Death Watch (9 page)

Look again
.

The scene returned to the sidewalk.

She could see the young man very clearly now, though a mist was rising in the stone. She thought she had never seen him before, yet how familiar he looked. A little awkward, stooping slightly as he waited outside the house, but handsome. His Roman nose, an Umber trait, so familiar, and the hair worn long and in his eyes. So like Amos.

In that instant she knew who the young man was, and she choked back a sob. Of joy or fear she couldn’t tell.

Amos’s child had come.

Amos’s son.

Come now, to that dark house. She felt cold from the ground beneath the floor climb up through the boards and up her spine like a rising damp.

“Holy Mother,” she said, setting the stone back onto the table
and closing her eyes, “Holy Mother, watch over him.”

The moon was up and bright. She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and went quickly toward the back door that led down to her garden.

The bees would have to be told.

U
NCLE ENTERED A SMALL CHAMBER
on the second story and locked the door behind him, one lock after another, seven in all.

With his company arrived, Charles Umber felt, finally, a little hope, but care would be required. He had become very used to doing whatever he pleased in his house. Now he would be sharing it with others, and accommodations would have to be made. Alterations to the routine. Circumstances had already been changing in the Camera Obscura—his name for this chamber, because once, long ago, he’d used it as his dark room. Now his photographic equipment had been moved into the outer chamber, and the Camera served another purpose.

The room had had many uses over the years, even before he began spending so much of his time here. The oldest objects, pushed under tables and stacked in the corners, were the kinds of things one might find in an attic. More recently the room had been used as a nursery, a bedroom, and a playroom, although the walls, padded, hanging with manacles and various restraints, belied any visions of a joy-filled childhood.

Uncle’s eyes were rimmed with fire from weeping and lack of sleep. He was exhausted from having spent much of the last two days scrubbing the room from ceiling to floor, and for the first time in years, it didn’t smell like piss.

Under the table, a few forgotten toys had escaped his notice.
The more Uncle looked, the more reminders of childhood he could see hiding in the corners. Hardly a room for a grown man, he thought. Perhaps it was best things had ended when they did. Now there would be a change.

A change!

He spoke to the other in the room:

“Metamorphosis …

“We can begin again.

“Company is here. Your family is here. We’ll be all together. Won’t that be something? All together. They have made their way to us from afar, driving across the black land to our little patch of sunshine! You’ll hear their voices through the walls and floors. Everywhere, the sound of family. Your family. Our family. Won’t that be fine!”

Uncle’s mouth turned down just slightly. He was telling himself a story. He wanted to be hopeful. This last year had been unbearable. He still had to keep this door locked to keep the other in. Further measures had been required because the room’s occupant was so strong. Locks. Bindings. The inner door was covered with chalk drawings that seemed to be working. No more escapes. No more mad scenes in other parts of the house. Everything was calm now. Contained.

Charles Umber looked forward to the future.

There would be metamorphosis. A rite of transformation, a rebirth. And a new thing is so like a child. So much easier. Excitement began to rise in him again, and, unable to control himself, he spoke once more into the room.

“You are safe. Rest awhile. Your life was all hardship. Be at peace and prepare. Prepare. The worlds divide. The form remains. The spirit rises purified and reborn, a child of gold! Oh, creature of shared blood, be cleansed! Endure! War no more with thine
own flesh, for it is preserved in peace and is now a holy place, a hallowed shrine….”

He stopped just as his voice began to rise, remembering himself and the houseguests who now occupied bedrooms in the east and west wings of the house. Better to assume that he would never have the complete privacy to which he was accustomed. He looked at the massive door. The locks would keep them out, and it was a large house. But the house had many hollows behind the walls, gaps between the floors and ceilings, and sounds ran through such spaces like scurrying mice. It would be hard to know just how far his voice, or any other sound, would carry.

“So you see? We shall have to make some accommodations. Quiet voices.
Sotto voce
, if you please.”

Uncle had been spending more and more time in the Camera Obscura, and that would have to change too. One of the chains on the wall shook against its rusted bracket. “Yes, I’ll still be here, but I can’t sit all day in this room,” he said, feeling guilty. “I must prepare. Please understand. No matter where I am, I am always thinking about you. Always.”

Across the room, several books fell to the floor with a loud thud, as though they had been pushed from their dusty shelves.

“And that is precisely what I am speaking of. Please trust me. I need a little time.”

Uncle stacked the books into a pile. He paused to hold a small volume between his hands like an open Psalter, as his eyes ran over the lines of a favorite page. Then he closed his eyes and said, quoting aloud,

“Broken in pieces all asunder,

Lord, hunt me not,

A thing forgot,

Once a poor creature, now a wonder,

A wonder tortur’d in the space

Betwixt this world and that of grace …”

“Yes,” Uncle said with concern, “it has been all affliction for you, but rest assured, a change is coming. Metamorphosis. Resolution and the rising soul!”

He looked through the thick glass.

Its eyes were closed. No. One eye was open just slightly, and Uncle knew it was looking at him. Seeing him through that gray eye, somehow. Hearing his words. Waiting for his words, assurances, promises of what was to come …

“Be easy now,” Uncle said soft like a song.

“You are home.

“You are home.

“You are home.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING SILAS AWOKE
to a quiet world. He could just hear the sound of running water downstairs, but the rest of the house was silent. Outside, not even a car could be heard.

He got dressed and made his way down to the kitchen. He enjoyed the way the thick wool Persian carpets throughout the house felt on his bare feet. It was like walking on warm moss.

When he reached the kitchen, he saw a woman bent over the sink as she washed pans. She was dressed in a faded blue dress and wore thick-soled shoes. She didn’t look up, but said, “There’s a plate of breakfast in the oven for you, Master Umber. Real eggs. Fresh.”

Being called “Master Umber” seemed much too formal to Silas, so he replied politely, “My name is Silas. Please, call me Silas.”

“I know your name, Master Umber. I knew your father when he was a young man.” The woman turned to face him and stared Silas up and down. “You have your father’s look about you, and there’s the truth,” she said. She opened a cupboard and brought out a jar of peaches.

“Have you seen my father recently?” Silas asked very suddenly. He knew it wasn’t polite, or proper, but he was interested in her reaction.

The woman’s hand must still have been wet from the washing, because the jar of peaches slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor. Thick syrup pooled out from among the fruit pieces,
most of which were now shot through with shards of broken glass.

“I’d prefer not to talk about your father, Silas, if you don’t mind. I am much saddened at his loss. He was a good man, although your uncle wouldn’t care for me saying so.”

Silas felt the little hard edge to her voice. She was uneasy. Maybe because of his comment, or maybe something else. Her face was the surface of a stone and revealed nothing. Silas couldn’t even tell quite how old she was. She was stooped a bit and her face was careworn, her eyes circled with lines and arcs, but she might easily have been sixty or eighty.

“May I ask your name?”

“You may. I am Mrs. Grey.”

“Have you worked for my uncle for a long time?”

“I have worked
for this house
for many years. I knew your grandfather.”

When she said “this house,” Silas could tell she wanted him to know that she didn’t consider herself her uncle’s employee, but instead, somehow, was part of the house itself, like the carpet or the roof.

“So you are to live here now,” she said without any question in her voice. The sink faucet dripped as they talked, one quick drop after another, like the mechanism of a clock.

“Yes, but, well, I’ll have to weigh my options,” he answered wryly.

“That’s good,” she said quietly, “for the danger lamps are lit all the time now, and there’s the truth of it.”

The kitchen door opened to reveal Uncle in the doorway. Mrs. Grey turned quickly back to the sink as she quietly resumed her work. Uncle ignored her.

“Good morning, Silas. Excellent. Do take your breakfast where you please. I thought the fresh eggs would be a treat. Now,
your choice: the den, or the parlor? The porch is warm this morning. It looks to be fine weather. I shan’t join you, as I’ve a little work to do in my study. Do forgive me. But if you like, shall we meet in a couple of hours for a little informal tour of the house? That will give you some time to unpack your things. I’ll fetch you at, say, ten?” His eyes were wide as he spoke, like an actor onstage presenting a well-prepared monologue.

He waited for no reply before he turned quickly and left the kitchen. Silas could hear his uncle’s footsteps on the stairs.

“You see, Silas,” said Mrs. Grey, as she turned toward him again. “You can see it in his eyes. The lamps. The danger lamps are lit.” She looked at the empty doorway where Silas’s uncle had just been. “You be sure you don’t spend too much time locked away in this house. Plenty to see. Indeed there is. Plenty to see in Lichport. You be sure to get out when you can. You understand me, Master Umber? Get out when you can.”

Silas smiled at her, but suspected there was great precision and meaning in her choice of words.

“I’ll just eat in here, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Grey.”

“Your uncle won’t like to know you’re spending so much time in the kitchen, but you must suit yourself.”

From a high-backed chair perched near the rail of the second-floor landing, Uncle had been watching and listening to Silas’s movement downstairs for some time. He liked this chair with its heavy carved lion’s-paw feet. In it, he felt as though he was resting at the very center of the house. He could see the wide hall below and through the doorways into the front rooms. He could, by craning his neck, look down the entire length of the north wing. A simple sweep of his head one way or the other revealed to him both the east and west wings.

He saw Silas come from the kitchen—where he had obviously
eaten his breakfast—and watched him make his way to the parlor, where he paused—mostly out of view—for twenty-two minutes, perhaps reading? From there, Silas crossed the hall again and opened the front door, rather tentatively, and enjoyed twelve minutes of sunshine on the porch before coming back inside. He then stopped in the hall and had a good look at the mummified Ammit. Uncle watched the boy regard it from several angles.
He is intrigued
, thought Uncle.
This is good
. He stared quietly at his nephew, then coughed lightly to make his presence known and descended the stairs just as Silas had begun to pull gently in an exploratory manner at some of the ancient linen bandages.

“A natural archeologist!” Uncle exclaimed, startling his nephew who quickly pulled his hand away from the wrappings.

“Shall I show you a few more things that might interest you?”

“Please,” said Silas.

Quiet. Reserved. Inquisitive.
Good
, thought Uncle.

Uncle led his nephew into the drawing room.