The World Within (42 page)

Gradually, Emily picks up some of her usual pursuits, because after all, what else is there to do? She walks as often as she can; she practices the piano and goes to Ponden Hall to borrow some new books. But when she takes out an old story, intending to revise it, she soon gives up — the savor has gone from that activity. And since the Angelica story she’s lost the desire to attempt anything new.

She feels hollowed out, hopeless, and quite alone.

Even the weather seems to be mocking her. Rather than being dull and grey, which would suit her mood, it brightens up: Sunshine succeeds all those days of rain and it becomes unseasonably warm.

Late one sultry afternoon, she’s setting out on her walk when a sudden impulse takes her into the church.

It’s cool inside and quiet. Emily drifts down the aisle, trailing her fingers along the rough wood of the pew doors.

She’s not sure what’s she’s doing here.

Is she expecting some kind of message, from God, perhaps? Or, if He’s too busy to come Himself, from an angelic messenger bringing comfort?

She smiles wryly.

By now she has reached the front of the church and the familiar plaque. Emily traces the lettering:
Here lie the remains …
Then she rests her forehead on the cold stone.

“Elizabeth.”

She calls the name silently. Just for a moment she wants to be small again, snuggling up to her big sister; she wants to be cuddled.

Isn’t there an ancient ballad about a dead mother roused from her sleep by her children’s weeping, who rises from her grave to comfort them?

But no answering call comes, no warm arms embrace her.

The church remains still and empty.

Emily gives herself a shake. Stupid! What did she expect?

She turns and marches swiftly to the door, her footsteps echoing on the stone flags.

She takes her usual path, ascending the moor at a steady pace. It’s muggy and close, not a breath of air stirring, and before long she’s perspiring and wishing she’d left her shawl at home. But she still keeps on — it helps, this regular beat of her feet on the stony path, it helps to assuage the ache in her heart.

By the time she reaches Ponden Beck the light has changed — the sky has turned an ominous yellow and, above the horizon, a black band is growing broader by the minute. On the other side of the stream she comes across Martha Brown, the sexton’s daughter, picking whinberries with her little sister.

“Look,” says Martha, showing Emily their pail. “We’ve got some right beauties.” Both children’s mouths are stained purple with juice.

“You’ve done well. But see,” Emily indicates the dark curtain sweeping toward them, “there’s a storm brewing. Isn’t it time you were setting off home?” As she speaks, a white flash streaks across the sky.

A stubborn look comes over Martha’s face. “We’ll go in a minute. Ma won’t be pleased unless we take a full pail home. And I’m not scared of a drop of rain, are you, Alice?”

“No,” says the little one stoutly.

Emily is amused. “Well, you mind yourselves.” And she continues on her way.

There’s a deep rumble of thunder, overhead now. She quickens her pace, hoping she’s got time to reach the shelter of the Grey Stones before the storm breaks.

The next moment a wind springs up from nowhere, whipping her hair against her face and threatening to whirl her shawl away, and fat drops of rain begin to splash down onto her.

Clutching her shawl, she makes for the rocks, where she huddles under the great slab, the rocking stone, balanced on two boulders. Within minutes the gale is driving the rain into her refuge, soaking her. Praying that the rocking stone won’t come crashing down on her, she peers out over the wide sweep of the moors.

By now the storm is directly overhead, the dark clouds swirling and seething, thunder following lightning in quick succession and, as she watches the play of electricity flickering wildly across the sky, Emily feels an answering blaze flare up inside her. On an impulse she dashes out from her hiding place, and, holding out her arms and lifting her face to the heavens, she exposes herself to the full impact of the storm.

The rain beats down on her, the thunder deafens her, and the lightning dazzles her eyes. Buffeted by the wind, she feels delirious, giddy, and all the small meanness of her self and her unhappiness vanish as she’s absorbed into this fierce and powerful force.

At the height of her exaltation, there’s a loud explosion.

The ground shakes and across the moor, on Crow Hill, the ground erupts in a fountain of stones and peat from which a long black serpent uncurls and begins to slither down the slope.

Emily stares. She can’t understand what she’s looking at. And then she suddenly realizes that the serpent is the bog itself. It’s come alive and is advancing down the hill, intent on smothering the valley below.

Suddenly she remembers with a stab of horror — the little girls! If they’re still where she left them, they’re right in the path of the landslide.

She hesitates. It’s too dangerous.

But then the horror of what might happen to them seizes her and with a wild cry she sets off down the hillside at full tilt, leaping from tussock to tussock. At one point she stumbles and falls to her knees, but she rights herself and carries on. Her heart is hammering, she’s struggling for breath, but as the black snake picks up speed, she pushes herself on.

Will she be in time?

She reaches Ponden Crag, perched on the lip of the valley, and there below are the Brown girls. Oblivious of the danger they’re in, they’re trying to shelter from the rain in the lee of a boulder. If they can get up here, to Ponden Crag, they might be safe. Emily waves her arms and shrieks, but the wind carries her voice away and they don’t look up.

She’ll have to go down to them.

She skids and slides down the steep incline, calling as she goes, and at last Martha turns round and sees her.

Emily beckons frantically and shouts, “Martha! Alice! Come here.”

The little girl waves but stays where she is.

Desperate, Emily pants on until she reaches them. Pointing up the hill, she gasps, “The bog!”

The girls look at her as if she’s mad. She scoops up Alice and, seizing Martha’s arm, she hurries them back the way she came, ignoring Martha’s protests and Alice’s screams. Reaching the Crag, she thrusts them into the small cave at its base and flings herself down so that her body covers the entrance.

A second later the torrent arrives with a deafening roar. She struggles to keep her footing as the mud swirls round her, pummeling her with stones and threatening to suck her away. There’s nothing to cling on to, but, closing her eyes, she presses herself against the rock face and waits to die.

The next moment the mudslide has swept past her and on down the valley, leaving behind an eerie silence.

It’s stopped raining, Emily realizes. And she’s alive.

She opens her eyes.

Yes, she’s alive and miraculously unhurt, apart from some bruising to her back. She waits until her breath slows, then, rising unsteadily to her feet, she looks down at the two shocked little faces peering up at her.

“You can come out now,” she says. “It’s safe.”

The three of them walk home without speaking. Emily guesses that the little girls must feel as stunned as she does. Everything seems slightly unreal — after what’s happened, it feels odd to be walking along as though it’s just a normal day.

When they’ve nearly reached the village they see a man hurrying toward them across the common, shouting and waving.

As he comes closer Emily recognizes him. It’s Papa! And he’s come out without his hat and stick.

Rushing up to them, he seizes her hands. “You’re safe. Thank God for that.”

When she feels his warm grip, the reality of what might have happened suddenly washes over her and she starts to shake. She’d like to hold on to Papa’s hands, but he’s already turning away from her.

“And these little ones are safe too, thank the Lord. We heard the explosion at the house and feared the worst.”

“Miss Em’ly saved us. Otherwise we’d have been drownded,” announces Martha in a quavery voice, as if she hasn’t yet got over their narrow escape.

“Did you? Well done, my dear.” But Papa says this in a distracted way, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. He’s wild-eyed and excited. Perhaps it’s because of the fright he must have had about her. He says, “Come, we must hurry home,” and he sets off back along the path, shepherding them in front of him.

At the parsonage gate he suddenly says, “To think this day has come at last. This earthquake —”

“Earthquake?” Emily’s surprised. “It didn’t seem like that to me. It —”

“Oh yes, almost certainly, and we must prepare ourselves.”

“For what, Papa?”

“Why, for the end of the world, of course.”

She stares at him in utter amazement. Has he gone mad?

She notices the little girls gazing at him with eyes as round as saucers. She must get him into the house — Tabby will know what to do.

“Run on home, now, girls,” she says. “Your mother will be worried.”

“Oh!” Martha puts a hand to her mouth. “We left the pail behind. Ma will give us what for.”

“I don’t think she’ll be cross,” says Emily. “I think she’ll just be glad you’ve come to no harm.”

As the two little girls trot away down the lane, she turns to her father. “What do you mean, Papa? About the end of the world?”

“Do you not recall the book of Revelation?” Standing there in the lane, with his arms outstretched and his white hair all awry, he proclaims in a loud voice, “ ‘And lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.’ ”

Suddenly he doesn’t seem mad, but rather splendid, like an Old Testament prophet.

“ ‘For the great day of His wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?’ ”

At his words Emily experiences a thrill that runs right through her, from the top of her head to her toes.

What if Papa’s right? What if this really is the end of everything? Of everyone? All of them swept up together in one final apocalyptic convulsion.

Strangely, she doesn’t feel at all afraid. Rather, she’s elated. This feels like the right and proper climax to the tumultuous events of the day.

“What should we do, Papa?”

“We await His judgment, of course.”

“We have just seen something of the mighty power of God: He has unsheathed His sword, and brandished it over our heads, but still the blow is suspended in mercy — it has not yet fallen on us.”

Listening to Papa’s voice ringing from the pulpit, it’s all Emily can do not to leap up from her pew and challenge him.

Papa was wrong about the end of the world, for here they all are still, three days later.

And she’s pretty sure he’s wrong about this too — she can’t believe that the eruption of the bog was an earthquake sent by God as a warning to sinners to repent before it’s too late.

It
was
terribly destructive. She’s been back to Crow Hill to see for herself, and the vast crater in the moor is amazing. And it caused a lot of damage — all those bridges and walls demolished, mud pouring into people’s homes.