Rose shook and thrashed at the earth about him, feverish for some purchase, but his arms remained imprisoned as if by chains. By slow measures the hatchlings descended upon him, blind to the other three. The first to reach him lashed savagely at his face, tearing off a long strip of his cheek. Another gouged his scalp. A third swiped off his nose in a single bite.
Rose howled. Minerva pushed and pulled her way free, and plunged her hands into the soil around Lyman, scooping and digging. In a moment his arms were extricated, and in another his whole body. Their efforts doubled, they freed Grosvenor twice as quickly. As she grabbed the lantern, Minerva glanced at Rose. Only his mouth was visible, opened wide to plead, or maybe scream, the rest of him buried beneath the pale maggoty bodies.
And then he did scream, louder than any heretic broken on a Spanish wheel, like nothing ever uttered by a human throat.
The Bonaventurists spilled and slipped their way down the hill, reckless and immune to bruises and knocks. More than once, the rope binding Lyman and Minerva caught on some tree or obstacle, and one or both of the pair fell, only to leap up immediately, disentangle, and resume their escape.
At the edge of the road, the trio paused to catch their wind and untie the rope and relight the single lantern that somehow escaped with them during their dash. Only then did Minerva observe what her father carried: slung over his shoulder, the rucksack brought from the toolshed contained the final unhatched egg.
She nearly grabbed him by his collar. “You cannot think to bring that—that thing—back to Bonaventure.”
Grosvenor drew a deep breath. “Minerva,” he said, “you must believe me when I tell you I can control it. Now it is but a formless yolk—but in time it can be trained, just as any beast. It can be disciplined. I will make it my instrument.”
“Instrument for what? Murder?”
“For Bonaventure’s success, of course. Think of it. Who needs men and oxen to waste their days plowing a field when one of these creatures can do it in minutes? Who need bother sinking a spade for a building foundation when it can do the task for us? And the gold, Minerva, I tell you—you cannot believe what lies beneath our feet—”
“And what will you raise this servant on? It doesn’t subsist on carrots and onions.”
“We can grow the hogs to feed it. In turn, it will labor for us just as Bessie does.”
“You speak of the offspring. Yet what have you fed the parent during this time?”
Grosvenor shook his head. “The parent is redundant now and I cannot see an alternative to bringing the pup to Bonaventure. Should I destroy it? Or would you have me risk my life to return the egg to its nest? To leave here in the wild, where it will hatch and grow into a ravenous monster that would plague the countryside?”
“I’m told there are lions in Africa,” said Lyman, rubbing his naked wrists, “that occasionally will eat men. I cannot begrudge the lion for its character. I only insist it remain in Africa.”
Minerva stepped closer. “Father,” she said, “do you remember the morning we learned that Mr. Sutton departed the farm?”
Grosvenor snorted in exasperation. “Minerva, now is not the time for reminiscences. You must let it go.”
“Who wrote the note nailed to the door?”
“Mr. Sutton, of course.”
Minerva said, “Did you write it?”
“Minerva.”
“Was it ever even nailed to the door? Or was the ink still drying as you read it aloud to us?”
Grosvenor looked at his daughter, an apparition of conscience manifested solidly before him, and felt a leaden yoke descend upon his shoulders.
“You’re too young. You don’t know what it is to fail.” He gasped, trying to find words. “If Bonaventure fails, it’s all anyone will talk about. It’s how they’ll remember it.”
Lyman, who knew something about failure, felt the man’s discomfort as his own. “We can leave the bag in the ditch,” he said, “and just go.”
“No,” said Minerva. “He must answer my question first.”
Grosvenor opened his lips to speak, and had an honest reply passed between them—whatever its content—a great deal of consolation would have assuaged his daughter’s soul.
Yet at that moment there was a crack like thunder and a tree beside them burst into particles. Grosvenor, thinking to shield himself, leapt away, but the shape from beneath the road lunged straight for him.
The thing thrashed among the wreckage. Lyman grabbed a splinter of wood and jumped between it and Minerva, stabbing. With each successful piercing it squealed like a bow dragged across fiddle strings. Then its jaws caught the spar, pulling it from Lyman’s grip to grind it into kindling. It exploded from the ruined tree, now just sticks and firewood, its tail swinging like a heavy chain. Lyman toppled backwards as it rushed past him, the sack in its mouth, to burst through a fieldstone wall into the pasture opposite the hill. Clods of earth flew in every direction, and with a rumble it was gone.
Lyman picked himself up, shaken, as Minerva raised the wick of the recovered lantern. She screamed.
Among the debris lay her father, his hips and legs twisted behind him, his spine bent forty-five degrees. Blood streamed from his face and he mouthed inaudible syllables, his eyes fixed on Minerva. The extent of his wounds was beyond him—in his gaze lay nothing except shock and confusion. He tried to crawl toward her in supplication but simply managed to spin himself in circles, like a coin accidentally dropped to the floor. Again, his lips opened and closed as if to impart some vital message, but the only issue was scarlet bubbles.
For a long moment the two of them witnessed this strange pantomime, Minerva shaking and sobbing. Then finally Lyman went over to the shattered wall and lifted a stone. Raising it
