Chapter 18 #2
The corruption starts at my nails, which blacken, loosen, and fall off, one by one.
The nail beds crinkle and turn black. My flesh shrivels against my fingerbones, oozing pus from cracks in the diseased skin.
The rot travels up to my wrist, and when it hits the cluster of nerves there, I shriek.
The pain is so intense that I see white.
Suddenly my mother is there, seizing my arm above the elbow, trying to pull me out from under Beresford and the wight. Anne is screaming against her gag. My husband roars through his mouthful of the wight’s flesh, a bellow of agony, rage, and determination.
Mama jerks harder on my arm, and I buck against the weight of the two males, managing to wriggle out from beneath them. But the pain doesn’t stop. The rot is all over my body now.
My mother drags me into her lap, my head cradled against her chest. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Hold on, dearest girl, hold on, it will be over soon, it will be all right.”
Patches of pustulent skin grow larger, eating into my breasts. Wounds open in my abdomen, and maggots writhe among my entrails. The world is a blaze of anguish and one long, eternal scream.
Through the haze of my pain, I see Beresford push himself off the wight. Most of my husband’s face has rotted away. His lips and cheeks are gone, exposing his teeth and the bones of his jaw. He rolls over and tumbles onto his back, groaning.
I can’t stop screaming, but now I’m shrieking words, over and over. “Did he finish it? Is it done? Is it over? Is it done?”
The Barrow-Man stands up slowly, jerkily. For a moment he remains motionless, his head hanging down, curtained by his shiny black hair. His long clawed fingers twitch, and his thin body spasms.
Then his head snaps up.
“Enough of that,” he says.
His voice is quite different. It doesn’t have the same silky cadence—it’s warmer, almost familiar. He stretches out both hands, one toward Beresford and the other toward me.
“Give me a moment,” he murmurs. “I need to get the hang of this.” His pale brow furrows in concentration.
Slowly, my pain begins to recede. The maggots vanish from my insides, and my entrails become whole again, pink and glistening. The pus and leaking fluid disappear, and my open wounds seal themselves.
I’m healing. The rot is being reversed.
My mother murmurs words of comfort and encouragement into my hair and holds me close while my flesh finishes repairing itself.
My cloak lies nearby; she must have brought it along when she ran into the room. She reaches over to grab it and drape it over my body.
The foul magic that destroyed Beresford’s beautiful face is being unwound as well. His flesh returns, skin forming over the mended muscle. The blue beard regrows itself, cloaking his jaw again. He strokes it with quivering fingers.
“All right again?” asks the Barrow-Man.
Beresford nods, and I gasp out a sob of relief.
“Good thing I’m a quick learner.” The Barrow-Man grins.
But it isn’t the Barrow-Man anymore, of course. It’s Henry Partridge.
Anne is staring at him, her cheeks slick with tears. She must recognize his voice. After all, he said those very words during that afternoon when we played games together. But she hasn’t pieced together the truth. She doesn’t understand what’s happening.
My mother leaves my side and runs to her, grabbing the vines that trap her in the chair—but Henry is already loosening them. Anne pulls her arms free and rubs her wrists, still staring at him.
I take the opportunity to fetch my clothes from the hallway and pull them on while Mama unbuckles the harness around my sister’s head and removes the bit from her mouth.
Anne gags and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “What the fuck is happening?”
“I told you what Beresford is,” Mama says, brushing back her hair. “He is a soul-eater and a shapeshifter.”
“Matagot,” Anne rasps.
“Well, it so happens that a matagot, in addition to devouring souls, can put a soul into an empty body once in their lifetime. It can’t be their own soul, of course, and it must be one they recently swallowed. The Barrow-Man, the wight—he had no soul. There was space for one inside him.”
Anne is shaking, her eyes frantic. I crouch beside her, gripping her hand, tears flowing down my cheeks.
“Anne, there was no other way to beat him,” I whisper. “No other way for all of us to survive this, to end it. If we’d had more time, if there had been any other way, any weapon or spell—”
“What did you do?” she says faintly.
The wight walks forward. His face and body are just as beautiful, just as unearthly, but his gait and his expression are wildly different.
“They asked me if I would do it,” he says. “If I would be the soul they put into this body. It was the only way to save you. And I love you, so naturally I said yes.”
“Henry?” falters Anne. Then she turns to glare at Beresford. “You swallowed Henry’s soul and put it into the wight’s body?”
“I did.” Beresford gets to his feet, brushing off his clothes.
“But you can undo it, right? You can put Henry back into his own body.”
“No, my love,” Mama says gently. “He can’t. The transfer can’t be reversed. And even if it could be done, that would reawaken the wight, and we would have the same problem all over again. Henry will need to live in this body now.”
“It’s just as well,” Henry says. “You never liked my old one much, anyway.”
Anne shoots me a vicious look. “You told him?”
“Don’t be angry with her,” Henry interposes. “I could tell. And I understand. I wasn’t lucky enough to be born with a handsome face.”
“Your face was growing on me,” Anne says. “With a little more time—”
“We didn’t have more time.” Henry’s tone is firm. “I had a choice. Either do this, or let your sister and her husband be taken and tortured. You heard what the wight said, Anne. He would have done horrible things to Sybil. I saved you both, and I gave up my old self to do it.”
“Your father will think you’ve disappeared like the others,” she says through a sob. “He’ll blame Sybil.”
“We’ll bring his body to his father,” Beresford assures her.
“My death may very well end his life.” Henry’s voice is soft and sorrowful. “But it will be easier to accept than the truth. And he would want me to be happy.”
“Happy?” Anne chokes out.
Henry looks at her with his unearthly white eyes. “I know this is strange. You’ll need time to adjust to this face and this body, especially after what the Barrow-Man did to you. I’ll need time, too. But eventually, perhaps, we can find happiness. After all, I’m the same person inside.”
“We can all adjust back at home,” my mother interjects. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
“Before we leave, there is something I must do,” Beresford says. “There are cages along some of these halls. If any victims of the wight remain there, I must free them.”
“Meanwhile, I’m going to raid the wight’s treasure room,” says Henry cheerfully. “I know where it is, because his memories are all mixed in with mine. Rather unsettling, to say the least. Still, might as well take what we can, eh?”
“I’ll help you,” I offer.
Mama stays with Anne while Henry and I gather some of the wight’s treasure—mostly gold and silver plates, goblets, and bowls, along with some velvet cases containing very fine gems. In his new form, Henry is shockingly strong, able to carry two enormous, overstuffed bags full of loot as we head back toward the Barrow exit.
Anne and Mama fall in behind us. Anne is wrapped in Beresford’s cloak, wearing a pair of boots they must have found elsewhere in the wight’s lair. The boots are made of a shimmery, scaly sort of leather, with ornate silver buckles.
A moment later, Beresford joins us, escorted by a couple dozen hybrid creatures.
A little farther along the passage, we encounter the shirtless body of Henry Partridge, sitting against the wall with his eyes closed. Anne makes a strangled sound of grief and clutches Mama, turning away from the sight.
Carefully, respectfully, Beresford picks up the body and walks ahead. The rest of us follow him past the boundary where blue rock gives way to gray and brown stone.
When Henry approaches that spot, he hesitates. “I feel a strange energy here.”
We all pause while he halts and sets down one of the bags of treasure. Extending sharp-nailed fingers, he tests the air in front of him. Then he snatches his hand back and winces with pain. “I can’t go any farther.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “We planned for this. Wait here, and we’ll call for you once we’re outside.”
“What’s going on?” Anne asks.
“We weren’t sure if he’d be able to leave the Barrow in the wight’s form without being summoned,” I explain. “I brought supplies so we can do the ritual and bring him out. Once he’s free of the Barrow, he’ll be able to stay in our world.”
She doesn’t reply, and her mouth sets in a grim line. But as she watches the little demons scamper ahead of us, a faint warmth enters her eyes. Their delight at being free is contagious. When we reach the opening, they run straight out of the Barrow and scatter into the forest.
Beresford steps outside into a patch of fading afternoon sunlight, holding Henry’s body in his arms, smiling as he watches the creatures run. Anne approaches him and gingerly touches Henry’s lifeless face.
“It’s so strange,” she murmurs. “He’s dead, and yet he isn’t.”
“Fucking magic,” I say, and her mouth twitches a little. Almost a smile.
Mama exits the Barrow and hands me the satchel I gave her for safe-keeping.
First, I lay out the raw beef on its butcher paper, then pour some of the milk into a bowl and drizzle a bit of honey into it.
I place the loaf of round bread that I brought and scatter the berries.
Facing north, I carve a tiny cut on my palm and drip blood into the honey-milk, Then I call two names aloud: Alchelinore and Henry Partridge.
We wait for what feels like far too long.