34. Sam Stones on the Square
Sam: Stones on the Square
Since the practice of medical enchantment began, the question of resuscitation has been a vexed one.
Some have claimed that it is possible, but I am inclined, as is every other responsible enchanter, to see this as dangerous delusion.
The human body, once it ceases to function, cannot be brought back to life.
—Fulgencio Prado, Encanto médico
With the benefit of hindsight, I should have stayed with Clementine and Rosetta.
But when I saw them leaving Clover Hall in a hired coach, I thought the worst had passed, and so I departed to find Maxwell.
He was waiting for me patiently, adding color to an illustration of a bloodroot flower.
“Sam,” he said, looking up as I nudged him.
“It’s about time.” Our task that afternoon was arduous, for I needed him to recognize several members of the Cisneros Society who had not appeared at the courthouse.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon at Commonwealth, and at Maxwell’s insistence we resumed our inventory the following morning.
Maxwell spent his entire Sunday traipsing about Salem and Boston in a carriage, catching partial glimpses of men in high hats, scurrying after them to ascertain from a servant or onlooker who they were.
It was slow work. And it took me away from Clementine for more than a day, vital time that would, alas, cost me greatly. I had no notion of what was coming.
When I finally turned my attention back to her on Monday afternoon, the day had almost ended; she was already leaving Keel House. She walked a little more slowly than usual, her brow furrowed with preoccupation. I sent her a small nudge of encouragement.
She smiled slightly. “There you are,” she whispered. “I wondered where you’d gone.”
The idea that she had grown accustomed to my presence cheered me. Could it even be that she had missed me?
As she continued walking, still some distance from Oliver Street, my attention was drawn by a commotion near Washington Square. Clementine, a few blocks away, walked onward with an abstracted gaze.
I looked more closely at the square, where at first I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. Here and there, people had stopped to watch, their faces drawn with horror. Others were frowning, trying as I was to understand. What were they looking at, all these people scattered across the green?
Then I saw her. She was running. Not in an easy way, but in desperation: tripping over her skirts, gasping for breath, tumbling now, and scrabbling to get up.
It was Rosetta.
As yet, the stones fell only lightly upon her, pattering against her back, then against her skirts. But now one landed with force against her temple, and she let out a pitiful cry. She kept running, though I don’t know where to. Was she running toward Keel House? Was she looking for Clementine?
With a speed I would have envied in life, I dashed to Clem’s side and forced upon her the greatest urgency I could. It is Rosetta! I wanted to scream at her. We were wrong, the both of us! They were not after you, they were after HER! Run! Run! Run!
How had I not understood in time? Of course it would be Rosetta. Simeon had made his vile intentions clear. No doubt he was somewhere nearby now, artfully hidden, ensuring that Rosetta met the terrible end he intended for her.
At first, Clementine only frowned, perplexed.
Then came the piercing sound of a constable’s whistle, following by shouting.
Clementine broke into a run. I spared a moment to urge her onward, and then I returned to Washington Square, where Rosetta was still attempting to make her way across the green.
But she wasn’t running. She took halting steps, her hands pressed to her chest. Good God!
She was having an asthmatic attack. The stones lay littered about her and now another flew at her chest, another at her shoulder, two more at her legs.
Again the constable’s whistle sounded, making short, urgent bursts.
But he was an ordinary constable, with no truncheon like Maxwell’s, and he would be useless against the stones.
Where was Erauso? Had Clementine not created him for this very purpose?
Where was he? I knew the creature could not be trusted.
A stone struck her shoulder, and another her chest. Rosetta took a step forward, hand outstretched, an expression of agony on her face.
A stone struck her cheek, and she let out a strangled cry.
She pulled her arms into herself, protecting her chest, but the stones pattered against her back and her head.
She covered her head and they flew at her stomach.
She crouched down, making herself small, as small as possible, and the stones kept coming.
They increased in number, several now cascading upon her at once, and she sank to her knees.
The sound they made against her body was muffled and dull, hardly a sound at all.
She had stopped flinching. Her eyes searched for someone in the crowd.
A stone hit her head, dislodging her beautiful hair, and it tumbled, disordered around her terrified face.
All around her, everyone simply stood staring, mesmerized with horror.
Would no one do anything? Would no one help her?
What was wrong with this pack of spineless, heartless onlookers?
Finally the constable reached her, and he batted ineffectually at the stones.
They dodged him with ease, swerving and swooping, before hitting their mark.
Rosetta crumpled to the ground as several more stones hit her back, shoulders, and now her head.
Her face lay against the dirt, her eyes open, her breathing terribly shallow.
She would not survive it. And Clementine hadn’t arrived.
What could I possibly do for her? I brought myself as near as I could to Rosetta and sent her all my strength.
I urged a sense of calm upon her, a calm that would, perhaps, allow her to breathe.
A calm of perfect stillness, of the ocean horizon at sunset, of the moon rising placidly above our vicious, savage, indifferent world.
The calm I wish I’d had when the end came to me.
I watched her back rise and fall, rise and fall.
Now, to my horror, the rising and falling began to slow.
No, Rosetta. I sent her an urgent bid for courage.
Keep breathing! Clem is coming. Her side rose as a stone hit her shoulder, and a flurry of stones hit her back. And then she fell still.
The stones kept coming, but their terrible work was done.
More constables had arrived, and they ran toward Rosetta.
Too late, far too late. There—I saw Maxwell among them at last. Perhaps it was Maxwell I should have called.
Perhaps I, too, had been too late. For there was Clementine now, at the edges of Washington Square, rushing along the path with an expression of grim determination.
I couldn’t bear to watch her face as she reached the fallen figure and threw herself beside it.
She did not scream or cry. She only folded over her sister’s back and held her tightly, clutching the limp hand that rested in the dust. Kneeling, she pulled Rosetta toward her, lifting her from the ground, dusting off her face, and smoothing her hair.
It was dreadful to see the uselessness of her rapid movements.
The dust remained; the hair was still a tangle.
Then Clem bent over to press her face against her sister’s.
She was whispering something but I couldn’t hear her, so tightly did she press herself against the still, limp form.
The minutes passed and still she remained that way, even as Maxwell crouched down to speak soothing words to her, and the gathered crowd was held at bay by a ring of constables, and the murmurs of rumor swelled to outrage.
Maxwell tried gently to pull her off, but Clementine wouldn’t move. It seemed that she would never let go.