Part 21 (1/2)
Eldric and Leanne, sharing an inkwell. Eldric turning his pen into a boat, sailing it over his blotter- Shut up, Briony!
The Quicks breathed slowly, their poisoned breath smelling of sulfur and infection and overripe flesh. They smacked and swallowed, smacked and swallowed.
Soon the Boggy Mun would open up shop. I wore no cloak and had no pockets. I carried my knife and salt in a basket. Little Red Riding Hood, skipping off into the woods. And whom will she meet?
Why, her own self, of course: the wolf. My hand flew to the gray-pearl wolfgirl hanging about my neck. If I didn't know I couldn't love, I might have thought I loved her.
I sprinkled the salt. I sliced through my mushroom skin. I drizzled my blood onto the salt.
The Boggy Mun came just on time.
He came in the mist, in the midst of his long beard. He came in a tangle of mist and midst. The ancient face peered from the tangle, the crepe-paper skin, the crumpled eyelids.
”I came before,” I said.
”Aye.”
”You did not grant my request.”
”I did not.”
”Twice, I have spilt blood and salt.”
”Aye,” said the Boggy Mun.
”I come today not to beg but to bargain.”
The crumpled eyelids lifted, hung, waited.
”I know how to keep the water in the swamp.”
The eyelids waited.
”But I shall have need of your help.”
The water ran, the wind wailed, the eyes waited.
”I can act on All Hallows' Eve, but not before.” I'd let the ghost-children speak for themselves, tell the villagers of the Boggy Mun and the draining and the swamp cough. But I'd have to wait for Halloween, for it is only on that night that ordinary mortals can see and hear the dead.
”I can do something that will make the men turn off the machines. If they do that, the water will stay in the swamp. But you must do your part. You must cure Rose of the swamp cough.”
The mist hung motionless.
”If Rose has died, or is near death, I shall have no reason to act.”
”Cured, no,” said the Boggy Mun. ”If'n she be cured, I got me a notion tha'd flight wi' her to them dry lands beyond my reach.”
He had a reasonable point.
”This be my bargain. Tha' sister, she don't continue no worse, she don't continue no better. Tha's got no need to fret on her 'twixt now an' All Hallows' Eve.”
Halloween. The night the dead rise and walk the earth.
”Tiddy Rex too,” I said.
”Tha' sister an' the lad shall survive All Hallows' Day,” said the old-parchment voice. ”An' if'n matters comes about as tha' says, the cough shall be lifted from tha' sister, an' from all t'other fo'ak what be striked.”
The wind wailed, the water ran, the Boggy Mun was gone.
It seems unfair that I can feel worry but not relief.
There, there, Briony: You're asking for too much. After all, the Boggy Mun was surprisingly agreeable. You got what you wanted, didn't you?
Mostly.
Then please shut up.
It was the ghost-children, of course, who should tell the villagers about the draining and the swamp cough. What an idiot to ever have thought of telling the villagers myself. A fellow can't trust nothing what might be said by a witch. But they'd believe the ghost-children.
And even if they believed me, they'd know me for a witch and hang me. This way, I'd have a chance to escape. I'd call the ghost-children from their graves. I'd escort the ghost-children to the villagers, urge the ghost-children to tell the villagers their tale. Then I'd disappear. I'd lose myself in the swamp. Best start now, start finding places to hide and crannies in which to store provisions.
I pressed into the shady margins of the Slough.
”Pretty girl!” said a chorus of small, chiming voices. ”Pretty girl, make story.”
I hadn't thought about the Bleeding Hearts for three years. I'd forgotten how prettily their voices chimed together. On the other hand, they talked far too much and had the most appalling grammar.
”Pretty girl, make love story.”
”People don't make stories,” I said. ”People write stories. They make tables.”
”Make tables!” Their pink blooming faces turned up toward me like thousands of glorious hearts. ”Make tables!”
A person could never talk to the Bleeding Hearts.
”Pretty girl, make story at table.”
”Use your articles!” I said. ”Make a story-I mean, write a story at the table. Or, write the story at a table. Or-”
”Love story! Love story!”
”Not unless you use your articles.”
”Articles! Articles!”
They gave me a headache.
”Pretty girl love!
”Pretty girl love!”