Chime

“She be a lovely lass,” said the Boggy Mun. “Oh my, yes. A lovely lass.”

He was speaking to me, I realized. He could see me.

“Happen this lovely lass got herself a sweetheart?”

I shook my head. “You can see me but I can’t see you.”

“I fixed it up that way,” said the Boggy Mun. “I thinks it be a grand system. What do the lass think?”

“Grand,” I said.

“I sees thee, right enough,” said the Boggy Mun. “An’ what I sees tell me tha’ doesn’t be all mortal, though it be a puzzlement what sort o’ the Old Blood tha’ has.”

“I’m a witch.”

“There be a deal o’ mortal in thee. I hasn’t been learning on mortals all these years that I doesn’t know there be someone tha’ needs must save. Tha’ be certain tha’ doesn’t got no sweetheart?”

“No sweetheart.”

“But there be someone particular tha’s o’ the mind to save. There always be someone particular.”

“My sister,” I said. “My twin sister.” I thought of Rose, back in the Parsonage, in Pearl’s care. Pearl, sworn to keep her eyes on Rose, except for blinking. “We are identical, she and I.”

“What be the name of this sister?”

“Rose Larkin.”

The moment I said those words, I knew I’d made a mistake. The sky leaned on my shoulders, all ashes and smoke.

“It want but a moment for a body to be striked wi’ the swamp cough.” The Boggy Mun paused. “There, now it be done. Tha’ sister, she be striked wi’ the swamp cough. If’n tha’ be o’ the mind to save her, tha’ best stop these mortal fo’ak from taking the water from my home. Water what be mine.”

The Boggy Mun was gone. I rose, the ground trembled beneath me. I was a fool. I’d thought to make a bargain with the Boggy Mun, but he’d given Rose the swamp cough.

I’d pretended to heed Stepmother’s warnings about the swamp, but I broke my promise, and look what had happened! Mr. Dreary, dead. Rose, struck with the swamp cough.

My thoughts drifted like cold ashes. I didn’t want to hang. I was responsible for Rose. I promised Stepmother to care for Rose. But I didn’t want to hang.

It’s strange how a person can have a distinct distaste for herself, but still she clutches on to life.

I hate myself.

It doesn’t matter, Briony. You have to remember how you hurt Rose, because now you’ve hurt Rose again.

Tell yourself the story. Remind yourself how you hurt Rose. Remind yourself of the swings, the froth of petticoats, Rose’s screams.

You must remind yourself. You must hate yourself.

Remind yourself what Stepmother said to you, not once, but many times. Remember how she’d look at you, how she’d say, “Never tell your father.”

Remember how those words would make your heart lurch and cut off your breath.

“I’ll protect you,” Stepmother would say. “I’ll lie if I have to.” She’d tell me that if Father knew what I did to Rose, he’d turn me over to the constable. “He’s a righteous man, your father,” she’d say. “He’d not exempt his own daughter from the law.”

Overhead, the plovers called out. Full moon! Full moon! The Quicks were a scribble of charcoal.

Remind yourself what you did to Rose; remind yourself what Stepmother did for you. She hid your wickedness. She tried to stop it too. She knew you ought not to enter the swamp. You thought at first it was nonsense. You argued with her. You pointed out that you weren’t in the swamp when you called Mucky Face, but she reminded you that you were standing at the very edge of the river. That it didn’t matter that you were on the Parsonage side, because even in the swamp, you couldn’t possibly have gotten any closer to Mucky Face.

You pointed out that the swings weren’t in the swamp, but Stepmother reminded you that they too hung as close to the swamp as could be.

By the time I reached the Flats, the moon had risen. Full moon! Full moon! I was mid-stride when I saw her, saw the Chime Child, drifting across the Flats. I stood flat and still, a paper doll cut from moonlight. She mustn’t see me. I edged into the shadows. If the Chime Child saw me, she’d want to know my business in the swamp, a thing I was disinclined to divulge.

I didn’t want to hang. Not hanging involves keeping my mouth shut, a thing at which I excel. I didn’t want Rose to die, but Rose living means Briony dying. I didn’t want to hang.

I prayed that she not turn, I prayed she not see me.

Why was I so determined to hold on to life? I’ve so often wished I could stop breathing and let go.

The Chime Child drifted back toward the village. I’d prayed that she’d do so, but actually, I don’t believe in prayer. I believe in good luck. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but if someone’s out there answering prayers, mine’s not at the top of the list.

Back in my wolfgirl days, I’d often met the Chime Child in the swamp. I’d almost forgotten. She and I were the only people who regularly visited it. But who cares, anyway? This particular witch has other things to think about, such as whether she’s willing to reveal she’s a witch in order to save her sister.

I’d wait until I reached the river. Then I’d decide.

Moonlight floated on the water like spilt cream. The bridge stretched before me. I’d cross the bridge, then I’d decide. Remember, Briony, remember how Rose screamed. You must always remember.

The bridge yawned its reflection onto the river. My feet took me onto the planks. My feet pushed me toward the decision. My feet were turning the far bank into the near bank; they were turning then into now. What was the point of anything?

Of course I’d do it. I had to save Rose. I’d known that all along, of course. I’d just been pretending.

I’d tell someone tomorrow. I’d let myself have until tomorrow.

Father is not a fire-and-brimstone sort of clergyman, but he does sometimes talk about Hell. I think Hell’s a myth, but don’t tell Father I said so. I think strands of Hell are woven into our everyday world.

Take this example.

As I pushed open the gate to the Parsonage garden, the smell of mint and apple sprang up at my feet. I recognized it at once.

“I told you to go away.” I would not look at him, no, not at the Brownie, creeping around my skirts on his horrid stick legs.

“That you did, mistress,” said the Brownie. “But now, with the stepmother dead and gone—”

“Don’t you speak of her!” I said.

I’d banished the Brownie after the library fire. I didn’t argue with Stepmother this time, not when she said that the Brownie and I were a dangerous combination—even the mint-and-apple Brownie—and that the Brownie must go. Not when she said the library wasn’t near the swamp, which meant my witchy anger must have ridden upon the Brownie’s power to call up the fire: He was the only Old One anywhere near. He was always very near, in fact. He tended to follow me about.

The Brownie crept alongside me on his double-jointed legs.

“Go away!”

Silence.

“Go away!”

Silence.

I slammed the Parsonage door behind me, but that was only for show. Doors mean nothing to a Brownie. He squirmed inside in his own oily way. The Brownie was back, the Brownie who’d helped me call up the fire. There’s a bit of Hell for you.

Another strand of Hell:

I return from my visit to the Boggy Mun, knowing that Rose has the swamp cough. The Parsonage appears empty. Pearl has left for the evening. I walk about; there is a slant of light beneath the parlor door. Shall I knock?