular spot. It’s best you turn round and get back to where you were coming from. Sorry. So sorry.’ She grinned.
Vida and Dyce didn’t move.
Vida spoke. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m the welcoming committee.’
‘Well, you’re doing a terrible job.’
‘Welcoming’s for when there’s space. So like I said – best you get going before the wind blows through.’
Vida and Dyce weren’t buying.
‘Can we come inside and rest a while? We’ve had a long hike.’
The girl shook her head. ‘We’ve all walked a hard road to get here, cowboy. No room is no room.’
I wonder what little critters are crawling around on that scalp, thought Vida, apart from the stuff that’s going on inside her head.
It would have gone on, but they were interrupted. The voice seemed to come from above: the voice of God, Vida thought, except it shouldn’t be a falsetto. They all looked up to see a fat man leaning over The Mouth’s perimeter wall. He was holding himself up with effort, panting, his piggy eyes squinting against the bright light.
‘Leave those folks alone, Ester! It’s not your turn yet, either!’
The girl laughed, but she retreated like a guard dog called off, backing away from them slowly, dropping a small kiss on the cushion until only her dress moved in the gloom of the chapel.
‘I thought vampires couldn’t cross the threshold of a church,’ muttered Dyce. Vida elbowed him.
The fat man was still gasping. Eunuch, she thought. That’s what he reminds me of. One of those ladymen that used to take care of the sultan’s harem. Except that those guys paid a terrible price for their sheltered employment. They lost their balls.
‘This is your lucky day, travelers. There’s three spaces in The Mouth right now,’ he told them. ‘You want to wait in the church with the others and I’ll be out later to decide who gets the thumbs up.’
‘Thank you,’ Vida called, but he was gone.
‘Well, Ester seems nice.’
‘You noticed. Seemed to like the look of you, though.’
Dyce grunted.
‘S’pose we better go in.’
Inside the chapel Vida had to wait for her eyes to adjust, but Dyce could see better inside than in daylight. She stopped at the back of the church, and he took her arm. She heard Ruth’s voice in her head: This is the only way he’s ever gonna be walking you down the aisle, baby girl.
‘Thanks, Mama,’ Vida muttered. ‘Real helpful.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Nothing.’
The place smelt like old milk. Had they been keeping animals here? Cows or goats, maybe? At the front of the church a group of people was collected – some sitting in the remaining pews, some standing at the windows, grateful to have some high ground they could look out from. Ester was sitting down. Of course she was, thought Vida. Beside her in a row were three other women, and at first Dyce and Vida thought they were sisters. There was an uncanny paleness about them all, and they sat uncommonly still as the two travelers approached.
Not sisters, Vida decided. But with some weary sickness that was taking them the same way, like shaving a man’s head made anyone look like a criminal.
Across from the row of women was a family of three, two parents and a little boy of about five, Dyce guessed. The mother was thin as vapor, and all of them had the sweats. As they watched, she wiped the boy’s forehead with a green rag. She looked up and caught Dyce and Vida watching them, and tried to smile. You’re going to have to do better than that, lady, thought Dyce. You look nowhere near healthy enough to get into The Mouth. It was the look of an injured animal. When he and Garrett had seen that look on a bird or a rabbit, they ended up crushing its head with a stone, or wha
cking it with a stick behind the skull. There were some kinds of suffering that had to be brought to an end.
Dyce and Vida both tightened their masks, and the woman set her rag down. It was a raggedy T-shirt, Dyce saw. It looked like it had one of the Mister Men on it. He bet it would say MR HAPPY. The boy had not been able to travel without it, but now he was past caring. And he bet that when the boy gave up and died – and it was going to happen sooner rather than later – that mother would hold onto the rag even when it was making her sicker.
Dyce and Vida made their way to one of the last pews still bolted down, moving around a lone man sitting on the floor as they went. He was a white guy, middle-aged, the gray creeping into his hair almost as they watched. He was quiet but he was rocking, gently, the way someone who had loved him long ago might have done in the night, and he was weeping.
‘Looks like he didn’t get the memo about traveling alone,’ said Vida.
‘No harm in trying your luck, right?’
It seemed weird to be talking in church. They sat down, keeping their masks in place, waiting in silence as though the service would begin and a holy man would appear to tell them to turn to page sixty-four and sing verses two and three of ‘Jerusalem’.
Ester was whispering to the women in her pew. Vida thought, I am keeping an eye on you, sister. She had looked into Ester’s face and seen only calculation, a single-minded meanness that made Vida more afraid than any spoken threat. It was the same look she had seen in the narrowed eyes of Tye Callahan.
The girl had made up her mind. She handed her cushion baby to the next girl over and got up. Vida nudged Dyce. ‘Look who’s coming to visit with us.’
Ester sat down beside them. ‘Guess I owe you an apology.’
Vida shrugged. Dyce looked away. She could hear him breathing angrily through the cloth.
‘So I’m sorry about what I said outside,’ Ester was saying. God, she’s just a kid! Vida thought. ‘I was just trying to look after my own. Got to take care of the folks traveling with me, you know? No hard feelings, I hope.’
‘Rock-hard feelings,’ Dyce replied.
Vida looked at him, shocked. She hadn’t known mild-mannered Dyce to ever lash out; that was Garrett’s job. Ester had really got to him. Now the girl looked miserable. Vida felt herself feeling a little sorry for her.
