A Dusk of Demons (2 page)

The Master spoke abruptly. “That was a fine caterwauling you treated us to last night.”

I was thrown once more into confusion. The Master's quarters were at the far end of the house, and it had not occurred to me he too might have been wakened.

“I'm sorry, sir . . .”

He stared down at me. He was more than six feet tall, his horse better than seventeen hands to
Black Prince's thirteen and a half. Letting go the reins, he rubbed his hands together slowly.

“You have put on some height in the past year. How much?”

I had no trouble answering that. At the foot of the back stairs, pencil lines on the plaster marked where Paddy and I measured one another, regularly on birthdays and quite often in between.

“Three inches, sir. Well, above two.”

He nodded. “Are you happy here?”

His voice was deep, and his manner of speaking strange. As Mother Ryan's was, but in her case we knew the reason—she was proud of being born and raised in Ireland. The Master's accent did not resemble either hers or the local one, which was also my own. It took me a moment to grasp the question, and “here” perplexed me. Where else should I be?

I said quickly, “Yes indeed, sir.”

“It's a small place for a growing boy. You have wanted education.”

Again I was puzzled. This was the spring holiday, but normally Paddy and I were taken daily to school on Sheriff's in Joe's fishing dinghy.

I said, “I was second to top in my reading class. And Roger Burton who came top is six months older.”

He smiled, but it was bleak. “And what do you read, in that class you speak of?”

“All sorts of things.
Duties and Obediences, The Torments of Hell, The Infidels of the North . . .”

“Would you say you learn matters of value from these books?”

An honest answer would have been very little if anything, but I knew better than to be strictly honest to a questioning adult, particularly to the Master.

“Yes, sir.”

“I am told you dreamed of Demons last night. Do the books tell you of them?”

I nodded. “Yes, they do.”

“What do they say?”

He sounded as though he really wanted to know, which in itself surprised me. I had taken it for granted that, with a large room lined ceiling to floor with books, he must be the wisest person I knew—far wiser than our teachers, or Mr. Hawkins the Summoner, or Sheriff Wilson. But he had put the question, and I had better answer it.

“They tell us Demons are the minions of the Dark One. They come to warn men against transgression of the laws, and to punish those who persist in wickedness.”

He looked at me until I felt uncomfortable. At last, he said, “I have served you ill.”

That puzzled me even more. How could the Master serve me, or want to? I kept silent, and he went on, “It may not be too late. We will talk again, perhaps of Demons. Now it is time for your tea.”

I followed him back on Black Prince, disturbed but intrigued. Would the talk be in his library? I had ventured there once while he was away on Sheriff's, and the close-packed volumes had fascinated me. There was even a set of wooden steps, spiraling around a pole, to get at those too high to reach. Mother Ryan had caught me peering and pulled me away by the ear. It was, she scolded with a sharp tweak, a spot forbidden to any but the Master.

•  •  •

All this took place on Tuesday. The new term started on Friday, which meant just one day before the weekend break. I had fingers crossed for our
camping trip: The weather had broken, and Mother Ryan fastened our oilskins on a rain-smeared morning. Joe greeted us at the jetty.

“You're late. That's a bad beginning to the term.”

“No more than five minutes,” Paddy said. “Liza had her kittens in the night. Joe, she's got
five,
and we saw the last one born! Two black-and-white, two tortoiseshell, and one a funny gray color. We're calling it Smoky.”

That had been my suggestion. It was usually Paddy who thought of names, always Paddy who decided what the name was going to be.

Joe said, “Never mind cats and kittens. Cast off, Ben. I've done a day's work before you were stirring, and another's waiting.”

The dinghy smelled of the catch he had landed earlier, a tang of fish mixed with salt and sweat and tobacco. Joe was almost as tall as the Master, and broader, with a battered face and a big nose and thick black beard. He set sail to catch the stiff northwesterly, and we heaved our way across the bay with gusts of rain stinging our faces. I glanced surreptitiously at Paddy. I had got over being seasick,
but she still suffered occasionally. She seemed all right this morning.

I looked back toward the house, where smoke rose from two small chimneys at the north end and a larger one at the south. The Master would be sitting by his study fire, drinking the coffee Mother Ryan took him about this time. I'd never tasted coffee—it was not for the likes of us, Mother Ryan said—but loved the smell. Perhaps he would be reading one of his thousands of books. I wondered when the summons for the talk might come.

This being the first day of school, Sheriff Wilson addressed us. He reminded us of our duty: to obey our parents and those in authority, all adults, in word and deed and thought. We were to work hard and to learn—learn especially those things through which we might escape the wrath of the Dark One, in this life and the life to come. Work hard, and learn well!

He too was big, but fleshy. He had a high forehead, fat cheeks, and spectacles whose lenses had no rims. He picked me out as I headed toward the classroom.

“Young Ben of Old Isle! How are you, boy?”

“Well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He was smiling, but he smiled easily. People said he was the best Sheriff in living memory, more easygoing than his predecessors. The stocks which stood across the green from his house were empty more often than not. I thought I ought to like him, but could not.

“The Master is well, I hope?”

The tone was solicitous, but I didn't believe the hope was honest. I had once observed him in conversation with the Master, and though I could not distinguish their words, there had been contempt in the Master's voice, wheedling unease in the Sheriff's.

I said, “He is well, sir.”

“Respect him, boy. He is a great man.”

“Indeed he is!”

I spoke warmly and thought his eyes narrowed behind the rimless lenses, but he smiled still more widely and patted my head to send me on my way.

•  •  •

Although I would not have preferred to live there, I found Sheriff's an exciting place. Apart from ruinous mounds from the days of the Madness, fascinating
forbidden territory, there was the bustle of people, and there were shops. The
Hesperus
, which took produce to the mainland and brought back other goods, had recently returned. Paddy and I found mainland sweets tastier than the Widow Barnes's fudge, and with hoarded pennies we bought sticks of toffee studded with hazelnuts. We munched our way happily to the quay, where Joe was waiting for us.

I began to rattle off an account of the day, but Paddy interrupted.

“What is it, Joe? What's wrong?”

When I looked, his expression was troubled. He turned his head away.

“Nothing that won't wait. We've a tide to catch.”

She grasped his arm. “Tell us now.”

I envied her manner of commanding him. He stared unhappily. “Well, you'll have to know. It's the Master.”

“What about him?” I asked.

But Paddy had read Joe's face. “Not
dead
?”

“No,” I said. “That can't be!”

Yet now I could read his grimness too, and knew it was.

W
E WERE SUBDUED ON THE
journey back to Old Isle. Halfway there, Joe was hailed by a ferryman from January.

“Is it true, then?”

Joe merely nodded across the slop of waves and did not heave to; normally in midchannel encounters boats grappled for five or ten minutes' gossip. We remained silent as the island loomed, the house outlined against a cloudy sunset. No smoke rose from the big chimney.

Mother Ryan, on the other hand, was voluble, scolding Paddy for a stain on her dress. I supposed
she would round on me too, because I had a bigger one on my shirt and fingertips inked blue, but she did not. Her voice seemed shriller than usual.

I'd thought Paddy might suggest going to see the kittens, but she disappeared upstairs. I considered visiting the old pigsty on my own but couldn't make up my mind to it, to anything. I felt unsettled and uncertain. Memory summoned a picture from one of the books at school: of Death in a black cowl, brandishing a reaping hook at cowering mortals. I could not imagine the Master cowering, but he was dead.

My teacher had set work for the weekend, but I didn't feel like tackling that either. Would we be going to school on Monday, anyway? I drifted aimlessly; it seemed a long time before we were called to supper. As I came from the washhouse, Andy was approaching, spade in hand. At the far end of the garden, a little space behind a hedge of yews, enclosed by a knee-high wooden fence, was the island's graveyard. It held three headstones and half a dozen wooden markers. Andy wiped the spade clean and put it in the woodshed, but did not speak.

We took our places around the kitchen table, Antonia arriving last, paler than ever and walking as though each step was an effort. It was getting dark; the oil lamp on the sideboard had already been lit and Paddy brought one for the table as Mother Ryan carried in the soup tureen. I saw the faces etched in the yellow glow and wondered if my own looked as strange.

I had a feeling it might not be proper to eat heartily, but nonetheless cleaned my plate of both soup and the stew that followed. Mother Ryan had fallen silent, and it was a quiet meal. When Joe, always the last to finish, put down his knife and fork, I looked across at Paddy.

It was established practice that she and I cleared away the dishes, and washed and dried them. At that time also Mother Ryan and Antonia would leave the table, one to prepare the tray with the Master's meal (including a silver jug of wine instead of Joe's and Andy's pots of ale), the other to carry it to his quarters. Tonight they sat on in silence, Mother Ryan staring at the lamp where a moth fluttered, Antonia looking into her lap.

At last Mother Ryan turned to Paddy. “The dishes . . .” I got to my feet. “Not you, Ben. Paddy will see to them.”

I sat down again. Paddy said, “Why? Why
not
Ben?”

“Do as I say.”

“But it's not fair—”

“Patricia!”

Mother Ryan was plump and not tall, so it wasn't easy for her to look imposing, but when her voice took on its present note she was not to be trifled with. Nor when she called Paddy “Patricia.” (Antonia was always Antonia; one could not imagine her with a nickname.)

Paddy rose reluctantly, and I followed suit. Whatever was going on, I preferred sharing the chore to incurring Paddy's resentment. I said, “I don't mind helping.”

Mother Ryan shook her head. “It wouldn't be proper.”

That made no sense. Joe and Andy drained their pots. It was Antonia who spoke.

“I don't see why he shouldn't.”

Their looks met, Mother Ryan's face not angry now but troubled.

“You know—that there's a difference to be taken account of, matters to be explained.”

“Explain them, then. But until you do, nothing's changed. Let him help clear.”

Joe stood up, towering over us. “All that which is necessary—has it been done?”

“Yes.” Mother Ryan's voice was steadier. “I have seen to it myself.”

“Then I will pay respects.” He made for the hall, Andy following.

Mother Ryan said, “We should all pay respects. Leave the dishes for now, Paddy. Come, Ben.”

The kitchen hall opened into a corridor that linked the two parts of the house. This end was lit by the lamps behind us; at the far end a wall lamp shone on the heavy oak door through which I had rarely dared venture. The corridor was hung with pictures of ships. Some displayed sails, billowing white against blue skies or reefed under stormy skies. Others were engined, but far more impressive than the
Hesperus.
One was a two-funneled
vessel of such a size—if those dots on the deck were people—that a score of ships like the
Hesperus
would fit inside it.

Joe pushed open the door. Here another hall, bigger and more elegant than ours, had lamps suspended behind crystal fingers which multiplied their light. In a high window to the right, colored glass portrayed another sailing ship against a crimson sunset.

A second door led to the Master's dining room, whose central feature was a long mahogany table which would normally have been covered by a damask tablecloth. Now the polished wood bore an open coffin, on which a lamp shone down.

The Master lay in his shroud, hands folded across his chest. His long white face looked as if it were of wrinkled paper rather than flesh. There were pennies on his eyes, gold coins atop the pennies. I stared at the folded hands. I had always marveled at the immaculateness of his nails, my own being short and usually ingrained with dirt. In death they looked still longer and finer.

Standing before the coffin, head bowed, Joe
spoke in a clear voice. “Duties and respects, Master. God be wi' ye, and all Demons absent.”

He bowed deeper and turned away. Andy repeated the ceremony, as did the others. Antonia's voice broke, and she could not finish. When Paddy had done, I whispered, “Shall I go?”

Mother Ryan nodded. “Yes, Ben. It's your turn.”

I stared at the Master's body, finding nothing fearful but nothing which made me want to linger over the looking. I spoke, gabbling, “Duties and respects, Master. God be with you and all Demons absent.” I turned to go, but Mother Ryan's voice halted me.