Into the Wilderness
Page 258
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Wake up. Julian stared at his father, and his father stared back.
Julian shook his head, trying, for once, to do what was being asked of him, although what he wanted was to sleep. To go to sleep and push the image out of his head: Many-Doves beating on the door, her hair dancing in the flames. Because, Julian realized with cold horror, because the door had a lock, and the key was in it. He could see it. Billy Kirby, damn his soul to a hell like the one he had created, Billy Kirby had set the fire and locked the door.
In the frantic light of the fire, Martha Southern was holding her girl while she screamed, endlessly. A horse screamed in counterpoint, and went crashing off toward the lake. On the far end of the schoolhouse, a window shattered and a swirl of cinders went into the night sky like a flock of tropical birds in unlikely colors.
Wake up.
Just unlock the door. just turn the key.
He walked away. His father, deep in furious debate with o'Brien, took no notice. There was a shawl on the ground and he picked it up. Ten feet from the door, the hair on his head rose to the heat. The door was hot to the touch; he used the shawl to turn the key, and felt the lock give with a sigh.
From the corner of his eye, Julian caught movement: two riders, bent for hell down the mountainside.
He kicked the door open, and ran into the schoolhouse.
* * *
He had always taken a secret pleasure in color, and so in spite of his terror—the kind of deep fear that opens up the bowels and makes the blood run thin—Julian saw how exquisite it was: the flames moved through the room with a seductive and terrifying symmetry. Crouched on the floor in the middle of its roaring, watching the fire weave and prance, Julian recognized nothing about this place, as if he had never been here before.
Because he hadn't. He had never been anywhere like this; of that much he was sure. Of that, and the fact that his skin was stretching and rising, and that the floor was burning his feet through his boots. Coughing explosively into the shawl, he could not remember why he had come into this place. He was alone in the screaming fire, and it would kill him if he didn't move. Whatever it was he had been looking for was not here.
Off to his right was a door: intact. On the other side of that door there would be air to breathe, and cool darkness.
Julian yanked the door open and in response the fire at his back rose and roared like an animal. He slammed the door shut, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Then he turned, and scanned the room.
Sitting on the floor in the corner was Nathaniel Bonner's daughter, her arms wrapped around a book. She was rocking, her eyes blank and blind with terror. The only light was the leaping red and gold reflected in the little window above the desk; that meant, he realized with some quieter, rational part of his mind, that above them the roof was on fire. He could open the door and take her through it, or they would die here together.
His mind had hitched down to a slow, uneasy trot. He thought of Elizabeth; and for the first time in days, he thought of Kitty. He had come in here to save another man's wife, and found Bonner's daughter instead. There was an irony there, and one he knew he would appreciate if only his mind would start working.
She looked up at him, her eyes like cold coals.
Julian picked her up. "Time to go," he wanted to say, but his throat burned and all he produced was an explosion of coughing. She buried her face against him, folding her body small and tight. Her book was wedged into his chest, its corners digging into his ribs. He realized suddenly that he had never held a child before in his life.
There was an explosion of glass, and Julian jerked as a shard lodged itself in his cheek. He turned, a long, slow process, and found Nathaniel Bonner trying to jam himself through a window that would accommodate only half of him. Blood dripped from his hands and ran down his forehead.
"Give her to me!" He held out his arms.
Julian looked down at the child.
"For the love of God, man!"
He put Hannah into her father's arms.
And they were gone, leaving behind only the window sash rimmed with shards like bloody teeth. Julian stood for a moment, looking out. There in the night, figures danced and contorted in the light of the fire. His father, screaming for him to come.
For once in his life, Julian simply obeyed. He opened the door and found that the fire had come closer: a wall of it between him and the exit, beckoning and calling for him as his father was screaming outside in the night.
Julian ran through the wall of smoke and flame and out the building that heaved and groaned behind him, trying to hold his breath and failing, taking in long, fiery breaths as he would swallow a bitter medicine put off too long. He ran into the open, and onward. From one side, he had the sense of a man's form launching at him, and then it hit him full force and he was on the ground. Rough hands slapped at his back and head.
Someone flipped him over: the pockmarked Indian, staring down at him. Over his shoulder, the last thing Julian saw was his father, and then, his sister's face, Madonna—white and stained with ash and terror.
* * *
They carried Julian to the Southerns' cabin, where Nathaniel and Hannah had already been passed into the care of the women. When Falling—Day had convinced Elizabeth that the little girl's injuries were minor, and Elizabeth had spent some time rocking Hannah while she wept, she went to the corner where Many-Doves was tending Nathaniel's cuts.
She was digging shards of window glass out of a gash on his lower arm. Other cuts on his head and arms and shoulders had been cleaned and stanched, but this was the worst.
Julian shook his head, trying, for once, to do what was being asked of him, although what he wanted was to sleep. To go to sleep and push the image out of his head: Many-Doves beating on the door, her hair dancing in the flames. Because, Julian realized with cold horror, because the door had a lock, and the key was in it. He could see it. Billy Kirby, damn his soul to a hell like the one he had created, Billy Kirby had set the fire and locked the door.
In the frantic light of the fire, Martha Southern was holding her girl while she screamed, endlessly. A horse screamed in counterpoint, and went crashing off toward the lake. On the far end of the schoolhouse, a window shattered and a swirl of cinders went into the night sky like a flock of tropical birds in unlikely colors.
Wake up.
Just unlock the door. just turn the key.
He walked away. His father, deep in furious debate with o'Brien, took no notice. There was a shawl on the ground and he picked it up. Ten feet from the door, the hair on his head rose to the heat. The door was hot to the touch; he used the shawl to turn the key, and felt the lock give with a sigh.
From the corner of his eye, Julian caught movement: two riders, bent for hell down the mountainside.
He kicked the door open, and ran into the schoolhouse.
* * *
He had always taken a secret pleasure in color, and so in spite of his terror—the kind of deep fear that opens up the bowels and makes the blood run thin—Julian saw how exquisite it was: the flames moved through the room with a seductive and terrifying symmetry. Crouched on the floor in the middle of its roaring, watching the fire weave and prance, Julian recognized nothing about this place, as if he had never been here before.
Because he hadn't. He had never been anywhere like this; of that much he was sure. Of that, and the fact that his skin was stretching and rising, and that the floor was burning his feet through his boots. Coughing explosively into the shawl, he could not remember why he had come into this place. He was alone in the screaming fire, and it would kill him if he didn't move. Whatever it was he had been looking for was not here.
Off to his right was a door: intact. On the other side of that door there would be air to breathe, and cool darkness.
Julian yanked the door open and in response the fire at his back rose and roared like an animal. He slammed the door shut, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Then he turned, and scanned the room.
Sitting on the floor in the corner was Nathaniel Bonner's daughter, her arms wrapped around a book. She was rocking, her eyes blank and blind with terror. The only light was the leaping red and gold reflected in the little window above the desk; that meant, he realized with some quieter, rational part of his mind, that above them the roof was on fire. He could open the door and take her through it, or they would die here together.
His mind had hitched down to a slow, uneasy trot. He thought of Elizabeth; and for the first time in days, he thought of Kitty. He had come in here to save another man's wife, and found Bonner's daughter instead. There was an irony there, and one he knew he would appreciate if only his mind would start working.
She looked up at him, her eyes like cold coals.
Julian picked her up. "Time to go," he wanted to say, but his throat burned and all he produced was an explosion of coughing. She buried her face against him, folding her body small and tight. Her book was wedged into his chest, its corners digging into his ribs. He realized suddenly that he had never held a child before in his life.
There was an explosion of glass, and Julian jerked as a shard lodged itself in his cheek. He turned, a long, slow process, and found Nathaniel Bonner trying to jam himself through a window that would accommodate only half of him. Blood dripped from his hands and ran down his forehead.
"Give her to me!" He held out his arms.
Julian looked down at the child.
"For the love of God, man!"
He put Hannah into her father's arms.
And they were gone, leaving behind only the window sash rimmed with shards like bloody teeth. Julian stood for a moment, looking out. There in the night, figures danced and contorted in the light of the fire. His father, screaming for him to come.
For once in his life, Julian simply obeyed. He opened the door and found that the fire had come closer: a wall of it between him and the exit, beckoning and calling for him as his father was screaming outside in the night.
Julian ran through the wall of smoke and flame and out the building that heaved and groaned behind him, trying to hold his breath and failing, taking in long, fiery breaths as he would swallow a bitter medicine put off too long. He ran into the open, and onward. From one side, he had the sense of a man's form launching at him, and then it hit him full force and he was on the ground. Rough hands slapped at his back and head.
Someone flipped him over: the pockmarked Indian, staring down at him. Over his shoulder, the last thing Julian saw was his father, and then, his sister's face, Madonna—white and stained with ash and terror.
* * *
They carried Julian to the Southerns' cabin, where Nathaniel and Hannah had already been passed into the care of the women. When Falling—Day had convinced Elizabeth that the little girl's injuries were minor, and Elizabeth had spent some time rocking Hannah while she wept, she went to the corner where Many-Doves was tending Nathaniel's cuts.
She was digging shards of window glass out of a gash on his lower arm. Other cuts on his head and arms and shoulders had been cleaned and stanched, but this was the worst.
