by Amy Cross
She waits, desperately hoping that he'll accompany her but – crucially – willing to go on without him.
If that's what it takes, she thinks to herself, to get Clara back.
“For you,” Joseph replies, “and for our only child, I would do anything. You know that. If you go into that house, my darling, then I shall come with you. There shall be no debate on that matter.”
Without saying another word, he turns and carries the girl's body across the square until finally he reaches the shadow of the dark, rickety wooden house. Sure enough, as soon as he gets to the doorstep, he spots a skull carved into the wood, just as Ogier had warned, with the word 'Necros' added. Even just being so close to this building sends a shiver through Joseph's body, and although he does not believe in such foolish superstitions, he cannot help but feel that some dark evil is lurking on the other side of the door.
“Here,” Mary says, reaching past him and pulling a chain that hangs nearby. From deep within the house, there is the sound of a bell ringing, followed moments later by the creaking of floorboards and then, finally, footsteps coming closer.
All the other sounds of the city seem suddenly to have been chased away.
“It will be okay,” Joseph says, taking a deep breath. “There is no harm that can come of a simple visit. Even after talking to him, we still have a choice. We don't have to do anything we don't want to do.”
Mary reaches over and runs the side of her hand against her daughter's cold dead face. Her bottom lip trembling, Mary lets her fingers run through the girl's hair, which feels as soft as it did when the girl was alive. And then, as she hears the wooden door begin to creak open, she turns and sees the face of the man that has come to answer them. In that moment, a terrible shiver runs up her spine.
All the stories about him, she realizes in an instant, must be true.
II
“Place her on the table,” Necros whispers, his voice harsh and difficult to hear. So far, the old man has stayed mostly in the shadows at the other end of the small wooden room, and it's clear that he prefers to hide his appearance from his visitors. He wore a hood at the front door, revealing only the skeletal lower half of his face. “And tell me, how did she die?”
“She had the wasting disease,” Mary explains, as her husband places the girl's body on a long wooden table in the middle of the room. “It was so quick. When she was born, she was so strong and healthy. It cut her down without mercy.”
“Wasting disease?” Necros asks. “Such an unscientific term. Did you not take the child to see a doctor?”
“We couldn't afford it,” Mary tells him as she neatens the pleats on the girl's dress.
“And yet you believe you can afford to bring her to me?”
“We were told that you accept a different type of payment,” she replies, glancing briefly at her husband for support. “We were told that you're a reasonable man, that you understand the way the world works. We're not rich, and what little money we have must go toward food and rent.”
“I do not work for free,” comes the reply. “Everything must be paid for.”
“I am strong,” Joseph says firmly, “and I can work. Whatever you want, I can provide it for you.”
“And I am not without my uses,” Mary adds. “I can cook and sew, and I'm quite certain that you would be able to find a job for me, if only...” She looks down at her daughter's dead face for a moment. “If only you can do something for her,” she continues, struggling to keep the grief from bubbling up through her soul. “Please, we'll give you whatever you want.”
“Step back,” Necros replies. “Go to the far side of the room.”
“Why?” Joseph asks.
“Because I say so.”
After hesitating for a moment, Mary turns and does as she's told. Her husband, still not quite sure that this enterprise is anything more than an elaborate piece of theater, does likewise, although from his expression as he looks at his wife it's clear that he still does not believe the girl can be helped. As he reaches Mary and turns back to look at the table, he sees the old man shuffling a little further into the light. Slowly, Necros pulls back his hood allowing the edge of his tight, leathery bald head to be picked out by the moonlight that streams through a nearby window.
Or is the head bald? Mary squints, trying to see better. Is that skin on his head, or just exposed bone?
“What was her name?” Necros asks after a moment.
“Clara,” Mary replies. “Clara Casey.”
“Clara.” Slowly, Necros reaches down and places a hand on the side of the girl's face, wrapping his spindly fingers around her chin and down onto her neck. His joints click and pop as they move.
“Do you have to touch her like that?” Joseph asks.
“I must know all,” Necros replies.
“But -”
“Let him work!” Mary hisses. “You must show a little more respect!”
“The man is a charlatan,” Joseph replies, keeping his voice low. “Tell me something. If he can raise the dead, why does he hide away in this grotty old building? Such a man should be famous and rich, lauded not only across the land but around the entire world. Why, he'd be in constant use at the palace! People like us would never be able to get near him!”
“Please,” Mary hisses, “he'll hear you.”
“She is cold,” Necros says, running his hand onto Clara's chest. “Mortis has set in, and her limbs have begun to stiffen. These are things that cannot be reversed. Once the body begins to break down in death, no feat can turn the clock back.”
“But her life,” Mary replies. “You can bring her back, can't you?”
Slowly, Necros leans down toward Clara's face, as if he's examining her in more detail. For a moment, the edge of his face is picked out by moonlight, revealing patches of tired old skin that cling tight to his skull.
“I can make her breathe again,” he says finally, “and I can make her heart beat. I can restart her mind and bring her back from whatever dark place she languishes in. I must warn you, however, that no human is supposed to make the journey there and back again. She will remember flashes of her time on the other side, and it might yet drive her to madness. She will be the girl you knew and loved, but do not underestimate the suffering she will have endured.”
“I don't care,” Mary replies. “We'll deal with it.”
“Will you?” Necros pauses for a moment. “I can offer no guidance when it comes to dealing with those who have returned from the land of death. I have heard their ravings, of course, but I know not whether they speak the truth. It is quite possible that your daughter, upon her return, will rapidly descend into a kind of madness that will empty her soul of all that you hold dear. In time, you may not even recognize her as your daughter at all. Are you prepared to see fear and insanity stare out at you from her eyes?”
“We'll take our chances,” Mary tells him.
“Are you sure about this?” Joseph asks his wife.
“I thought you didn't believe in any of this?” she replies. “I know you're only here to humor me. How can you be scared of something you don't believe to be possible? Or have you changed your mind?”
“I am not minded to let some strange old man use our daughter's body as a toy,” Joseph replies, barely able to hide his anger. “It's sacrilege, Mary. She should be laid out in a holy place, not being used as a prop in some arcane ritual. It's ungodly.”
“But -”
“The Lord saw fit to take her from us,” he adds. “Who are we to interfere with that?”
“And if she rises?” Mary asks. “Would that too be ungodly?”
Before he can answer, Joseph sees that the old man has leaned closer still to the girl's body, seemingly so that he might whisper something in her ear. Although his words are too hushed to make out, he is speaking with some urgency, as if he has something terribly important to tell the girl. No matter how hard he tries to listen, however, Joseph can't quite hear any of the words, and he knows better
than to edge closer and try again.
Glancing over at his wife, Joseph sees the worried look in her eyes.
“I cannot allow this,” he says finally, taking a step forward.
“Stop!” Mary hisses, grabbing his hand and pulling him back. “Let him, Joseph. Please, if there's even the smallest of chances...”
“He's just a mad old man,” Joseph replies, turning to his wife. “Look at this place! You gave me no answer earlier, at least not one that explains the obvious. He lives in squalor! If he could truly raise the dead, would he not be courted by all the kings and queens of Europe? Would not the richest men in the world come begging to his door? Why do you think he lurks in the dark like this? He has no powers. The dead cannot be raised, and even if such a thing were possible, this is not where the miracle would take place.” He pauses for a moment, seeing the pain in his wife's eyes. “I was wrong to allow this false hope to grow,” he adds finally, putting a hand on the side of her face. “Clara is gone, my love. We must accept this, then we must bury her, and finally we must move on. After all, we are not yet too old to try for another child.”
“You must understand,” Mary replies, “we are -”
Before she can finish, however, she notices that something has changed over by the table. Whereas a moment ago the old man was whispering into the ear of the dead girl, now he seems to have turned his head to one side, keeping his ear close to her lips. Barely able to believe what she's seeing, Mary pushes past her husband and steps cautiously toward the table. In the moonlight, she can just about make out the side of Clara's face, and to her horror she realizes that the girl's dead lips are moving just a little, as if she is whispering something back to Necros. She has wanted to much to see some sign of life in her daughter, yet somehow she can feel in her heart that the child remains lifeless.
“Come no closer,” the old man says suddenly, holding out a hand to act as further warning to Mary.
“What trickery is this?” Joseph asks, hurrying toward the table.
“Wait!” Mary hisses, grabbing his arm and yet again holding her husband back.
“The old charlatan has gone too far!” Joseph insists, desperate to go and intervene.
“She speaks to me from beyond the veil,” the old man says, finally standing up straight. “She is close, only just over on the other side. I can bring her back, and her mind seems to be mostly intact. She says she wants to come back, and she urges us to move swiftly. However, before I can even consider such a favor, we must discuss a price.”
“Anything!” Mary shouts, rushing over to the table and looking down at Clara's face, which has fallen still once again.
“I have no need of money,” Necros replies. “The price I demand is of a different nature entirely, and there can be no negotiation, no bartering. If you want your daughter back, you must give me precisely what I desire.”
“Anything,” Mary replies desperately. “Please, we'll do anything!”
Necros leans forward, his leathery face finally becoming visible in the moonlight, revealing skin that clings so tight to the bone that it curls into every nook and cranny. Slowly, he begins to smile.
“Anything?” he purrs. “Excellent. Perhaps we might strike a deal.”
III
“No!” Joseph shouts, storming out the front of the house with his daughter's body in his arms, before stopping and turning to see his wife hurrying after him. “There is absolutely no way that I'm going to do any such thing for that insane old man! If he wants blood -”
“It's for Clara,” Mary replies, grabbing him by the shoulders and staring up at him with desperate eyes. “It's not for him, not really. It's for her.” She looks down at the dead girl's face, and after a moment she places a hand on her cheek. “If it brings her back to us -”
“She's dead,” Joseph says firmly.
“But -”
“She's dead, woman!” he shouts. “Do you not understand the concept of death? It's final! The Lord has taken her from us and no devilry will bring her back!”
“But her lips moved.”
“It was a trick!”
“It was not a trick!” Pausing for a moment, Mary leans toward her daughter's face. “It's me, dear. It's your mother. Won't you speak to me, the way you spoke to that stranger? What did he do, to draw you back, that I cannot? I love you so.”
“I should kill him,” Joseph mutters, staring back at the house with a look of utter disgust in his eyes. “For using our dear child's dead corpse as a plaything, for stirring up these hopes in your soul, I should go back in there and wring his miserable neck. God alone knows how many grieving families he has tricked in his quest to gain a few gold coins.”
“He didn't want coins.”
“Everyone wants coins, in the end.”
“He spoke to her,” Mary replies, still stroking Clara's face, “and she spoke back to him. She's out there somewhere, Joseph. Her soul is lost and she needs to be guided back to her body. Don't you see? God has sent this man to us, so that he might bring our poor dear Clara back home. I don't know why he has chosen us, of all people, to receive such a blessing. They say that many people search for the house of Necros, but he chooses very few who are allowed to find him. Who knows what he saw in us, but who are we to turn him down? I say we should pay this price. As her parents, it's our duty to do whatever is necessary.”
“And become common murderers in the process?”
“There is nothing I would not do for Clara,” Mary continues. “If God judges me for protecting my only child, then let God judge me. She had such a wonderful life ahead of her, and it should never have been cut short. Of course the price for bringing her back is high, that is only as it should be. But we are her parents, and if we do not accept the terms of the deal, then how can we truly say that we love her? If you will not consent to this, then I understand, but you must let me carry her back in there, and then you must accept that I will do this thing.”
“You could not carry her,” Joseph replies firmly. “You are but a woman. It's my job.”
“But if -”
“This conversation is over!” he adds, with anger in his voice. “I am the man of the house, and I have decided. We shall not accept the dark offer made by that foul old man. Instead, we shall take Clara home, we shall lay her out in accordance with good Christian principles, and then we shall prepare for a proper burial. There shall be no bargains with foolish old tricksters. Clare's soul belongs to the Lord now, and he shall do with it as he chooses.”
Although she wants to argue with him, Mary knows that it would be foolish to do so. She stares for a moment at Clara's lifeless body, and finally she realizes that there is no way she can ever persuade her husband to go back into the dark little house and strike a deal with Necros. Joseph has always been a man whose mind is closed to ideas of the supernatural, and although Mary had hoped to change his mind in order to bring their daughter back, she has seen this look in his eyes before. He will not be crossed.
“You are my husband,” she says after a moment, with tears in her eyes, “and it is my duty as your wife to obey you. If this is your decision, then what right do I have to argue with you? I'm sorry I took it upon myself to challenge your judgment.”
She hesitates, desperately trying to force herself to believe the words she just spoke. At the same time, the thought of losing her daughter is too horrific to contemplate, and finally she turns to look back at the house of Necros.
“You heard what he said,” she whispers. “If we leave, we might not ever be able to come back. This could be our only chance.”
“We are not killers.”
“Are there not souls that are less worthy of life than Clara?” she asks. “Would we be killers, or would we merely be doing the Lord's work?”
“The Lord -”
“I know the Lord took her,” she says, turning back to him, “but perhaps this is a test.”
“The Lord would never ask us to kill,” he replies firmly. “That man in the
house wants us to murder another soul, so that Clara will live. I can never countenance such a thing. We are good, Christian people, and I would sooner die myself than end the life of another. I am certain that you feel the same.”
“I...”
“I am certain,” he adds, emphasizing that final word. For a moment, he watches her face, as if he's trying to read her mind. “Tell me, Mary, that you are not seriously considering such an offer.”
She looks toward the house again, keenly aware that this is the last chance. Necros made an offer that expires in one week's time, and there can be no returning to beg for another chance. She feels as if her hope – for her daughter's soul, for happiness to return to her home – is still recoverable, but that all is slipping further and further away.
“I'm glad that you finally see sense,” Joseph says suddenly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Life is life and death is death, and no soul can pass between the two. It's just foolish nonsense. Come on, let's get home. We have a funeral to arrange. A proper, respectful funeral during which we'll commend Clara's dear soul to the Lord. Let us have no more talk of magic, and let us tell no-one of this foolish adventure. I should not like it to become known that we even entertained such a ridiculous idea. We are good people, Mary. We must always remain so.”
Mary turns to him, and finally she nods.
“I miss the child too,” Joseph adds, stepping toward her and kissing her forehead. “We still have each other, though. You're not too old to have another child. There is life for us, even if there is none for Clara.”
Silently, they make their way through the dark streets. After the fervor of their journey to find Necros, both Joseph and Mary now seem drained, as if they have come to their senses and realized that Clara is truly lost. After a few steps, Mary reaches over and places a hand on her daughter's shoulder, as if to comfort her. She knows that there is nothing more that she can do for the child, but she feels as if she should at least try.
