by Amy Cross
“Of course not,” she replies, with enough hesitation in her voice to let me know that she'd dearly love to leave. It's Donald who's making them stay. “We promised to help you,” she continues, “and -”
“You can't help me.”
“Donald says -”
“Donald says a lot of things,” I add, interrupting her. “You should both go.”
“And leave you here?”
“I'll be fine.”
“But what if...” She pauses. “No, we're not leaving you. After everything you've been through, you need company, you need people to help you heal.”
“I'm not going to heal.”
“You're already out of bed,” she points out. “You've improved since we brought you here.”
“That's just because I'm home,” I tell her. “It's natural for someone to perk up a little if they get home just before they die.” Turning, I look around the dark, unlit interior of the church. Something about the drab space makes me feel different, as if I'm more full. It's always been this way, ever since the first day I came to this place. Something about this church just seems to rhyme with my soul. “Do you want to know something else that's natural, Marnie?” I continue, glancing back at her. “Dying alone. That's natural.”
“Rachel -”
“The last thing I want is people sitting around when I pass,” I add. “I'd feel a lot better if you and Donald would take off and go find somewhere else to be. You still have lives ahead of you.”
“Donald will never leave you.”
“Maybe you can persuade him.”
“Me?” She shakes her head, as if the idea is ludicrous. “I've never persuaded Donald of anything in my life.”
“Then now would be a good time to learn a new skill.”
“Can't you persuade him?” she asks, although she instantly looks guilty, as if she feels she's said too much. “I mean, it's not that I want to leave you or anything like that, it's just...” She pauses, and then she sighs. “This is all so...” Another sigh, and then she takes a deep breath, and then she seems to have changed her mind. “No. Of course we're not going to leave you, we're going to stick with you to the end. Or not the end, if there's no end, I mean I'm not saying there's an end coming, I don't mean I think you're going to die, just...”
I can't help but smile as I realize that she's talked herself into a knot.
“Relax,” I tell her as I hear Donald coming back from the far end of the church. “Tell me one thing quickly, before he reaches us. Have you seen or heard anything?”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe we have company.”
She shakes her head.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “What about the roof?”
“The roof?”
“I think there's something up there.”
“No, I -” She stops as soon as she realizes that Donald is in earshot. “I'm sure there's nothing. We'd know by now if there was.”
“Still fussing?” Donald asks, setting the medical box down. It's nothing more than an old metal tin, battered and rusty, but he carries the damn thing everywhere and when he opens the lid I immediately see that it's as well-stocked as ever. “Nothing followed us here, Rachel. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Looking at the ceiling again, I half expect to hear something scuttling about up there. I want to believe that I'm wrong, but in the pit of my stomach I can already feel a presence. Is that nonsense? Can you really feel something like that? It's like a knot of worms wriggling in my gut. I guess maybe my damaged body is just misfiring, but I can't ignore my own instincts.
“This isn't right,” I say after a moment. “There's no way I'd be allowed to get away so easily.”
“Do you think...” Marnie pauses, with fear in her eyes and voice. “Do you think maybe he isn't dead? Do you think he survived somehow and he'll come after you?”
I shake my head, still watching the ceiling. “He's definitely dead, I made sure of that. It's his acolytes I'm worried about. Some of them survived, and even though most of them will probably crawl away and hide, I can't believe that there won't be at least one that comes after me for revenge. After all, I killed their master and I destroyed their...” My voice trails off for a moment. “Well, you know how it all went down. I'm not exactly popular over there anymore, there's a reason I'm -”
I let out a gasp of pain as I feel a sharp movement in my right shoulder. The pain lasts for a few seconds as one of my bones twists slightly, rotating against the joint with a kind of grinding motion. Donald and Marnie rush to help, of course, but I push them away and hold my breath until finally the pain dies down.
“There's a reason I came back here,” I continue, a little breathless after that unwelcome jolt. “I don't want to die at the hands of some dumb beast, I want to die alone.” I open and close a fist with my right hand several times, checking that it still works. “One of them got a lucky hit on me, but that doesn't mean I'll give it the satisfaction of watching me fade away.”
“I'm certain nothing followed us,” Donald says, heading back to the medical box and taking out some fresh bandages. “You can count on that.”
“He's right,” Marnie adds.
“It's not just about being followed,” I mutter, looking toward the door at the far end of the church. “I never wanted my story to become well known, but rumors spread, people like to talk... My name is associated with this church now. Sooner or later, something will think to look here.”
“Then let's hope it's later,” Donald says, bringing a section of gauze over to me. “I'm not going to lie to you, this is going to hurt.”
“Lie to me,” I say darkly.
“Rachel -”
“For kicks. Go on.”
He pauses. “This won't hurt at all,” he says finally. “It might tickle a bit, but apart from that, nothing.”
“Great,” I reply, leaning back and raising my right leg as much as I can manage. The pain is already intense and I have to grit my teeth. “I'm sure I'll positively enjoy the next part.”
Sighing, Donald takes hold of the ankle.
His touch is agonizing, but I refuse to scream.
He hesitates. “Rachel, I have to -”
“I know,” I reply.
“The thing is, there's already a lot of damage to the -”
“I know.”
“I might have to -”
“I know,” I sneer. “Get on with it.”
“But -”
“Do it!” I shout. “For God's sake, just do it!”
Leaning back, I close my eyes and wait. All around, there's nothing but silence, and for a moment I feel tears welling in my eyes. I remember the last time I was here at the church; I was so young back then, so full of hope, so passionate. I worked twenty-hour days without hesitation and I never even felt tired. I was so certain that everything I did came with a golden reason, and I was out there hammering and nailing things even in the most extreme weather. The heat of summer, the cold of winter, nothing stopped me. The truth is, I've never felt so good since, not even in the scattered seconds when the battle ended, when I realized that somehow, against all the odds, I'd killed my enemy and emerged with my life. Or something resembling my life, at least. Now, fatally wounded and with not long left, I feel like I want to just sit quietly and wait for the inevitable. More than anything, I just want to be left undisturbed by friends and foes alike, and I want to -
Suddenly I cry out as I feel a snapping sensation in my ankle. I open my eyes and reach down to push Donald away, but he lets go and steps back, his work already complete.
Spitting out a few choice curse words, I'm about to touch my damaged ankle but I hold back at the very last moment. I can see a broken section of bone poking out through the flesh, and blood is seeping from the wound along with some kind of clear liquid. The pain is throbbing, pounding up my leg, but I can tell it's already starting to subside and I take slow, deep breaths as my body comes back under control.
�
��There,” Donald says after a moment. “Told you it wouldn't hurt.”
“Are you done?” I splutter.
He nods.
“Can I walk on it?”
“You can hobble, but I'd advise against it. You need to -”
“Great.” Slipping off the bench, I take a couple of limping steps forward while trying to avoid putting much weight on my right ankle. The pain is searing, as if there are half a dozen razor blades in the joint, but there's no way I'm going to admit that.
“You're being stubborn,” Donald tells me.
“And?”
“And I'm not going to stop you.” I hear him tossing some extra bandages into the tin. “Why would I waste my time?”
“Please don't push yourself too hard,” Marnie says, following after me as I make my way around the bench. I swear, it's as if she thinks she might have to catch me at any moment.
“I'm not a cripple,” I mutter. “I refuse to spend my final hours as -”
Suddenly I turn. I watch the darkness at the far end of the church, certain now that I heard something moving. I'd almost convinced myself that my earlier concerns were the product of delirium, that in my pain-addled state on the bed I'd imagined the sense of a presence watching me, but now I know for a fact that there's a fourth soul here, something other than Donald, Marnie and myself, something that's confusing my senses. I take a step forward, my gut tingling with anticipation. Any second now, I'll see this thing, whatever the hell it might be.
“Rachel?” Marnie says after a moment. “Is something wrong?”
“Are you seriously telling me,” I reply calmly, still watching the dark empty space, “that you didn't hear that?”
“Hear what?” She turns to Donald. “Did you hear something?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, still fussing with his medical box. “Probably the wind.”
I limp forward, listening to the silence, analyzing it. Different rooms sound different when they're silent; even after spending several years away, I know exactly how my church sounds when it's silent, and I know how it sounds when there's something imperceptible hiding in the margins.
“Do you think there's something inside?” Marnie asks. “Rachel, that's just not possible. You said it yourself, any kind of evil force wouldn't be able to get into the church. It would have to be outside, waiting for you to emerge.”
I take another step forward. She's right, I know that, but still...
“You're imagining things,” Donald says. “Rachel, it's not just your body that's damaged, you know. Your mind needs rest too. You're so used to being in danger, you've forgotten what it's like to be safe. There's nothing here.”
Reaching the end of the nearest bench, I look along the dark, empty aisle. There's no sign of anyone, and I know deep down that Donald has a point; my mind is damaged, I've felt that ever since I woke up back here in the church. At the same time, I trust my senses and I know that no matter how ragged my mind might become, I'm not about to start imagining things in the same room as me. I wait for a moment, in case there's another scratching sound somewhere nearby, and then slowly I turn to see that Donald and Marnie are watching me cautiously. They don't look concerned, that's not quite it; no, they look worried, as if...
I pause for a moment, as I start to realize the truth.
They're hiding something from me.
Four
“Are you sure this is wise?” Donald asks as he follows me out through the church's front door. “You're safe if you stay inside, but out here -”
“I'm not a prisoner,” I mutter, trying not to let on that I'm in quite so much pain. As I reach the rocky yard at the front of the church, I feel a cold wind whipping all about my body, ruffling the folds of my robes. I stop for a moment and close my eyes, breathing in the salty spray that's getting kicked up from the sea, and I feel that unmistakable shiver that tells me I'm home. I can't count the number of times I dreamed about this moment while I was away. No matter how bad things got before the battle, and during it and after too, I could always calm my soul by remembering the sights, sounds and smells of this place.
And now I'm back.
“Rachel,” Donald continues. “This is madness.”
Opening my eyes, I turn to him. There's a hint of fear in his eyes, some kind of frantic concern, and I'm more certain than ever that he's keeping something from me. Behind him, Marnie is loitering in the church's dark doorway, and she's much worse than him at hiding her true feelings: in her eyes I can see alarm, the fear of being discovered; in her gait, I see resignation, the thought that some secret is about to be uncovered; and in the way she's leaning with her arm at an awkward angle, I see an almost childlike fear that she's about to get told off for doing something bad. Not evil, not cruel, just bad.
“Come back inside,” Donald says after a moment. “Rachel, please -”
“I have to check the church,” I tell him, turning and limping around the edge of the yard, just a few feet from the sloping drop that leads down to the rough sea. Looking up, I feel a sense of relief at the sight of the church's bare wooden walls; I remember hammering the nails into each of those planks of wood, and although I know I should banish all sense of pride from my soul, I can't help feeling happy that the church I restored is still standing and still looking so good after all these years. Stopping at the head of the causeway, I take a deep breath as I realize that after all these years, maybe I can finally think of this as my church.
Maybe, on the verge of death, I can finally let myself be that arrogant.
No.
No, that would be a trap.
It's not my church, and I should feel no pride for the simple matter of having hammered a few planks of wood in place. This church was standing before I was born, and it's going to be standing long after I'm dead. At most I've just been a caretaker, someone to keep the building safe for the brief span of my own life.
“Rachel,” Donald says, coming over to join me, “you seem agitated.”
“Do I?” I ask, my eyes fixed on the church's sloping roof. I don't see anything untoward so far, but there are places where a creature could be hiding.
“You should come inside.”
“We need a ladder,” I reply.
“A ladder?”
“For me to get up there. There are some gaps in the roof and they need fixing.” I turn and look toward the horizon, where black clouds are roiling in the sky and threatening to come closer on the wind. “There'll be rain soon. A lot of rain.”
“I can fix the roof,” he tells me. “I'll -”
“No,” I snap, turning to him. “If the roof needs fixing, I'll do it. It has to be me!”
“Rachel, in your -”
“In my state?” I ask, resisting the urge to unleash my full anger. “You think I can't do it?”
“I think...” He sighs. “Have you even seen yourself? You're barely able to walk, so how do you think you're going to be able to go up there in a strong wind and start fixing the roof?”
“I'll manage.”
“Rachel -”
“I managed before.”
“You were young then,” he points out, “and uninjured. You were strong. At least, that's what I was told. You can't compare yourself now to yourself as you were then. If you try to go up there, you'll...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“I'll die?” I ask.
He doesn't answer, but I know that's what he meant.
“I'm dying anyway,” I continue. “How long do you really think I have left? Twenty-four hours? My body is falling apart, my bones are literally trying to dig their way out. If I have to die, I'd rather be up there on that roof, doing something useful for my... for the church.” I pause for a moment. “I don't mind dying,” I add. “I do mind dying flat on my back in bed.”
“Do you feel hot?” he asks.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He steps forward and places the back of his hand against my forehead. “No sign of a fever,
but I'm worried about -”
I push his hand away. “Stop fussing.”
“You seem out of sorts,” he continues. “Even more so than usual.”
“Well maybe that's because you're not telling me everything,” I snap, before I can stop myself. I'd hoped to play the long game, to tease the truth out of him, but I guess I just blew that option.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I glance toward Marnie and see that she's still in the doorway, still watching us with that same naughty-child expression on her face. She'll crack soon and tell me everything, I know she will.
“There's something else in the church with us,” I continue, turning back to Donald. “Something hiding, something just at the edge of my perception, and I don't think it could be there without you and Marnie knowing about it.”
“That's preposterous,” he replies.
“Is it?” I pause. Donald only uses really big words when he's lying.
“Of course it is,” he continues. “It's completely outlandish, you know there's nothing in there.” He waits for me to say something. “Do you think we'd turn on you, is that it? Do you think that somehow, after everything we've done for you and everything we've been through, we'd start to work against you?”
Staring at him, I can see the sense of frustration in his eyes. “No,” I say finally, and it's true: I know Donald and Marnie are loyal, and I don't doubt their good intentions for a second. The problem is, I also know they're lying to me, and I want to know why.
“There's nothing else in the church,” he continues. “I swear to you.”
I know he's hiding something, but I'm not going to stand here hitting my head against a stone wall. There are other ways to work out what he's keeping from me, so I turn and start limping past the head of the causeway, continuing my inspection of the church's exterior. There are several small holes and gaps on the wooden roof, but that's not the real reason I'm looking up there; I know full well that if anything has followed me here from the battlefield, intent on revenge, then most likely it'll roost up there on the roof, waiting for its chance to attack. It won't be able to enter the church, so it'll wait like a coward until it's certain it can strike.
