“If we pass him by, we’ll never find him.”
I started again, hardly aware I’d stopped at all.
My father had said, “She’s gone.” I thought he meant that she’d somehow risen from the bed and disappeared. When I looked in and saw her there, covered over with a sheet, I thought he was playing a trick. I’d pulled away the cover and stared down at that—that
thing
that I hardly knew was my mother.
“Shhh!” said Mary. When she squeezed my arm, I jerked with sudden fear. “Someone’s coming,” she said, and pulled me into a deep doorway.
Footsteps sounded on the cobblestones. Not one person, but two.
We crouched by a wall, in the darkness, and hardly dared look. The people would pass within an arm’s length of us.
I could hear Mary breathing. I could hear my own heart, like the whistling flight of an owl. The footsteps grew louder.
Then a peal of laughter, and a woman’s voice thick with Cornish brogue. “An’ I says to ’im, ‘Why,’ says I, ‘I lost one zackly like that only t’udder day.’ An’ lissen, Mally; it were jist the same one, jist the same ould roul o’ lither! Did’ee ever see or hear tell o’ sich a thing?”
They walked right by, two old women laughing andnodding, leaning on each other like drunken sailors. Their laughter, their footsteps, faded off down the street. And I heard instead the slop and chop of water at a wall.
I sat up. It wasn’t a doorway that Mary had led us to, but a narrow alley roofed by the top floor of the chandlery: a passageway to the sea. A draft came up it, cold and salty. I whistled my song, and it filled the space like the voices of a choir.
And I heard a scratching in reply.
Mary’s fingers squeezed around my arm. Again I whistled; again came the scratching.
“It’s coming from the bottom,” said Mary.
We walked deeper into the alley. Where the chandlery ended, the floor dropped off into a walled flight of carved steps, narrow and steep. I started down them.
The scratching stopped. I whistled softly. And the same tune came echoing back, the same rhythm tapped out on stone or brick.
With a hand braced on each wall, I felt with my foot for the next step down. Mary pressed behind me, and slowly we descended. At the bottom the steps went straight to the water. On one side the wall was bare plaster. But on the other the building was made of stone, all chipped and cracked. And set in an arch was a small and ancient door. I pushed against it and felt the jar of a heavy bolt.
I pressed my ear to the wood and listened for the tapping. Looking up from the bottom, the alley was like a gun muzzle, a dark tunnel with a small, square slot for theentrance. The tapping echoed through it, but I couldn’t hear it at the door.
“The harbor,” said Mary. She had her eyes closed. “It’s coming from the harbor.”
I moved to the bottom step, with the water at my feet. I poked my head out into the wind. A narrow wooden ledge jutted from the building, a tarred timber just four inches wide. Above it was a drain tunnel, an enormous pipe made of brick. Green water thick as paste oozed from its mouth. Things like soft icicles hung from the brick, swaying like pendulums. And the tapping came from there.
“Father!” I called. “Father, it’s John.”
His answer was a mumble, like the frantic sounds of old Eli, and my first thought was that Stumps had done the same thing to my father. And then I remembered.
His lips will look like splattered worms, and he’ll choke on his very own tongue
.
I pulled myself back into the passageway. “He’s in there,” I said. “In the drain.”
“Are you going in?”
“Yes.”
Mary touched the bolted door. “This building was once a brewery,” she said. “You should be able to come out this way.”
I took off my coat and spread it on the steps. “We’ll need the ponies, Mary. Could you get them?”
“All right.” She started to leave, then stopped. “Be careful,” she said, and went running up
I started again, hardly aware I’d stopped at all.
My father had said, “She’s gone.” I thought he meant that she’d somehow risen from the bed and disappeared. When I looked in and saw her there, covered over with a sheet, I thought he was playing a trick. I’d pulled away the cover and stared down at that—that
thing
that I hardly knew was my mother.
“Shhh!” said Mary. When she squeezed my arm, I jerked with sudden fear. “Someone’s coming,” she said, and pulled me into a deep doorway.
Footsteps sounded on the cobblestones. Not one person, but two.
We crouched by a wall, in the darkness, and hardly dared look. The people would pass within an arm’s length of us.
I could hear Mary breathing. I could hear my own heart, like the whistling flight of an owl. The footsteps grew louder.
Then a peal of laughter, and a woman’s voice thick with Cornish brogue. “An’ I says to ’im, ‘Why,’ says I, ‘I lost one zackly like that only t’udder day.’ An’ lissen, Mally; it were jist the same one, jist the same ould roul o’ lither! Did’ee ever see or hear tell o’ sich a thing?”
They walked right by, two old women laughing andnodding, leaning on each other like drunken sailors. Their laughter, their footsteps, faded off down the street. And I heard instead the slop and chop of water at a wall.
I sat up. It wasn’t a doorway that Mary had led us to, but a narrow alley roofed by the top floor of the chandlery: a passageway to the sea. A draft came up it, cold and salty. I whistled my song, and it filled the space like the voices of a choir.
And I heard a scratching in reply.
Mary’s fingers squeezed around my arm. Again I whistled; again came the scratching.
“It’s coming from the bottom,” said Mary.
We walked deeper into the alley. Where the chandlery ended, the floor dropped off into a walled flight of carved steps, narrow and steep. I started down them.
The scratching stopped. I whistled softly. And the same tune came echoing back, the same rhythm tapped out on stone or brick.
With a hand braced on each wall, I felt with my foot for the next step down. Mary pressed behind me, and slowly we descended. At the bottom the steps went straight to the water. On one side the wall was bare plaster. But on the other the building was made of stone, all chipped and cracked. And set in an arch was a small and ancient door. I pushed against it and felt the jar of a heavy bolt.
I pressed my ear to the wood and listened for the tapping. Looking up from the bottom, the alley was like a gun muzzle, a dark tunnel with a small, square slot for theentrance. The tapping echoed through it, but I couldn’t hear it at the door.
“The harbor,” said Mary. She had her eyes closed. “It’s coming from the harbor.”
I moved to the bottom step, with the water at my feet. I poked my head out into the wind. A narrow wooden ledge jutted from the building, a tarred timber just four inches wide. Above it was a drain tunnel, an enormous pipe made of brick. Green water thick as paste oozed from its mouth. Things like soft icicles hung from the brick, swaying like pendulums. And the tapping came from there.
“Father!” I called. “Father, it’s John.”
His answer was a mumble, like the frantic sounds of old Eli, and my first thought was that Stumps had done the same thing to my father. And then I remembered.
His lips will look like splattered worms, and he’ll choke on his very own tongue
.
I pulled myself back into the passageway. “He’s in there,” I said. “In the drain.”
“Are you going in?”
“Yes.”
Mary touched the bolted door. “This building was once a brewery,” she said. “You should be able to come out this way.”
I took off my coat and spread it on the steps. “We’ll need the ponies, Mary. Could you get them?”
“All right.” She started to leave, then stopped. “Be careful,” she said, and went running up
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