Peter, his eyes filled with tears. They were pink as well.
Now, none of the boys in town fancied Peter a weak or squeamish boy by any means. But when Edward opened his mouth, and all that came out was a wail of agony and a sea of frothy, blood-flecked spittle, Peter howled and sprinted back to Miss Blackwell. He sobbed into her arms, tears running down his face. “Miss Blackwell, what happened to him?!”
“We don’t know.” He could feel the wetness of her tears on his shoulder.
“But…but the doctor will find out?” He meant it as a statement, but it didn’t come out as one.
“We don’t know that either.”
All of a sudden, the screaming from the other room died down to a whimper, then silence. Peter and Miss Blackwell looked up, stunned. It felt like years, but eventually, Doctor Lambrick emerged, pulling his black leather gloves off and shaking his head sadly. He did not remove his mask as he spoke. “I tried, Marianne. I truly did.”
Miss Blackwell’s eyes widened. “…what are you saying?”
“I’m terribly sorry, madam. Your son…well, your son has passed away.” His voice was soft, but unwavering. In hindsight, Peter would realize he had said similar things many times before.
Right then, though, not much was registering with Peter. At first, it was because the shock of realizing his best friend was dead fell on him like an anvil. Then, Miss Blackwell rose to her feet, face contorted into a mask of torment. “You…you lie! You lie!!” She threw herself at him, only a pinch more than five feet of furious woman. She flailed with her fists, beating at his leather mask. “You could have tried harder! You let him die!”
“Madam, please!”
“Tu mincinos ci’ine!” she screamed. That was certainly new. Peter was momentarily distracted as she continued thrashing at Doctor Lambrick, screaming words he had never heard before. Finally, the doctor pulled one arm back and struck her across the face. She fell to the ground, clutching her cheek and sobbing.
“I understand your distress, but I will not allow you to assault me!” Doctor Lambrick hissed between gritted teeth. “When you regain your composure, Miss Blackwell, you may call on me again so that I may clean the bedclothes to avoid the spread of disease. Until then, my condolences and good-bye.” He breezed out of the house, holding a hand to an obviously sore chest.
Peter crept nervously up to the fallen woman. “Miss Blackwell..?” he whispered.
“Oh…Peter, dear, I’m sorry…come here, please?” She held out her arms, and Peter could see that her cheek was red. He walked over nervously and let her hug him. “I know that must’ve frightened you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said weakly. “But…are you okay, Miss Blackwell? What were those words?”
“Words..? Oh, you mean my…oh. Well, m’boy, that’s Romani.”
His eyes widened. “The gypsy language?” He had no clue his best friend was a gypsy. His father spoke horribly of gypsies. He frowned for the barest of moments, then hugged her anyway. “Is he telling the truth? Is Edward…” He trailed off.
She was silent for a long moment before nodding. “I knew he would be. I just didn’t want it to be that way.” She sighed heavily and stood. “It is no natural sickness. It cannot be spread. It is poison sickness, I know it. That nebun doctor would not listen to me, though.” She looked at Peter steadily. “You weren’t playing with snakes?”
“No, Miss Blackwell,” he said seriously.
She stared at him a long moment before the angry light in her eyes faded. “…I trust you. Please, Peter, leave me. Go to the woods and pay silent respect to Edward. We must each mourn him in our own way.” She gave him a parting hug, then stumbled to her kitchen and continued weeping.
Peter obeyed stiffly, numb and confused. He could scarcely believe Edward had gotten so sick and then died in such a short time. Tears ran down his face as he walked torpidly towards the woods. He dimly registered going through town and hearing the doctor complain about ‘that gypsy wench’ who ‘should never have been allowed to stay,’ and reminded himself to find some way to punish the horrible man later.
At the moment, though, he needed to cry.
He walked in a horrified daze until he was at the apple tree, and spent the better part of an hour weeping, blind and deaf to the world. Toads hopped by his feet, and birds sang in nearby trees, and he noticed none of it. Nothing mattered at the moment but the loss of Edward and the knowledge that neither he nor the sweet, motherly woman he had come to respect so much would ever be quite the same again. Peter had other friends, but none of them understood him like Edward. Edward has been his best friend.
Gradually, Peter allowed his senses to return to him. The first thing he noticed was the frighteningly large number of dead birds.
He frowned and kneeled next to one, wiping wetness from his cheeks. He wondered to himself if perhaps today was cursed with death. Three songbirds and a large crow lay around, their wings splayed and their tongues lolled out from their hard, shiny beaks. Peter knew right away something was not right, even beyond the fact that so many birds should not have died in one place at the same time. The bodies should be crawling with scavenger insects, but there wasn’t an ant in sight. A sizable chunk was missing from one songbird, but judging by the feathers caked with blood onto its beak, that was the work of the crow.
When he peered closer, he felt himself grow faint. All the birds had died the same way, that was certain. Their tongues were purple, and their beaks were flecked with foam.
“No..!” he gasped, horrified. It couldn’t be that the same malady that killed his friend killed these. Humans and birds almost never suffered the same diseases, he had learned that from the doctor when he was younger. What did these birds and Edward have in common besides the apple tree?
Or perhaps it was that which killed them.
It seemed ridiculous. How many times had he and Edward eaten from that tree? How many days did they sit in its shade, enjoying the sweet apple flesh it offered? His mind was reeling with possibilities when he heard the tiniest crunching sound above him, as though something were eating one of the fruits in question. Peter looked up, frowning.
There, sinking its teeth into one of the apples, was the red and black salamander he’d seen yesterday.
It was a pretty thing, really, but with a sort of malice about it. Strange frills rose along its head and tail, and its eyes were a startling affair - for while it had the usual black eyes of any salamander, they shone a fiery red in the light. It wrestled its long, black teeth into the fruit, and this was what startled Peter most, because he had never seen teeth like that on a salamander. Only snakes had such fangs.
He watched as the creature pulled back, leaving a barely visible bite mark - the skin was only slightly bruised around the dent. It swiftly moved to another apple, bit into that one, then moved on, repeating the process. For such a small animal, it worked with great industry, methodically moving to the tip of the branch with slow patience.
In a flash of realization, Peter understood that this was the creature that killed Edward.
He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was dangerous. It had a poison so fierce, it killed even the birds that could eat the berries and seeds his mother warned him never to touch. That wasn’t so bad, but it went and bit fruits, poisoning them for others. Why? It wasn’t eating the fruits. It wasn’t living off the juices. This creature was simply evil. An evil, nasty little thing that had cost him his best friend.
Peter was moving before he even realized what he was doing. Seizing a stick off the ground, he swung it in a high arc, knocking the brutish thing from its perch. Upon hitting the ground, it turned to look at him. That was shocking enough, but then it let out a frightening hiss, and the frills on its head rose into a brightly colored plume. It tore towards him, teeth bared, and Peter could see the oily yellow substance bleeding from its teeth.
Peter dodged
aside quickly, and the thing ended up with a mouthful of leaf litter. It fumbled at its snout awkwardly with one stubby front leg, trying to pull leaves and twig fragments from a sticky tongue. Peter knew his chance had come. He took the fat end of the stick he held and crushed it down onto the creature, tearing the fragile skin and shattering the tiny, thread-thin bones. It let out a tiny rasp before dying, and beneath its jaw, the leaves visibly blackened with rot as a gush of poison spilled forward.
Peter was horrified at his own actions, but inside, he suspected he had done something important. He had never seen another salamander like this, so he was fairly confident this was the only one. That meant, if he was right about it being the reason everything was dying, that this would stop. Even if it had only gone on for one day, that was quite enough. No one else needed to lose a friend, a son, a daughter…
That was it then. He knew that it was over. He also knew people would think he was mad if he told them a deadly salamander had killed Edward. It would forever stay his secret. His strange secret, pregnant with unanswered questions.
As he headed back to the village, he allowed himself to cry a bit more. If the older boys made fun of him, he’d find ways to get back at them. Eventually, people would find the special place where he and Edward used to catch toads, eat apples, and pretend they were
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