go.”
Around the next bend a blast of chill air meets us. “There,” I say. Above us is a perfect circle, just big enough for us to fit through. Sky shows beyond. Ava climbs on Poe’s shoulders and pulls herself out of the tunnel. I go next even though I’m afraid I’ll break Poe’s skinny back.
“Hurry, Jesse,” Ava says, reaching down to help me.
Poe is tall enough that he leaps up, grabbing my hands. We’ve made it.
George and Bethany lie in wait for us.
17
burned scarecrow
Poe offers a strangled neck greeting, grinning like a maniac. “Beware George, Bethany. I knew you’d come back for us!”
“We must hurry,” Bethany says. “Time is short. Night approaches.” She wraps an arm around Ava’s shoulders, but quickly pulls back as she gapes in horror at Ava. “George! The tunnelers mutilated this girl!”
Ava’s hand flutters to her chin.
I quickly explain Ava’s disfigurement.
“Is it catching?” Bethany asks.
God, how I wish I could stop people from saying stupid things like that. “No. The infection is long gone.” I pull Ava’s hand from her chin, smile softly at her, let her see that there’s nothing wrong with how she looks. The tension in her body melts at my touch.
Poe’s watching, and so I let go Ava’s hand.
Bethany nods, her own chin quivering. “Tragedy, tragedy.” She averts her eyes as she once again wraps an arm around Ava. “We heard about your little girl and discussed her abduction by the coven. Tragedy, tragedy. Do you like my boots?”
A burned scarecrow smolders just outside the town gate. Constructed of bound sticks, it’s posed with arms held up to the heavens. Two daggers at each side of the twiggy neck bolt on the scarecrow’s head, which appears to be a wad of scorched rope. A burned stripe gives the illusion of a slanted, gaping, screaming mouth.
“What the hell is that?” Ava demands.
Bethany spits at the twisted creation. “An effigy of Frankenstein!”
George throws up his hands, exclaiming, “I can’t take you anywhere!”
“Frankenstein?” Poe repeats, frowning. “That’s a great book—but how do you have it here? It’s from our world.”
George puffs his chest. “Memento Mori is a most literate world. In fact, we require more books than we can produce. Literature is therefore channeled into Memento Mori.”
Poe nods in a respectful way, though he grasps his crucifix, knowing what Priest would have to say about channeling. “Um, well, what I would say is that it’s weird to me that anyone would want to burn an effigy of Dr. Frankenstein. He was such a tragic character. Really, he was a good man, because he repented of what he had done.”
George coughs and bugs his eyes at Poe, shaking his head vehemently.
Bethany balls her fists at her sides. “How
dare
you. You
dare
to belittle the visual
horrors
we have suffered at the hands of the one so
aptly
dubbed Frankenstein. Perhaps you prefer to address him as
Saint
Frankenstein, as flagellants do?” She kicks the scarecrow between the legs. “He is the reason tunnelers spill from the earth, seeking their
polluted
savior!”
George keeps at a distance from Bethany as he attempts to calm her. I think he’s attempting to protect his crotch. “Now, Bethany dear, rumor has it Saint Frankenstein is either dead, or if alive, repentant of his former work. At the least he’s in hiding.”
Poe offers an apology. Bethany refuses it.
I point to a rectangular plate by the enormous rusted lock on the town gate. “What’s that written there?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“The script is an old language,” George replies. “It means
The Sleeping Are Guarded
. It’s an old phrase from when this town suffered terrors from vampires—they who are most especially polluted with death. We’ve kept it for historical reasons.”
Poe perks up. “Do you mean real vampires walked right here where I’m walking?”
“That’s correct. Before the exile.”
“Rapture.” Poe
Around the next bend a blast of chill air meets us. “There,” I say. Above us is a perfect circle, just big enough for us to fit through. Sky shows beyond. Ava climbs on Poe’s shoulders and pulls herself out of the tunnel. I go next even though I’m afraid I’ll break Poe’s skinny back.
“Hurry, Jesse,” Ava says, reaching down to help me.
Poe is tall enough that he leaps up, grabbing my hands. We’ve made it.
George and Bethany lie in wait for us.
17
burned scarecrow
Poe offers a strangled neck greeting, grinning like a maniac. “Beware George, Bethany. I knew you’d come back for us!”
“We must hurry,” Bethany says. “Time is short. Night approaches.” She wraps an arm around Ava’s shoulders, but quickly pulls back as she gapes in horror at Ava. “George! The tunnelers mutilated this girl!”
Ava’s hand flutters to her chin.
I quickly explain Ava’s disfigurement.
“Is it catching?” Bethany asks.
God, how I wish I could stop people from saying stupid things like that. “No. The infection is long gone.” I pull Ava’s hand from her chin, smile softly at her, let her see that there’s nothing wrong with how she looks. The tension in her body melts at my touch.
Poe’s watching, and so I let go Ava’s hand.
Bethany nods, her own chin quivering. “Tragedy, tragedy.” She averts her eyes as she once again wraps an arm around Ava. “We heard about your little girl and discussed her abduction by the coven. Tragedy, tragedy. Do you like my boots?”
A burned scarecrow smolders just outside the town gate. Constructed of bound sticks, it’s posed with arms held up to the heavens. Two daggers at each side of the twiggy neck bolt on the scarecrow’s head, which appears to be a wad of scorched rope. A burned stripe gives the illusion of a slanted, gaping, screaming mouth.
“What the hell is that?” Ava demands.
Bethany spits at the twisted creation. “An effigy of Frankenstein!”
George throws up his hands, exclaiming, “I can’t take you anywhere!”
“Frankenstein?” Poe repeats, frowning. “That’s a great book—but how do you have it here? It’s from our world.”
George puffs his chest. “Memento Mori is a most literate world. In fact, we require more books than we can produce. Literature is therefore channeled into Memento Mori.”
Poe nods in a respectful way, though he grasps his crucifix, knowing what Priest would have to say about channeling. “Um, well, what I would say is that it’s weird to me that anyone would want to burn an effigy of Dr. Frankenstein. He was such a tragic character. Really, he was a good man, because he repented of what he had done.”
George coughs and bugs his eyes at Poe, shaking his head vehemently.
Bethany balls her fists at her sides. “How
dare
you. You
dare
to belittle the visual
horrors
we have suffered at the hands of the one so
aptly
dubbed Frankenstein. Perhaps you prefer to address him as
Saint
Frankenstein, as flagellants do?” She kicks the scarecrow between the legs. “He is the reason tunnelers spill from the earth, seeking their
polluted
savior!”
George keeps at a distance from Bethany as he attempts to calm her. I think he’s attempting to protect his crotch. “Now, Bethany dear, rumor has it Saint Frankenstein is either dead, or if alive, repentant of his former work. At the least he’s in hiding.”
Poe offers an apology. Bethany refuses it.
I point to a rectangular plate by the enormous rusted lock on the town gate. “What’s that written there?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“The script is an old language,” George replies. “It means
The Sleeping Are Guarded
. It’s an old phrase from when this town suffered terrors from vampires—they who are most especially polluted with death. We’ve kept it for historical reasons.”
Poe perks up. “Do you mean real vampires walked right here where I’m walking?”
“That’s correct. Before the exile.”
“Rapture.” Poe
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