Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [32]
“I’ve come in search of Long Boy,” I tell her.
“But he is ill with fever,” she says.
I shake my head. “He has gone.”
She frowns a little. “We’ve not seen him here this night.”
“Could you ask about?” I say, nodding toward the other room. She pauses a moment, then lifts her great girth and disappears again. I cross to the door and watch her move about the room, collecting empty tankards and pausing now and then to make inquiries. One by one I see them frown and shake their heads, and she turns to me with a shrug of her shoulders, then moves to fill the empty mugs behind the counter. I remain frozen in the doorway for a moment, unsure what course of action I should take, until I realize the painter is looking at me from across the room. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, then looks down at something in his lap, and I see that he is sketching quickly with coal, his hands flying about the paper. Curious to see, I make my way slowly across the room, but just as I draw near he quickly turns the page, and begins drawing anew. His action seems a little like a reprimand and causes me to halt. Instead I turn and make for the doorway, where I pause to wave good-bye to Mary. But before I can open the door, I am nearly knocked aside by someone entering from without. It is Samuell, Mary’s husband, and his broad, weatherbeaten face is filled with alarm. Once inside he pauses for breath, his chest heaving and his eyes watery with cold.
“She has gone,” he declares loudly, in a voice thick with panic. “They’ve opened the grave and taken her.” For a second there is silence, as it dawns on us who he is speaking of. And in the next moment half the room has risen to its feet, and I find myself swept along in a tide of drunken anger as we all move out the door.
The graveyard lies on the outskirts of the village, just prior to the boundaries of the Great House. Two of the men have managed to grab torches and the light bounces eerily off the frost-laden trees, our feet crunching the frozen dirt below us as we hurry along the road. When we draw near a small crowd has already gathered around the grave: some yeoman farmers, a few old women who live nearby and must have heard their cries, and standing off to one side, Long Boy. I rush to him and take his arm, and he turns to me with a look of complete bewilderment, as if I am a total stranger.
“Are you all right?” I ask. He stares at me with a glazed look in his eye, then turns back to the grave, now a shallow hole in the ground. The crude wooden coffin she was buried in lies open at the bottom of the hole, its lid cast to one side, iron nails still jutting from the wood. The men begin to argue among themselves, alcohol fueling their excitement, and before long their voices rise to shouts and someone throws a punch. A fight ensues between two young farmers, and for a moment no one moves, our attention drawn by the spectacle of violence. Just then Mary arrives at a trot, hands beneath her belly, her breath coming hard. Without a thought she steps right into the fray, shouting at the top of her lungs. Her voice stops them dead, and they pause, chests heaving, regarding her in the midnight air.
“There’ll be no more fighting this night,” says Mary with authority. “Go on home, the lot of you, and put your fists to bed.” The men slowly start to move, bend down to fetch their fallen caps, rub their hands against their faces, and shuffle down the lane.
We stand silently watching them depart through a veil of bitter cold: myself and Long Boy, Mary and Samuell. And