‘Brave of you to come here,’ said Elks, curious.
I opened my mouth and searched for a convincing platitude.
‘God shall watch over us for so long as we remain virtuous,’ Dowling growled.
‘I am sorry you did not enter by the street, for we could have told you of his fate and you might have left freely,’ said Elks. ‘They buried your brother yesterday.’
I bowed my head to hide my face, praying Dowling might follow my lead. I sensed he readied to seize Elks by the neck and throttle him.
‘Will you stay or will you go?’ Elks asked, softly. I heard the faint edge in his voice, and recognised immediately the choice he presented.
‘We will stay, of course,’ I answered afore Dowling could speak. ‘For we must abide by your oath, and I would spend some time in the house of my brother.’
‘Ah, very good,’ Elks nodded slowly. ‘And so you would take the oath yourself?’
‘As God is my witness,’ I assured him. ‘I pledge an oath to remain within these village boundaries until the Pest has departed.’
Elks muttered something, apparently satisfied, afore turning to Dowling.
‘I swear unto you, I shall stay,’ Dowling growled.
‘Before God, please,’ Elks insisted.
Dowling scratched at his nose and looked upon the heads of the four poor clerics. ‘I swear unto thee and before God, that I shall not leave this village until the plague has finished killing the good men that abide here.’
‘Very well,’ Elks nodded. ‘Then you are free to live among us as you will.’ If his words spoke of trust, his eyes did not. ‘Do you know the way to your brother’s house?’ he asked, strange gleam in those foul eyes.
‘It lies up towards Town End,’ said Dowling.
Elks’ eyes narrowed. ‘You remember.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But we will need help to find it in this fog.’
Elks nodded his head, curtly, and beckoned us forward into the
mists, away from the horrors about the village pond. The bank of fog loomed sinister and mysterious, hiding what other monstrosities, I couldn’t imagine. It seemed we were in Hell, and as we followed Elks, I feared these would be our last steps and we would never get out of this place alive.
Chapter Fourteen
Because Virgo is an earthly barren sign; great mortality amongst their greater Cattle.
Elks strode fast through the white wall of fog, like he carried a map of the place in his head. The road led us down into a freezing valley before climbing back up to where the air was thinner. Thin enough to make out a square, stone cottage with grey, slate roof.
Elks stopped at the gate. ‘When did you last see your brother?’ he demanded.
‘Three years ago,’ I improvised. ‘In Colchester.’
Elks shook his head, slowly. ‘I don’t remember Robert leaving Shyam in all my life.’
‘Aye,’ I replied, doing my best to appear upon the verge of new tears. ‘He hated to travel.’
Elks grunted. ‘No matter. Buxton had nothing of value, as you may see for yourself.’ He rubbed his nose upon the back of his sleeve and
stared out darkly from beneath a greasy brow. ‘Be sure not to wander.’ He considered us a little while longer before marching off, back into the mists.
I realised I’d stopped breathing. Thank the Lord he hadn’t asked me what Buxton looked like.
The door to the cottage stood ajar. The smell of something sweet and fetid lurked within. I sought reassurance before pushing at the door. ‘Elks did say they buried him?’
The door stuck. A fly buzzed around my ear then landed inside my nostril, a foul tickle.
Dowling leant against it with his shoulder. The door remained stubbornly unmoving despite Dowling’s best efforts. ‘Whatever it is, it’s heavier than me,’ he panted.
I followed the edge of the house round to the left and into the fog. I spotted a window halfway down the wall, a piece of linen soaked in linseed oil, sagging and loose. I pulled at one corner and tore it from the frame. The stink was overpowering, the steady drone of flies belying the carnage within.
‘God save us,’ I exclaimed, pulling away into the fresh moist air.
‘And the beasts of the fields.’ Dowling took my place and scanned the scene. ‘It’s a cow, wandered into the house and dropped dead against the door.’
I imagined what Jane would say if she found a dead cow inside our house. ‘Then we may as well leave it there. We cannot live with a dead cow.’
Dowling raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you have another relative here, I don’t know where else we’ll sleep.’
Sleep meant another day away from London, an unsettling thought. I turned away and gazed into the gloom. The yellow mists began to thin.
Apple trees emerged, tall, dark and spectral. We were in an orchard, apples still forming, not yet ripe. Likely the harvest would fall to the ground and rot. Between the trees nothing moved, save the swirling vapours.
Suddenly I couldn’t catch a breath. I felt drawn into the orchard, compelled to keep walking in a straight line until Shyam was far behind. Fear of this place clutched at my heart, a dread of Elks and the gruesome spectacle about the village pond. I longed to go home.
‘I see someone,’ Dowling whispered from behind my shoulder.
I shivered, the mist chilling the naked skin about my neck and chest. I followed his gaze, my heart frozen. A woman and two children, pale-faced and motionless, three ghosts, victims of the pestilence, stood the other side of a long dark mound. They watched us as close as we watched them.
Dowling tugged at my coat. ‘Come on.’
My feet stuck to the floor like tree trunks, until torn from their roots by the butcher.
‘Stop there!’ the woman cried, voice shrill. The two children burrowed deeper into her skirts. ‘Who are you?’
I held up my hands. ‘Robert Buxton’s brother,’ I called. I would have to find myself a name.
She pulled the children in tight and stared down at the freshly-dug grave. When she glanced up, as if expecting me to collapse in a paroxysm of tears, I ducked my head and looked for sadness. I found it quickly. We stood in silence, while I imagined my father lain beneath that earth. I had known him as well as this fictional brother would have known Buxton.
‘You are Robert’s brother?’ the woman asked, peering closer when I lifted my head.
‘His younger brother,’ I claimed again, little confidence this pretence would survive the morning.
‘You are shorter than he,’ she said, doubtful. ‘You don’t have his long nose, nor his brown eyes.’
‘You thought him handsome, then?’ I asked.
‘He was seventy years old,’ she declared. ‘No man is handsome at that age. He couldn’t see or hear well, but he had a kind heart, I suppose.’ She seemed uncertain.
I would have to change the subject. ‘Why is Robert buried here and not in the graveyard?’ I asked.
She cocked her head and looked like she would cry. ‘The Reverend no longer allows burials at the church. We must bury our own on our own land, and Marshall Howe buries the last to die.’
One of the children started to cry, hiding his face in the folds of his mother’s dress. She placed a hand on his head and stroked his hair. ‘I’m sorry, John,’ she spoke soft.
I met her eye. ‘What’s happening here?’
She scanned the trees and squirmed, like she would rather be anywhere else. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house. He received some fabrics from London which were wet. He hung them out to dry and died next day.’
‘Then the whole village took an oath to stay,’ I replied. ‘That is what Thomas Elks would have us believe. It seems unlikely.’
She edged sideways. ‘We must go now.’
‘Help us,’ I pleaded, cursing my sharp tongue. ‘Help us understand. Robert is dead, yet we are told we cannot leave.’
She leant forward and whispered, as if she didn’t want the children to hear. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house, as I said. Everyone took fright, and several people left. The Reverend Mompesson urged his