Six
“Of course I was there!” Garrett roared a few hours later, as soon as he’d finished taking another swig from the whiskey bottle. “How dare you even ask a man of my age if he fought! I was a young man during the war and I stuck at it the whole way through! I’m no coward! I wasn’t a lickspittle, either. I was always pushing to the front.”
“Which side were you on?” Munver asked.
“Which side?” Garrett stared at him for a moment, as if he found the question preposterous. The crackling fire lit one side of his face, while the other side was bathed in darkness from the window. “Well, which side do you think, man? Can’t you tell from my accent? Think very carefully before you answer, by the way.” He narrowed his eyes as he continued to watch Munver, and now he seemed extremely keen on a response. “Which side do you reckon I fought on?”
“Uh…”
“The right side, of course.” He laughed a sudden, abrupt laugh that scared Munver a little. “Whoo-oop, for a moment there I thought you were serious.” He chuckled. He’d already decided that Munver was basically harmless, but he was starting to find the man’s simplicity rather amusing. “Which side, indeed. Thank you for the laugh.”
“Okay.” Munver paused. He realized he was supposed to understand, but he couldn’t quite pick up the clues. He certainly didn’t want to admit that he was confused. “I see.”
“That war made me the man I am today,” Garrett continued, leaning back in the chair. He’d been getting louder and more garrulous over the past few hours, as the drinking had continued, but now the edge was coming off a little and he seemed tired. “By the time I finished fighting, I was a foot taller and six inches broader at the shoulders. When I went home, my own family barely recognized me. I was scrawny when I went to fight, but when I returned I was built like a brick shit-house.”
“Like a what?” Munver asked, perched on one of the other chairs.
“It’s a phrase,” Garrett said, his voice slurring slightly as he set the bottle back on the table. “Don’t you know anything? Drink some more of this and try to keep up with the conversation.”
Munver took the bottle and pretended to drink, while watching as Garrett turned his head and looked toward the window. Snow was still falling outside, and after a moment Garrett murmured something that seemed to be about shovels and the need to dig out a path in the morning. Nothing about his tone indicated that he expected an answer; rather, it was as if he was content murmuring away to himself.
“Was I in the war?” he added finally, closing his eyes. “What kind of a stupid question is that? You’re lucky I don’t beat you down for asking.”
“I once heard Angelica Graft talk about the war,” Munver said. He always enjoyed any chance to say that woman’s name; in some strange way, the mere mention of her made him feel as if she was becoming part of his life. “She said it was so hard, not knowing which way things were gonna go. She said it was the uncertainty that got to her the most, but she said she never doubted who’d win.”
He waited, but Garrett’s eyes were still closed.
Was he asleep?
“I said, Angelica Graft used to talk about the war,” Munver continued, hoping to determine Garrett’s state a little more clearly. “A fine woman, she is, with intelligent opinions. I learned a lot from listening to her. She’s as clever as she is pretty. It’s not just me who says it, either. Everyone knows.”
Munver waited, but after a few more seconds he realized that Garrett was breathing very slowly now. Having drunk almost half the bottle of whiskey already, the older man seemed to have slipped into inebriation and was dozing happily by the fire. The only sound now was the crackling of the wood in the hearth, and Munver barely even dared to breathe in case he suddenly caused Garrett to stir.
Finally, slowly, Munver looked down at the lady-box on the floor. He knew he should leave it well alone, but he’d mentioned Angelica Graft a few times over the past half hour and her name always drove him into something of a frenzy. He glanced back at Garrett, to make doubly sure that he was asleep, and then he slowly picked up the lady-box and shuffled over to the far corner, away from the light of the fire.
He looked back again to check that Garrett hadn’t woken, and then he lowered the lady-box to his waist and began to unbutton the front of his pants. It took a moment for him to get the front open, and then he reached in and took hold of the base of his manhood.
And then he froze.
He’d performed this exact routine many times. In fact, the lady-box came out two or three times every evening, but this time he hesitated as he realized that he might have another option. His mind was racing, and finally he very slowly set the box back down and turned to look at the window. The only sound – still – was the crackle of the fire, and Munver stood completely unmoving for almost a full minute before daring to make his way over to the front door. As he crept, he felt a sense of great anticipation building in his chest.
After looking back one more time at Garrett, he then opened the door and carefully slipped outside. He shut the door, and then his footsteps could be heard crunching away across the snow until they faded into the distance and all that could be heard was the fire.
Garrett continued to doze in the chair. The long journey, combined with the effects of the whiskey, had sent him into a great slumber, and he was dreaming now of his life back home with Mary. In the dream, he was back in the drawing room, back before all of this madness had begun. He was explaining the next purchase to her, telling her that it was absolutely necessary, and she was struggling to understand. Bibles stood stacked on a table between them, and Garrett was reading from them in the hope that a little scripture might help. This part was less dream and more memory, but soon the changes began to set in, and Garrett dreamed that Mary was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of corpses. Even as his face remained still – save for an occasional flicker as he furrowed his brow – his dream was becoming a nightmare.
Now the dead were chasing him. Their arms were longer than they should be, great long limbs that creaked as they stretched to grab hold of his body. He tried to pull away, but there were too many hands and they were coming from every direction. He could hear Mary screaming, but he couldn’t see her; after a moment he heard her cries change, as if something was blocking his throat. As soon as he tried to turn and rush to her aid, however, he realized he was being dragged down by the corpses. He yelled at them, promising them each a coin if they’d just let go, but they told him in return that he was too late. That he’d failed the Lord.
As the nightmare became worse and worse, Garrett’s sleeping face began to twitch a little more frequently.
A moment later, the front door clicked open and Munver carefully peered into the room.
Once he was certain that Garrett was still asleep, Munver slipped into the cabin and crept over to the area where he usually skinned and cooked his food, and then he very carefully took a candle from a shelf and carried it to the hearth. Not even allowing himself to breathe, in case he woke Garrett, he leaned down and lit the candle against the flames, and then he crept to the door and slipped back out, pulling the door shut as he went.