Chapter 46
CHAPTER 46
WENDY
T he town of Endor is quieter than I anticipated, though I’m not sure what I was expecting from a town situated near a cave rumored to be a place where the dead can reach this world. Where their whispers can reach out and speak to the rest of us.
The village is simple. Thatch roofs on cottages only large enough to house small families, though it’s the type of place I expect most families have far more children than their walls should allow. Perhaps my perception is only the way it is because of my upbringing—me, John, and Michael with a manor to ourselves. Herb gardens sprout from wooden beds tucked into the windowsills. Altogether, it’s a simple, quaint place. Relatively peaceful.
Except for the building looming from the top of the hill. A massive edifice built of stone. Unlike the quaint cottages, the building is boxy. Sharp lines and edges. Utilitarian.
It reminds me of the hospital back in Jolpa.
I don’t know why that gives me the shivers. Perhaps because during the Plague, hospitals were where people went to die. There’s something wrong with the building—my intuition tells me as much—but it doesn’t matter. I need to get in and out of this cave before Charlie wakes up and realizes that I’m gone.
I’ll have to climb to get to the cave. My hands are already finding purchase on the cliffside when a shadow curls around them.
I whirl around, fists raised, thinking it’s Peter come for me in his shadow form. Instead, what I find is a boy obscured by shadows. No, a boy who is the shadows. He’s shorter than me, and though I can’t make out any of his facial features, there’s something familiar about him. He beckons me, his newsboy cap bobbing on his head as he shuffles away and toward the building at the top of the hill.
I hesitate. I really should be getting to the cave. Finding the Seer and breaking Peter’s curse before Astor comes after me and forces me to do the opposite.
When I don’t move, the boy turns back around and beckons again.
As nonsensical as it is, my heart goes out to him. He’s just a shadow. Just a memory. But he’s a wraith, meaning he was formed out of someone’s pain—a child’s pain. This boy could be grown now for all I know. He could be centuries dead, and whatever horrible thing happened to him would still live on in this wraith.
Perhaps that’s why I pity him. Because while the boy is gone, the pain is still here, and the wraith is trapped within it. This version of the boy will never be able to escape whatever tragedy befell him.
“After,” I say, nodding my chin up toward the cave. “I’ll follow you after I finish what I came here to do. Then you can tell me your story.”
The shadow boy shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is muffled, like it’s underwater. It still causes me to jolt, my back scraping the cliffside wall. “You must come now. They brought a new boy. He doesn’t know what they’ll do to him. You have to get him out. You can talk to his mother.”
I wrinkle my brow, confused, though I don’t know why. I want to tell the boy that it’s too late, that whatever he’s hoping to prevent already happened ages ago. But as I open my mouth to protest, he grabs at my sleeves.
It’s not as though he has any weight with which to pull me, but the gesture is desperate, and so is the “please” that escapes his lips.
It kills me to tell him no, but I can’t help the boy. I can’t reach into the past and rescue him from whatever hurt is about to befall him.
“Please, missus,” says the boy, and though I can’t see tears, the shadows go blurry at his cheeks, highlighted by the moonlight.
“I can’t,” I say, tugging my hand back. “It’s not real.” Or, it is, but not anymore. This is a memory, and whatever happened to the boy happened to him a long time ago. It’s not real. Not anymore.
The boy is distraught now, and he snaps. “It is real. He is real. They brought him to the orphanage this morning. And his name is Nolan, and he doesn’t know… He thinks they’re going to fix him, but they’re just going to make him worse. Please, his mother is still here. You can reason with her. She won’t believe me, but she’ll believe you.”
My heart stops in my chest. “You said the boy’s name is Nolan? And that building is an orphanage?”
The shadow boy nods his head eagerly, like he’s relieved that I finally understand. Reinvigorated, he tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”
My legs follow, my mind in a whir as the shadow boy gently tugs me up the cliffs. Weight-wise, I could break out of his grip with ease. But I don’t. Rather, I can’t. My feet seem to follow whether I want them to or not.
“What’s your name?” I finally ask the boy on the way.
“Peter,” he says without looking at me. My heart might have tumbled to the ground if part of me hadn’t already known the answer to my question. My belly writhes. I scan his back, but find no wings. That makes sense. He wouldn’t have had them before the Sister.
“Peter,” I whisper, watching the boy before me, wishing I could make out his features.
He leads me into the orphanage by the front door. At first, I’m fearful the shadow boy will have me arrested by accident by whatever guards work at the orphanage now, but it quickly becomes clear that the place is abandoned. Moss has crept in through broken windows and played itself across the interior stone walls, which are otherwise completely bare. Lifeless.
Prison-like.
When he leads me down the hallway, my vision begins to black in and out. But I soon realize that’s not what’s happening at all.
I’m seeing shadows. Everywhere.
They’re all shaped like little boys, walking up and down the dark hallways, their heads hanging like they want for nothing more in the world than not to be noticed.
I think I might be sick.
Voices echo in the hall—adult ones, and young Peter takes me in through a door to the right. Inside are three shadows, one of which sits behind a desk, looking formidable, the other two opposite the desk in chairs. One is in the shape of a woman. She’s trembling, though she keeps her hands in her lap and her back straight. Beside her is a boy. He’s not cowering like the boys in the hall. Instead, he sits back in his chair, his legs splayed. Like he, not the warden, owns this place.
“How long will it take you to…help him?” the woman asks, her voice trembling as much as her folded hands.
“You must understand this is a process,” says the warden. “This isn’t an institute for petty magic. If you want that, I suggest you contact the Seer down the street. I’m sure she could provide you with a few baubles to hang around the child’s neck to make him behave.”
“Of course not,” says the woman. “It’s just that I’ll miss my boy, and I’d like to have a date to look forward to.”
Something tells me the shadow of the warden is grinning. “Trust me, Ms. Astor. When you get your boy back, once we’ve fixed him, you’ll realize there was nothing to miss about the boy he was before.”
I watch young Nolan, my heart cracking for him, but if he’s bothered by the warden, all he does to show it is run a coin up and down his pant leg.
“Please, you have to talk to his mother,” says Peter, tugging on my coat. I find myself wondering where the real Peter was this day. If he hid somewhere and listened for the new recruits whenever they brought one in. If he really did go out to the city to beg an adult to save the new boy. I wonder how much of this is true, and how much the shadows have altered the story, not unlike a memory, warping its shape over time to suit the current needs of the holder.
I watch, numb, as the mother hands over a pouch full of coin. Astor said she was a widow. Without his father around to support them, I can’t imagine a pile of coin that large wouldn’t be felt at the supper table. Not in a small fishing village like this one.
When Mrs. Astor goes to leave, I can’t help myself. I grab her by the shoulders. “This is a trap. The work the warden’s doing here—it’s not for your child’s benefit,” I say.
Astor’s mother shifts slowly, peering at me over her shoulder. Her body has a bent quality about it. I can’t tell if that’s the nature of the wraith or a reflection of the truth. “I cannot keep him,” she says. “As much as I love him. The warden helped me see—he’s a danger to my other children.” She says it wistfully. As if she’s spent every night since the warden visited her home trying to convince herself otherwise. Trying to talk herself out of it. I watch her lower her hand to her belly, a belly I just now realized is swollen underneath the shadows, and realize Nolan’s father can’t have been gone long. “Take care of my boy, won’t you?” she says before disappearing.
Numbly, I turn back to the scene unfolding before me. The warden taps on his desk, he and young Astor sizing each other up. Judging by Nolan’s size, he can’t be older than eight.
“You like power. That’s why you hurt your siblings.”
Young Nolan just shrugs, otherwise unresponsive. Still, I can’t help but notice how he rolls the coin up and down his pant leg faster. In my mind, I can feel its curve in the grooves between my fingers as if they’re my own.
“You’re not going to speak to me, then?” asks the warden. “You’re not going to defend yourself?”
“I don’t do it because I like it,” says young Nolan. There’s no defensiveness in his tone. Just a bold obstinance.
“Hmmm,” says the warden, pushing himself from his desk. “You know what I think? I think you like the feeling of power. I think that’s why you hurt other children.”
As he approaches Nolan, the child doesn’t react, but then the warden comes up to Nolan’s chair from behind and slips both hands onto the boy’s shoulders, rubbing them in almost tender circles.
I wait for the Nolan I know to rip his head off for touching him. But, of course, this isn’t the Nolan I know. This Nolan is a child.
He freezes underneath the warden’s touch, just for a moment, but it’s enough for the warden to identify just how afraid the child underneath his hands is.
Slowly, as if he’s won, the warden pulls away and paces over to the fire, clasping his hands behind his back. “Come here, boy,” he says. “There’s a lesson I would have you learn.”
Nolan stands, but it’s more as if to prepare for a fight than it is to approach the warden.
The warden looks over his shoulder, though I can’t see his expression through the shadows. Even the fire by the hearth is just a lick of black shadows.
“You’re not afraid of fire, are you?” asks the warden.
Nolan’s jaw stiffens, and he puffs his chest, striding over toward the warden with a sway to his feet that exudes all confidence, nothing of the terror that was emanating from him just moments ago.
When he reaches the fire, the warden grabs at a poker and begins irritating the coals until the flames swell, hot and aggravated. “Here’s something you need to learn early. And that is, no matter how big you are, there’s always someone bigger than you. Always someone with more power. No matter how firm your will is, there’s always someone who can break it. Always someone who can break you,” says the warden.
“If you’re trying to frighten me into thinking that bigger person’s you, you’re doing a poor job of it,” says Nolan.
The warden doesn’t show any signs of anger that I can see. In fact, his tone is almost amused as he says, “You will be a delight to break, Nolan Astor. By the time we get you back to your mother, she won’t recognize you.”
“You don’t plan to give me back to my mother,” says Nolan, not a hint of fear in his voice. He has his hands clasped behind his back, mirroring the warden—probably because he sees him as powerful and wants to measure up.
“Now, where did you get that idea?”
“The other boys here,” says Nolan. “They’re much too old not to have been sent back yet.”
“Some refuse to bend.”
Nolan glances out the warden’s office window and into the hall. Even now, I know what he’s thinking. That every single boy walking the halls appears to have already been bent. I watch as little Nolan straightens his shoulders, unclasps his hands, and fists his fingers at his side.
The warden turns around and looks at Nolan, whose posture practically screams defiance, and even though I can’t see the warden’s smile writhe, I can see the way the shadow version of Nolan flinches underneath his stare.
The warden is still for a moment, then crosses the room and, with a creak, opens the door. He peeks his head out into the hall. “You, boy. Come here,” he says.
A moment later, Peter’s wraith enters. He’s bouncing back and forth between his heels and his toes.
“Shut the door behind you. And the blinds while you’re at it,” says the warden.
Something slimy slinks down my spine. Peter does as he’s told, then interlocks his fingers behind his back, still fidgeting, waiting.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” snaps the warden. He’s picked a pipe off his desk and set to lighting it. “Don’t make me order you around when you know what you’re to do.”
“Yes, Warden,” says Peter. He brings his hands to his shirt. It’s difficult to tell what he’s doing because of the lack of detail in the shadows, but when he pulls his shirt open, I realize he’s been unbuttoning it.
Peter’s shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. He glides across the room, then places his hands upon the edge of the warden’s desk.
No, no, no.
“You there,” the warden says, puffing smoke from his pipe as he nods toward Nolan. “There’s a poker in the fire. Take it.”
Even Nolan’s wraith, wisps of ethereal darkness as it is, goes very, very still. “Why?” His voice is more defensive than inquisitory. “What did he do?”
“That’s irrelevant,” says the warden. “Now do as I say.”
“No.”
“No?” There’s amusement in the warden’s voice. “Alright. I noticed your mother was with child. But I knew that before she came to see me. I’m rather fond of her midwife, you see. Am over at her place often. You know, I’ve always wondered how she tells the difference between the skullcap and the wormwort. You know, one is given to laboring women to aid in the birth pangs. Are you aware what the other does?”
Nolan doesn’t answer.
“Thins the blood out. Would be disastrous if given to a laboring woman.”
Nolan is breathing hard now, his chest heaving.
“Would be a shame—if the two herbs were ever mixed up,” says the warden.
Young Astor doesn’t beg for mercy. He doesn’t even address the warden’s threat. He just turns to the hearth, slowly, methodically, and takes the poker, shuffling a few of the logs in the fire with it until they crackle.
When he approaches Peter, the poker in hand, the only evidence of his trepidation is the way the tip of the poker rattles. Peter doesn’t look at him. He just taps his fingers against the desk in the cadence of triplets. Like he’s playing himself a song in his head to distract himself.
“Now,” says the warden. “Do you know how to write?”
Nolan holds his chin up high. “Never saw much use for it.” It sounds like the sort of thing a father might say, something Nolan picked up from him before he passed away.
The warden tsks. “That won’t do. Our establishment prides itself in not only rehabilitation, but education. Now, it’s time for your first writing lesson.”
By the time the lesson is over, my ears are wringing with young Peter’s whimpers. To his credit, he hadn’t screamed. Not even as the poker seared his skin. Not even as the warden forced Astor to rewrite the first letter of the alphabet over and over, claiming each attempt wasn’t good enough.
Only when Peter passed out, his little wraith of a body slumping headlong across the desk, had the warden declared their lesson over for the day.
Peter had revived soon enough. He hadn’t said a word to either of them. Just picked up his shirt, buttoned it back on over what must have been still open burn wounds, and left.
As soon as the door shuts behind Peter, Nolan drops the poker, which rattles as it hits the floor.
“What did he do?” Nolan demands, his voice high and shrill—he’s just a child after all. There’s the slightest whimper in Nolan’s voice. Like he’s longing for Peter to have done something awful enough to warrant such torture.
“Nothing,” says the warden, still smoking on his pipe.
“Then why…” Nolan’s hands are shaking at his sides now. He fists them. It’s clear he’s trying to keep his composure, conceal how terrified he is, but his mask is fracturing. “ Why did you make me do that? ” he yells, throwing the desk chair out of his way.
“This punishment wasn’t for him,” says the warden, unfazed by Nolan’s outburst. “You like to hurt other children, boy? Well, here you’ll learn that the punishment is more effective when it fits the crime. Now bend.”
When Nolan doesn’t move, the warden sighs. “Bend, or I’ll call little Peter back in here.”
Trembling, little Nolan does.
When the warden takes the poker to Nolan’s shoulder blade, he doesn’t cry. When he tells Nolan to spin around to face him and places another upon Nolan’s chest, the child doesn’t flinch.
“You’re mine now,” the warden whispers to Nolan. “You belong to me. Do you understand that? No matter where you go, I’ll always be here with you. You think your will cannot be broken. You think this”—he lets his fingers trail Nolan’s bare chest, then traces the curve of Nolan’s arm—“is yours. You could not be more wrong.”
The warden sends Nolan away, shirt still fisted in his tiny hand. I follow him out. Once in the hall, Nolan wipes his nose and buttons his shirt. I watch his fingers twitch at his sides, like he isn’t sure what to do next. Like he isn’t sure if there will be a next.
Then I watch him flee to the nearest alcove, fall on his knees, and weep.
I sit with him there, waiting with him as he cries, wishing I could reach out to him, touch him, comfort him. But for some reason, I can’t seem to reach this particular wraith.
He’s still shaking when another wraith approaches. Peter, I realize, by the way he’s bouncing.
“You don’t have to cry,” says Peter.
Nolan’s back goes rigid, and he shoots straight up. “I’m not crying,” he says, wiping his cheeks with his hands, as if he can banish the evidence.
“Yes, you are,” says Peter, though not unkindly. “But you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll teach you how not to.”
“Why would you do that?” asks Nolan. “I just tortured you.”
Peter flicks his hand to the side. “Oh, that? That was nothing. I’ve forgotten about it already.”
“You can’t just forget something like that,” says Nolan.
“Sure you can. Just don’t think about the bad things, and they can’t hurt you. I can teach you, if you want. You’ll need it if you’re going to stick around.”
Nolan clears his throat, like he’s imitating what a grown man could do. He stands, wiping his hands on his pants. “Thanks, but if that’s the worst of it, I can handle it.”
“Did he mark you?” Peter asks. “Tell you that you belonged to him?”
Nolan flinches.
“Like I said, you’re going to want my help,” says Peter, holding out his hand.
Nolan takes it.