by Amy Cross
“Which it most certainly will be if you don't let me help you,” Donald replies. Moving behind me, he reaches under my right shoulder and starts dragging me through to the side-room. “I'm sorry about the pain,” he continues, “but right now I can't do anything about it. Please try not to scream too much, though. You'll upset Tammy.”
“Tammy's a child,” I say firmly as he sets me down on the floor again. “She shouldn't be here. That's all your fault.”
“Be that as it may,” he replies, hurrying to his medicine box and taking out a saw and a pair of shears before coming back to me, “she is here, and I'd really prefer it if she doesn't hear your blood-curdling screams any more than is strictly necessary. We already heard you fighting that thing up there, whatever it is.”
I take a deep breath, trying in vain to force the pain from my mind. My whole body is trembling uncontrollably now, and all I can think about is the fact that I have to get right back out there and -
Suddenly I scream as I feel something slicing through my shoulder. I turn to push Donald away, but he obviously anticipated that move and he pushes my head down against the floor, holding me firmly in place as I feel the slicing sensation again.
“What are you doing?” I gasp.
“Saving your life!”
Still screaming, I struggle with every ounce of strength left in my body, but I can't get free. I never knew Donald was so strong, but for the next few minutes he holds me down firmly with just one hand while he works with the other to patch up the damage. All I can think about is the creature up there on the roof and the fact that it actually managed to snatch bones from my body; never in all my life have I been filled with such absolute rage, and with the dark determination to get up there and make that damn thing pay. Finally, after a few minutes, that rage transfers to Donald since he's the one who's holding me down and keeping me from getting back to the fight. I stop struggling for a moment, figuring that maybe I can lull him into a false sense of security, and then I try to burst up, only for him to slam me down harder than ever.
“Nice try,” he says firmly. “Almost done.”
“Let go of me!” I shout. “You can't -”
Suddenly a searing pain bursts through my chest and I let out an agonized scream, before Donald clamps a hand over my mouth.
“Remember Tammy's still in the church!” he hisses. “You need to keep your voice down!”
He twists something in my back, bringing a fresh burst of pain, and then I feel him setting some kind of bandage over the wound.
“You lost six ribs,” he mutters, “along with part of your shoulder-blade. Try to move your left hand.”
“I can't,” I stammer, staring at the open door and at the storm that's raging out there. I just want to go and fight that thing on the roof, even if I have to die in the process.
“Try to move your goddamn hand,” Donald says firmly. “I need to know the extent of the damage.”
“It doesn't matter,” I gasp, trying but failing to sit up. “I can get the job done anyway.”
“Humor me.”
Realizing that he's not going to let up, I look down at my left hand. At first I can't make the fingers move at all, but after a moment I'm able to make them flicker slightly, albeit with significant pain and discomfort in my chest and in what's left of my left shoulder.
“You lost a lot of blood,” Donald says, getting to his feet. “You need to be careful.”
“I'm fine,” I mutter, hauling myself up but immediately feeling a wave of dizziness. I try to turn and support myself, but Donald catches me and eases me down onto the side of the bed. “I'm fine,” I splutter again, filled with anger at my own weakness. How did I let this happen? “Leave me alone, I don't need help.”
“What is that thing?” he asks, stepping past me and looking up at the ceiling, as we both hear the bone snatcher scuttling about on the church's roof.
“It's from the battlefield,” I whisper, taking slow, deep breaths in an attempt to stop trembling. “It's a bone snatcher, it found me somehow.”
“No kidding.” He turns to me. “Are you sure there's only one of them here?”
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I see the huge amount of blood all over Donald's arms and shirt. “Is all of that mine?” I ask, genuinely shocked.
“It can't be,” he replies. “Some of it must have come from the creature, you'd be dead right now if you'd lost this much.” He pauses. “So this bone snatcher thing... I guess you were right when you said something would come after you. I'm sorry, I genuinely didn't think anything was going to show up.”
“It must have followed you when you brought me here,” I mutter. “If you'd done a better job of shaking it off, it wouldn't be here at all.”
“Seriously? You blame us for this?”
“I don't blame you,” I reply, “but... What other explanation could there be? Do you think a bone snatcher from the battlefield just randomly happened to show up here by pure chance?”
He stares at me for a moment. “You really don't understand, do you?” he says after a few seconds. “You really don't get the fact that people know about you.”
“Who knows about me?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, not about you,” he continues, sitting next to me, “but... Like it or not, stories travel and get told, legends start up. There are a lot of people out there who know about the orphan Rachel and the church she restored.”
I shake my head.
“They do know,” he adds, as if he finds my continued defiance amusing. Reaching over, he puts a hand on my knee. “Rachel, your story has been spread far and wide. Sure, people get parts of it wrong, they add to it, they get key elements completely out of whack, sometimes they even twist it intentionally for their own purposes, but... The basic idea?” He pauses, watching me carefully. “A lot of people know that one day, many years ago, a lost and alone little girl named Rachel came to a lost and alone church and set about fixing it up. Every version of the story says different things about where you came from, every version puts the church in a different location, but the basic facts are widely known.”
I stare at him.
“And that's just while you've alive,” he adds. “Think about how it'll be once you're dead.”
“I don't want...” My voice trails off as I feel tears in my eyes, but after a moment I sniff them away. “I didn't want people to know about me.”
“Tough.”
“What's going to happen to this place when I'm gone?” I ask, turning and looking around the bare room. Glancing at the open doorway, I can see the benches in the main part of the building, and the wooden altar in the distance. “This church was in such a state when I first came here,” I continue. “I don't want it to get rundown and abandoned again after I'm dead.”
“It won't.”
“You don't know that. What if I'm the only one who cares?”
“You're not.”
“But what if -”
“We care.”
I turn to him.
“Marnie and I care,” he continues, “and I give you my word that we'll keep an eye on the place. If you're not around to do it yourself.”
“I won't be,” I tell him. “You know I'm dying.”
He pauses, before nodding. “Yes. You are.”
Taking a deep breath, I look down at my hands and see that they're still trembling slightly. I try closing and opening my left hand into a fist, and although the effort is difficult and painful, I just about get it done.
“Frankly,” Donald continues, “I don't know how you're still alive right now. I mean, sure, I'm pretty good at fixing people up, but still...”
“I should have died on the battlefield,” I reply, “but somehow... I don't understand, but it's as if my will to get back here to the church was enough to overcome everything else.”
“Impressive.”
I shake my head.
“Night's coming soon,” he continues, looking up at the ceiling. “That bone thi
ef -”
“Bone snatcher,” I reply, correcting him.
“Whatever it's called, are you sure it won't come into the church to get you?”
“It can't,” I reply. “All it can do is wait out there. It can't cross the threshold.”
“So if any of us go outside, it'll kill us?”
“Only me,” I continue, feeling a shiver pass through my body. “Even a healthy bone snatcher probably wouldn't bother attacking the rest of you, and the one up there right now... Let's just say that I fought back and gave him something to think about.” I pause, before turning to Donald again. “And unlike me, the bone snatcher doesn't have anyone to patch him up. I'm lucky.”
“Everyone needs a friend or two.”
I bristle at that word.
He smiles as he gets to his feet. “And I wouldn't call it lucky. Trust me, a real doctor would have done a much better job.”
“I'm alive, aren't I?”
“The storm's building,” he replies. “I hate to ask this, but are you sure the church will -”
“Yes,” I say firmly, having anticipated the question. Frankly, I'm slightly offended. “It'll withstand anything. Trust me, I reinforced the walls and the ceiling years ago. Sure, there are a few cracks, but structurally the place is fine.”
He pauses.
“What?” I ask, aware that he clearly has something else he needs to say.
“It's just...” He takes a deep breath. “We have to get Tammy away from here. You're right, it was a mistake to let her come, but -”
“I understand,” I reply, interrupting him. “I'm the one who told you to leave several times already, remember?”
“I hate the idea of leaving you here.”
“Don't feel like that. I want to die alone, you know that.”
He nods.
“And that moment is coming soon,” I add.
He nods again.
“The causeway is still impassable,” I continue, “and you definitely can't use it during the night. First thing in the morning, though, the storm should have died down a little and then the three of you have to get out of here.”
“And you'll be okay once you're alone?”
“I won't be alone,” I reply. “I'll be in my church. And I'll be ecstatic.”
He smiles, before heading to the door. “I need to check on Marnie and Tammy.” He stops and glances back at me. “Just promise me that you won't let that thing up on the roof claim you. I know you're dying, but I don't want you to die in pain at the hands of some kind of... monster.”
“I'll do my best,” I tell him, returning the smile.
He turns to leave the room.
“Say hello to Tammy for me,” I add. “Tell her I hope she's not too scared.”
“I will.” He steps through the door.
“And tell her I say hello,” I call after him.
He stops again and looks back at me.
“What?” I ask. “You look worried.”
“Are you sure you're okay being left alone?” he replies. “If you want me to stay for a few hours, I can sit in here with you for a while if you -”
“Of course I'm okay,” I tell him, annoyed by the suggestion. “I want to be alone.”
He stares at me for a moment. “I'll be back soon,” he says finally, before turning and walking out.
“Don't hurry on my account,” I mutter, although as soon as he's gone I start to realize that this is how it'll be tomorrow, after he and the others leave. I know they have to go, I know it'd be selfish to ask them to stay and, besides, I genuinely want to die alone. I just feel as if it'll be difficult when I have to watch them walking away across the causeway, heading back to the mainland and to their old lives. I've spent so long imagining this final chapter of my story, thinking about how wonderful it would feel to come back to the church, but now the moment is finally here.
Outside, the storm is building. The church's wooden walls creak slightly, but I know they'll stand firm long after I'm dead and cold.
“Having fun up there?” I whisper, looking up at the roof. The thought of that bone snatcher perching on my church is enough to make me feel sick to my stomach, and I want nothing more than to go out there and crush him. At the same time, I know full well that I don't have a hope, not in my current state. I've been strong for so long, I have no idea how to handle myself now that I'm weak.
“You're going where?” I remember the woman in the Liburnian shop asking me many years ago when I stopped for supplies on my first journey to the church. She sounded so shocked.
I didn't want to say too much, of course; I just wanted to be polite, pay for my food, and leave.
“But that place...” I remember the look of surprise in her eyes. “I don't even know if it's still standing,” she told me. “No-one's mentioned it in years, I don't think anyone's been out there.”
“It's still standing,” I insisted. “I saw it in...”
It seems strange now, but back then I was far too timid to tell her that I'd seen the place in a dream.
“Mind how you go out there, love,” the woman told me as I carried my bags out of her shop. “There's some wicked weather down there sometimes.”
“I'll be fine,” I replied.
And I was.
I am.
Above, there's the sound of something scratching against the roof. That damn creature, with its claws and teeth, is shifting about. I know I hurt him, maybe not as badly as he hurt me, but I sure gave him something to think about and he'll think twice before coming for me again. Getting to my feet, I feel a little dizzy for a moment, but I force myself to limp over to the center of the room, where earlier spots of rain fell through from a crack above. I look up and this time I see with a smile that my repair work is holding just fine. I could just stay in here and wait to die, and the bone snatcher wouldn't be able to get to me, but then...
I can't leave the church with that thing still on the roof.
Sure, if he realized I was dead, the bone snatcher would leave, but I want to be alone here in my final moments, with just the church for company. The last thing I can handle is having that thing still scuttling about up there.
Feeling increasingly dizzy, I wince as I sit on a wooden chair in the corner. Figuring that I'll just regather my strength for a few minutes, I focus on taking a series of slow, deep breaths, but soon I realize that I'm starting to feel very warm, and I start to feel beads of sweat running down my face. The pain in my shoulder, which just a moment ago was strong and throbbing, now seems to have faded into the background, replaced by a sense of creeping nausea that's reaching its way up from my gut, spreading its spindly fingers between my ribs and threading its way toward my heart. I keep telling myself that this is nothing, that the sensation will pass, but finally I start to feel as if I'm being dragged down into a hot mire. I open my mouth and try to call for Donald, but my head is getting heavier and I have to focus on trying to stay upright on the chair. Slumping back, I close my eyes and wait for the sensation to pass, convinced that it will pass if I just hold tight.
I'm ready to die, but...
Not quite yet.
I still have things to do.
Soon I start to hear voices. Donald has come through, and a moment later he shouts for Marnie.
Now they're trying to wake me, touching the side of my face and saying my name over and over again. They sound worried, but no matter how hard I try to tell them I'm fine, my mind seems to be detaching from my body and slipping deeper down.
“It's a fever,” Donald's voice says, echoing far away, before I sink into the hot darkness beyond my thoughts.
Eight
“Are you dead yet?” a voice asks, standing in the doorway.
What am I supposed to say to that? I turn and look across the room, and to my surprise I see that Tammy is watching me. There's fear in her eyes, and I don't blame her; I must look awful, and even though I began to wake from my fever a few minutes ago I'm still feeling hot and sweaty. I try to si
t up, only to realize that I don't have the energy, so instead I let myself sink back onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I realize that the little girl is still waiting for an answer.
“No,” I whisper. “I'm not dead yet.”
There's a faint creak. She's shifting on her feet. Nervous, uncomfortable. I don't really understand children at all.
“Are you going to die tonight?” she asks.
Well, at least she's direct.
“I don't know,” I reply, barely able to summon the strength to get the words out. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I think perhaps I can make out distant stars shining in the night sky, just about visible through a few tiny cracks in the ceiling. I'd much rather stare at those for a while, instead of trying to talk to a child. There are lots of things I'm not very good at, and talking to children is one of them. Figuring that she'll just go away if I ignore her, I continue to stare at the ceiling, but after a moment I realize she hasn't moved.
“My parents talk about you a lot,” she says finally. “It's all they talk about at the moment.”
I swallow hard, but my throat is bone dry. “Sorry.”
“They said you're going to die.”
I take a deep breath, but even that is painful now. Outside, the storm is still raging. “You should go to them,” I mutter.
“They're asleep.”
“They are?” For a moment I'm surprised that they managed to sleep at all, before I realize that it must be several days since they were last able to rest. I guess they settled me onto the bed and hoped for the best, and then they decided to get some sleep ahead of their journey in the morning. That's good, it's how things should be. They probably figure there's a fair chance I'll be dead by morning, and they might be right. My fever seems to be passing now, but I can tell some more of my strength is gone.
