“Mrs Brothwood, would you-”
He was interrupted by the sound of the front door crashing open and the late winter wind swirling into and through the big room. There was a rustling of wings, and a huge dark shape filled the doorway.
7
Something flew over their heads, circled the room, and perched on the rail of the gallery above them. Bennett Rose emerged from the back room with a lantern in his hand and ran to the front door, slamming it shut against the wind. He turned and scowled up at the gallery and the feathered shape there.
“Oh, this is not good,” he said. “Not a bit. I’ll need some help.”
He went to the counter, where he set the lantern down, then found a long stout plank somewhere behind the bar. He took it to the back door and slotted the plank into brackets on either side of it, barricading the way into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Grimes and the vicar Brothwood walked slowly to the front door. They seemed to jockey with each other for position until Grimes conceded to his elder. Brothwood stood behind the door and gripped the knob. He fixed his gaze on the bird in the gallery. Mr Rose returned to the counter, rummaged about, and pulled out a handful of rags, sizing them against one another. Hammersmith froze on his stool, unsure what to do. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He glanced at Day, who raised his eyebrows, but neither man moved. The customs here were alien, and it was hard to know what was proper.
“Mr Rose,” Hammersmith said. “Isn’t that an owl?”
“You mean that creature up there?” As if they might be talking about some other bird in the room.
From the tone of Rose’s voice, they might have been talking about an ancient nightmare that had invaded the inn with great tentacled limbs, intent on dragging them all down to hell. The bird swiveled its head so that it was looking at Hammersmith, its yellow eyes shining out from the shadows above the landing, and hooted. Who who who whooooo. Hammersmith nodded to himself. Yes, it was an owl.
“It doesn’t look likely to hurt anyone,” he said.
“Not worried about it hurting anyone,” Rose said. “Only worried about what it means and getting it to leave.”
He set four glasses on the bar in front of Hammersmith, the schoolteacher, and the two Price children, and filled them from a wooden pitcher of water on the sideboard behind the bar. The pitcher was old and beaded with droplets, the glasses dull and chipped, their edges worn smooth by countless drinkers.
“Perhaps if we got behind it, we could scare it back outside,” Hammersmith said.
“That’d be disrespectful,” Rose said. “We’ll be ready when it decides to move.”
Hammersmith shrugged. He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips.
“Wouldn’t drink that,” Peter Price said.
His sister nudged him and grimaced at Hammersmith. “My brother prefers ginger beer,” she said. She pushed her own glass away from her. It left a glossy trail on the bar. “So do I.”
“I like water,” Hammersmith said. He took a long swallow. Water dribbled down his chin from the many chips in the rim, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt before taking another drink.
Peter shuddered and looked away. Hammersmith made a mental note that the boy seemed to have an aversion to water. He recalled a disease of some sort that made people avoid water. It might be something to mention to the doctor when he saw him. He set the glass down and wiped his chin again.
“What about the owl?” he said.
“It’s a bad sign,” Rose said. He seemed irritated at being kept there, at having to talk to Hammersmith. He wiped the streak of water off the bar, moving his whole arm, putting his weight into the minor effort, then turned and used the rag to cover one of the panels of colored glass above him.
“It’s just a bird, isn’t it?”
“It means death. We’ve got to make it leave, but it’s best if we all act calm and give it a way out.”
“An owl in the house is bad luck,” Jessica said. “Any bird is. And if it lands near you, you’re meant to die within a day.”
Hammersmith watched as Rose moved smoothly about the room, quietly covering the rest of the windows with his rags. “You believe that?” he said.
“It’s happened before,” Jessica said. “We have our ways.”
“I didn’t mean to make light. But, really, it’s just a bird.”
As if it took offense, the owl left its perch on the rail of the gallery and took flight. It sailed down over the great room, hovering over each of the villagers gathered there. Everyone ducked and covered their heads, making themselves small. Day, alone among them, stood up and watched the bird glide past him. He uncorked his flask and raised it to Hammersmith. Hammersmith slid off his stool and held his ground as the owl approached him. It was brown underneath with fingers of white feathers that reached up and over its head. It flapped its wings and put out its talons and gripped the back of the stool, settling there for a long moment, regarding him with its broad flat face, its yellow eyes wide and intelligent.
Who?
The vicar Brothwood swung the front door open, and the owl turned its head to an impossible degree, saw the night sky outside, and took off again. Like a dream, it flapped slowly toward the vicar and then banked sideways and passed through the door and out. Brothwood slammed the door shut and leaned against it.
“Oh, that’s bad,” Anna said.
“That’s awful,” Jessica said.
“It is?” Hammersmith said. “I thought it was rather magnificent.”
Anna regarded him for a long time before responding. “You’re going to die now,” she said. “The owl landed on your chair. That’s a sign that you’re to die.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
Hammersmith glanced around the room, but no one would look at him. Brothwood slunk back to the fire and put an arm around his wife. Grimes positioned himself at the door and watched out through the tiny pane of glass set high in the wood, as if protecting the place from more birds.
Rose looked at Hammersmith, his eyes wide and his forehead creased with concern. “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s right.”
“It picked your chair,” Peter said. As if that was all that needed to be said.
“Well, I don’t mean to offend,” Hammersmith said, “but I don’t share your beliefs.”
Rose nodded. “Nothin’ to do about it. Don’t matter whether you believe or not, it’s the way of things.” He moved away down the bar, tore the plank out of its brackets, and stalked through the back door, presumably to contemplate Hammersmith’s impending death alone. Hammersmith blinked and shook his head.
He looked at Day, who was busy with the knot of villagers, the vicar and his wife saying their good-byes. Mrs Brothwood shook Day’s hand and held it for a moment, but Hammersmith couldn’t see that she spoke at all. Then the vicar’s hand was around her shoulders, hurrying her away toward the front door. They passed by Hammersmith without looking at him, nodded to Grimes and left. Day glanced down at his hand, then put something in his pocket. He turned his attention to the big man with the grey hair, Calvin Campbell, but their conversation was held in low tones and Hammersmith couldn’t hear what was being said.
Hammersmith shook his head and sighed. Back to work. He swiveled on his stool and looked at the Price children. They looked back at him. He had never been good with children, never comfortable with them. Even when he was a child himself. He had spent long stretches of time alone in cramped tunnels far underground, listening for sounds that would let him know that the ponies were coming up from the mines, laden with coal. The sounds of the ponies’ hooves and the rats skittering in the darkness were his only company. When he had spent time with other children, he had been quiet, had listened to them jabber and laugh together, joke and complain, and it had all seemed alien and pointless to him.