He looked at Matthew and nodded. “Don’t think you shall escape it. Someday you’ll see your world and not know it, and think it strange…monstrous, even. And you and your Englishmen will yearn for what was lost, and never be able to find it again, for that is the demon’s trick. To point the way forward, but to close the way back.”
Matthew ventured, “I suppose that’s called progress.”
“There is progress,” Walker agreed, “and there is rushing toward an illusion. The first takes wisdom and a plan, the second can be done by any drunken fool. I know how that story ends.” He regarded the watch again. “I will think of Mr. Oxley whenever I look at this. I will think of him hurrying through the night, toward a fortune that never existed, with a wagon full of mishaps of nature. And I will think that the greatest thing for a man—and maybe the hardest thing—is to make peace with the passage of time. Or…the stopping of his own time.” He returned the watch to the bag, and gathered up his cloak, his bow and quiver, and the belt with his knife. “It’s not raining anymore. I’ll find another place.”
“You can stay here.”
“No, I can’t. I won’t be far away, though. I believe we have four or five hours before light, so there’s still plenty of time to sleep. Take it while you can.”
“All right. Thank you.” It was all Matthew could think to say. He watched as Walker strode off into the dark beyond the fire, which seemed a familiar place for the Indian to be. At last Matthew lay down and tried his best to relax, if that would ever be possible again. But weariness is weariness, after all, and slowly he began to drift off. His last sense of anything was hearing the voice of a nightbird far away in the woods, which stirred some memory that did not linger, but departed on silent wings.
Twenty
SO,” said the Reverend, “you’ve had a good year, then?”
“Yes, sir. Very good,” Peter Lindsay answered. “A bumper crop of corn, apples a’plenty, and pumpkins still on the vine. You must have seen them, out in the field.”
“I did. Peter, you’re a blessed man. To have such a farm as this, and such a lovely family. I was speaking with a fellow not long ago about greed. You know, how greed can lead a man into the valley of destruction. It’s good that you’re not greedy, Peter, and that you’re satisfied with your position in life.”
“I am, sir, and thank you.”
“Well, we certainly need the glories of the farm, don’t we? Just as we need…” He paused, tapping his chin with one forefinger, which had a long and ragged nail.
“The glories of Heaven?” asked Peter’s wife, Faith, who was preparing the midday meal at the hearth across the room. Her kitchen was a glory of its own: clean and tidy, with walls of pale yellow pinewood, an orderly arrangement of cups and platters on shelves and in the arched fireplace itself the frying pans, trivets, spider skillets, iron pots, bake kettle, pot hooks and other vessels and tools that kept a home in operation and the family fed.
“Exactly that,” the reverend agreed.
The youngest child, Robin, had been helping her mother. Now she came toward the reverend, who sat at the head of the table nursing a cup of cider, and showed him something she’d brought from the other room. She was eight years old, blonde-haired, and very proud of her small embroidered pillow, which indeed had upon it the representation of a robin perched on a tree branch.
“I made this myself,” said the child.
“You did? How wonderful! Now, you’re saying your mother didn’t help you one bit, is that right?”
“Well…” The child grinned. Her eyes were a bright, warm blue, like her mother’s. “She helped got me started, and she helped got me finished.”
“Oh ho! But I’m sure there was a lot of work between starting and finishing.” He handed the pillow back. “Ah, what’s this, then?” The middle child, the thirteen-year-old tow-headed boy named Aaron, had come forward as well to show off his favorite possession. “A fine collection,” said the man as he took a small white clay jar and admired the bright variety of different colored marbles within. “How many do you have?”
“Twenty-two, sir.”
“And you use them for what purpose? Games?”
“Yes, sir. But just to look at, too.”
“I’d think any boy would like to have these.”
“Yes sir, any boy sure would.”
“Aaron?” said Faith Lindsay. “Don’t bother Reverend Burton, now.”
“He’s no bother. Not at all. Here you are, Aaron.” He returned the jar of marbles and then lifted his bearded chin slightly to gaze at the eldest child, who stood next to the fireplace in the process of helping her mother cook the cornbread, the beans, the baked apples and the piece of ham for this special occasion.
She was sixteen years old, with the pale blonde hair of her mother and sister, the same lovely oval-shaped face and high cheekbones, and the lustrous dark brown eyes of her father. She stared fixedly at Reverend John Burton, as she paused before spooning the beans into a bowl.
“Would you like to show me something, Lark?” the man prodded.
“No, sir,” came the firm reply. “But I would like to ask you something.” Sitting opposite the reverend, her father—a wiry man in his late thirties, wearing a blue shirt and tan-colored breeches, his face lined and freckled by the sun and his scalp bald but for cropped reddish-brown hair on the sides and a solitary thatch at the front—glanced quickly at her, his thick eyebrows uplifted.
“Go right ahead, please,” said the reverend, in a gracious voice.
“Why are your fingernails like that?”
“Lark!” Peter frowned, the lines of his face deepening into ravines. At the same time, Faith shot a stern look at her daughter and shook her head.
“It’s all right. Really it is.” Reverend Burton held his hands up and stretched the fingers out. “Not very attractive, are they? It’s a pity I couldn’t keep my nails like a gentleman ought to, among the Indians. My travels among the tribes unfortunately did not include weekly use of scissors. I presume you have a pair here? That I might use later?”
“Yes, we do,” Peter said. “Lark, what’s gotten into you?”
She almost said it, but she did not. I don’t trust this man. Even thinking such a thing of a reverend, a servant of God, was enough to make the red creep across her cheeks and her gaze go to the floorplanks. She began spooning the beans into the bowl, her shoulders slightly bowed forward with the weight of what she was thinking.
He looks at me too long.
“I am hungry,” the reverend said, to no one in particular. “Ravenous would be the word.”
“Done in just a minute,” Faith assured him. “Robin, would you put the cornbread on its platter?”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Get out the good napkins, Aaron.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He put the jar of prized marbles down on the table and went to a cupboard.
Lark Lindsay glanced quickly at Reverend Burton, and then away again; he was still watching her, with eyes the pale blue color of water. The water of Christ, she thought her mother and father might say. But she was thinking more of frozen water, like the pond in midwinter when nothing can drink from it. She finished spooning out the beans, set the bowl on the table in front of her father, and then her mother asked her to refill the reverend’s cup of cider from the jug so she turned her attention to that task.
He had arrived about an hour ago. Lark, her father and brother had been out in the orchard behind the barn, filling up more baskets from God’s bounty, when Aaron had said, Papa? Somebody’s on the road. Comin’ this way.
It was rare to have a visitor. The nearest minister lived on the other side of Caulder’s Crossing, which itself was almost eight miles south along the road. They had been overjoyed to have a guest, and Lark knew her father would take it as a sign of the beneficent grace of the Lord, which he talked about often. The land might be hard and the living a trial, Peter Lindsay said, but all you had to do to touch God in this country was t
o reach up. Which Lark had always thought was a roundabout way of saying that if you worked hard enough, God would reward you. But sometimes that wasn’t exactly true, because she remembered several years when everybody worked themselves to the sweat and the bones, but the crops were paltry and all reaching up did was give you a withered apple from a higher branch.
She refreshed the reverend’s cup of cider. He shifted his leg slightly; beside him, on the floor, was his haversack. My Bible is in there, he’d said. I like to have my Bible right next to me, where I can get to it fast when I see a sinner coming.
And Peter and Faith Lindsay had laughed—a polite laugh, seeing as how some preachers did not appreciate laughter—and Aaron and Robin had smiled to hear their parents laugh, but Lark had looked at Reverend Burton’s face and wondered why it was so scratched up, as if he’d been running through brambles.
“Momma? Momma?” Robin was pulling at her mother’s apron, the nice blue one with the yellow trim instead of the older scorched one she usually wore. “Is this all right?” She showed that the cornbread had crumbled and fallen apart a bit when lifted from pan to platter, but Faith said it was just fine, dear.
Upon his arrival, the reverend had made himself comfortable in the kitchen and had told them the story of his life: how he’d grown up as a vicar’s son in Manchester, and how he in his middle age had crossed the Atlantic on a vow to his father to bring salvation to the Indians. He had been among the savages for many months now, had carried the Lord’s light into many heathen hearts, but oh how he missed Manchester. England was calling him home, he’d said. There to find a new place of service, and new flocks to tend. “We’re pleased to have you here after you’ve travelled so long and far,” Peter said as Aaron brought the good napkins to the table.
“Long and far, indeed. And I’m so glad to find a place to rest. I fear my feet are blistered, as these boots are just a shade small. You have some very nice boots, I see. They look comfortable.”
“Yes sir, they are. Been broken in well enough by now, I’d guess.”
“Hm,” said the reverend, and he took a drink from his cup. The smoky-burnt smell of the ham was filling up the kitchen, as Faith always let the skin char just before she took it off the fire. Burton put his cup down and held it between both hands, and Lark could not help but take another furtive glance at the long, jagged nails. He had washed his hands and face in the kitchen bucket, and scrubbed the nails with a brush too, true enough, but the reverend smelled to Lark as if he had also gone long and far without a bath. Of course, if a man of God was out in the wilderness for months carrying Christ to the Indians then what opportunity might he have had for an encounter with soap? It was ugly for her to be thinking this way, she thought. Ugly as sin, to be throwing shadows on such a bright, sunny day as this one had dawned.
But she couldn’t help it, and she thought that later—when Reverend Burton had gone—she ought to confess her sin of haughtiness or pride or suspicion or whatever it was. And it wasn’t just the ragged nails that made her think of claws, either; it was the strange beard of many colors—dark brown, red, chestnut brown, silver—with a streak of charcoal black across the chin. God help her cleanse her soul of this sinful thinking, Lark thought, but it was the kind of beard that Satan might grow, the Devil wanting to be such a cock of the walk.
“Tell me, Peter,” said the reverend, as Faith and Robin began to bring the plates to the table. “I passed several houses back there that looked to be deserted. There are no people nearby?”
“My brother had a farm back that way. When his wife—rest her soul—died in ’99, he took the children and went to Philadelphia. Some of those houses are older; they were empty when we came here. You know, towns rise up and fall, and fall and rise up. But it is good land here, that’s for sure. And I’m hoping, with the beneficent grace of the Lord, that we won’t be alone in this valley too much longer. But the nearest people from here would be at Caulder’s Crossing, sir. About eight miles. A little hilly to get there, not bad.”
“And I’d presume the road connects somewhere to the Pike?”
“Yes, sir. On a few miles past the Crossing.”
“I’d presume also that Philadelphia is probably twenty or so miles?”
“Near twenty-five. Aaron, go get another chair. Faith, you and Robin sit on this side here, and Aaron can sit beside Lark.”
“Philadelphia is my destination. From there, I sail to England,” said the reverend. Faith set the ham platter at the center of the table, and alongside it the horn-handled knife sharp enough to slice through the burnt crust. “Another thing, if you please. Your barn. Might you have a horse I could ride to Caulder’s Crossing? As I said, these boots—”
“Oh, reverend! We have a wagon!” Faith said, as she put down the bowl of baked apples and sat beside Robin. “We’d be honored if you’d let us harness the team and carry you to the Crossing ourselves.”
“How delightful,” Burton answered. “This is truly an answer to a tired man’s prayer.” All the food was on the table. Aaron brought in another chair and sat to the left of Lark, who had taken a seat down by her father and was looking at Reverend Burton’s black tricorn hanging on one wall hook behind him, and at the long black coat hanging on another. He’d come in with that coat, which appeared to be far too small for him, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. His dirty, dun-colored clothing looked to have been worn day and night for God only knew how long. Still…months in the wilderness, with the heathen tribes.
“Reverend?” Faith looked at him, her blue eyes sparkling, the sunlight through the windowpanes shining in her hair. “Would you lead us in a blessing?”
“I certainly shall. Let us close our eyes and bow our heads. And let me get what I need, it will just take a moment.”
Lark heard the reverend open his haversack. Getting his Bible, she thought. Had he seen a sinner coming?
She heard a click, opened her eyes and lifted her head, and she saw Reverend Burton pull the trigger of the flintlock pistol he was aiming at her father’s skull.
Sparks flew, white smoke burst forth, and with a crack! that rattled the panes in the sun-splashed window a small black hole opened in Peter Lindsay’s forehead, almost directly between his eyes as he too looked up in response, perhaps, to some internal warning of disaster that was far more urgent than waiting for a minister’s blessing.
Lark heard herself scream; but it was not so much a scream as it was a bleat.
Her father went over backwards in the chair, slinging dark matter from the back of his head onto the pinewood wall. A hand reached up, the fingers clawing.
Reverend Burton laid the smoking pistol down upon the table, and picked up the horn-handled knife.
He rose to his feet, his chair falling over behind him with a crash. He grasped the nape of Aaron’s neck, as the boy looked up at him with a mixture of shock and wonder. Aaron’s mouth was open and his eyes were already dull and unfocused, like the eyes of a small creature that knows the predator is upon it. Reverend Burton drove the blade down into the hollow of the boy’s throat until the handle could drive no deeper. Then he let the handle go, and Aaron slithered off the chair like a boneless, gurgling thing.
The reverend’s gaze moved across the table. The hard, frozen-water eyes fixed upon Faith Lindsay, who made a noise as if she’d been struck in the stomach. Her own eyes were red-rimmed and dark-hollowed. She had aged twenty years in a matter of seconds. She tried to stand up, collided with the table and knocked over her son’s jar of marbles, which rolled crazily among the platters, cups and bowls. Then her legs collapsed like those of a broken doll, she staggered back against the wall and slid down making a beaten whimpering noise.
“Momma!” Robin cried out. Her face had gone pasty-white. She also tried to stand, and so was on her feet when Reverend Burton’s hand took hold of her head.
Whether he was trying to break the child’s neck with the severe movement that followed, or whether he was just aiming her where he want
ed her to fall, Lark did not know. Lark’s head was throbbing with a terrible inner pressure; her eyes felt about to burst from her skull. The room, the air, the world had turned a blurred and misty crimson. She made a gutteral hitching noise—nuh nuh nuh, it sounded—and watched, paralyzed with fear, as Reverend Burton flung Robin against the hearth, followed her, and picked up an iron frying pan from one of the fireplace trivets.
Robin was up on her knees, sobbing quietly, when he hit her on the head. Her sobbing ceased as she fell, her chin striking the floor. Her hair was in her face. Miraculously, she began to sit up again. The reverend stared at her with true amazement, his brows slightly lifted and his teeth parted, as if witnessing a resurrection. He hit her again with the pan, the sound like the strange commingling of a low-throated church bell and a clay pitcher breaking in two. She fell forward into the fireplace, her face disappearing into the white ashes. Then Reverend Burton let the frying pan drop, and in her state of near-madness, her mind slipping back and forth between horrors, Lark saw hot embers touch fire to her little sister’s hair and crisp the locks to powder and smoke.
There was a silence. Which went on, hideously, until the breath rushed again into Faith Lindsay’s lungs and she began to scream, her mouth wide open. The tears that shot from her eyes were ruddy with the blood of ruptured tissues.
Mister Slaughter Page 26
