“Indeed, I speak to all of you who lie restless in the earth. It is All Hallows’ Eve, the night you may rise from your graves and show yourselves to the living. Come! Walk with me into the village where you were born. Come! Tell your mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers—tell them it’s the Boggy Mun bringing the death sickness.”
The sky leaned on my shoulders, it dripped down my spine. It dripped into the graves, which were yawning now, opening their mouths around tiny caskets. The graves were open; they stank of cold.
I’d expected the world to tilt on its axis, as it had done every time I wandered into the spirit world—the skull of Death, the ghost-children. I thought that when the children answered, I’d be standing upside-down on the underside of the world, hair streaming into space. Perhaps the rules were different when it was I who did the calling.
“Hold my hands, come with me. Come and tell the whole of the village that the waters must bide in the Swampsea.”
Something touched me. No, not something: someone. Someone set the tip of a small finger against my own fingertip. The shock of it sizzled through my flesh.
Now another finger, and another and still another, fingers, hands, small hands, wrapping themselves round mine. Hands piled one atop the other, but still I felt them all, each sinking into the others. I could count them. The twenty-nine hands of the twenty-nine children who had heard and risen from their graves.
“Thank you.” I spoke but did not look. I passed through the cemetery gate. There were little stumbles in my walking, as though I were crossing a field of thunderbolts.
“Once upon a time,” I said, “in the far reaches of the Swampsea, there lived a spirit of the bogs. The Swampfolk called it the Boggy Mun, and it had power, oh, a vast deal of power. It could be kindly, but it could be cruel. When it felt ill-used, it sent the deadly swamp cough to prey upon the people. And as is the way of things, the cough carried away the innocent and the weak: It carried away the children.”
“Ah!” The ghost-children sighed like rustling leaves. “Ah!”
On I spoke, telling of the dams and the sluice gates and the pumping station; of the cough and the growing number of little graves; of the grown folks who didn’t understand that it was the Boggy Mun sending the sickness.
I spoke of how I, the witch girl, came to ask the ghost-children to climb from their graves and speak the truth of the matter.
“Ah!” sighed the ghost-children. Their hands were not cold. Their hands were not warm. “Ah!”
“The ghost-children came out of the darklings, into the village, holding the witch by the hand. How the Swampfolk cried out! They were scareful and their knee-bones knocked together. The tears poured from their eyes, for whom did they see? They saw their own dear children who had died.”
We drew near Hangman’s Square and the darkness softened. The gallows was just steps ahead.
“And when the Swampfolk heard them, heard their very own children, they went to work at once. They tore apart the pumping station, and they opened the sluices, and the water flowed back into the swamp.
“The brave ghost-children saved the ailing babies lying in their cradles, pale as spilt milk. They saved the ailing children coughing out bits of their lungs. They saved the witch girl’s ailing sister, and for that, the witch girl promised to tell the story of their bravery over and over as long as she might live.”
I stopped. The ghost-children stopped. I’d never thought to climb the gallows, but this was a day for doing things I’d never thought to do. The ghost-children and I must climb the gallows so that everyone might see.
There were no stairs at the gallows’ back, but I hoisted myself to waist height, clambered onto the platform. The ghost-children followed, weightless as dandelion puffs.
The Swampfolk saw us now. The barkeep stood frozen, a clutter of boiled sweets in his outstretched palm.
Boys played at hoops, a skip-rope churned. Silver toffee wrappers blew about the children’s feet.
The ratcatcher dropped a bar of peanut brittle. The unmarried girls turned away from the looking glasses. They turned away, from bright hopes of future husbands, to dead brothers, and sisters, and cousins, and friends.
“The babies and the children grew well and strong, and so did Rose Larkin, thanks to the heroic ghost-children. And the babies and the children and Rose all lived out the rest of their lives in great peace and contentment.”
The skip-rope girls were the last to notice. Slap-slap went the rope.
The water is high,
The water is low.
In comes the swamp cough:
Out . . . you . . . go!
Slap . . . The rope stuttered into silence, the handles clattered against the cobblestones.
How the Swampfolk stared! They stood staring in a lump, like cold potatoes. Father’s mouth opened. Briony! he said, but he made no sound.
But I had the ghost-children. They formed a circle round me. They waited.
29
A Crumpled Page
“Maggie!”
“My Jess!”
“Willy!”
The names of dead children filled the night.
“Kevin!”
“Baby Shirley!”
The ghost-hands slipped away; the ghost-children gathered at the gallows’ edge, reaching out to flesh and blood. I saw them properly now. There was nothing horrid about them. No dripping flesh, no unspeakable ooze.
“Speak!” I said. “Tell them!”
“ ’Twere the Boggy Mun!” said a small voice.
Then another. “ ’Twere the Boggy Mun what kilt us.”
“I be scareful o’ the darklings!”
I looked into the crowd. Eldric stood at the front, his face bright as flame.
“The Boggy Mun kilt us on account o’ the water.”
“The water what leaved the swamp.”
“The water what goed to the sea.”
“I miss you, Mam! My bed, it be so cold!”
Mothers and fathers reached for their children.
“The Boggy Mun kilt us on account o’ them engineering men.”
Fisherfolk are stolid, usually weeping only when drunk. But now they wept openly, and sobbed, and called for their children.
“Where is she!” howled a woman’s voice, all dark caves and echoes. “Where!” The voice struck me between the wings of my shoulders.
The crowd fell back and lost its edges. It oohed and screamed and ran all shimble-shamble.
I spun round, faced the black squall of a mouth.
The bones dripped with flesh. The black squall opened wider. “There she is!” Maggots crawled between her teeth. Maggots oozed through her eyes.
Softer now. “There you are.” Her voice was the only thing I recognized. That, and her hair, knots and clumps of sooty hair. Black is the color of my true love’s hair. Her flesh was real; she was not like the ghost-children, whose flesh did not decay. Blue petals of skin drifted to her feet.
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you.” Stepmother set a finger on the tatters of her lips. I’d forgotten this gesture of hers. “You are a good girl, calling me from my grave.” She might have been chatting at a tea party.
The worst thing was that she still had her eyes. Or one of them. The other bulged from its socket, tipped with fish-belly gray.
“Come closer.” She reached for me with a tattered arm. Bracelets clinked on her wrist-bones. They sounded much as they used to, just as they might have at a tea party.
The air tasted of thunder. It lay on my tongue like a rusty coin.