A Block of Broken Houses

The Search, a Saviour (Part Two)

Penelope had been returning with a pail of water when she saw the two of them stumble through the west fence, dehydrated and sun-weathered. She had dropped the bucket and went to them, supporting them both the best she could. Her first thought was that they could not have possibly walked all the way from Ashbridge; it was much too far. They had not, she later discovered.

In Penelope's long talks with the child (Anna, her name was, and such a beautiful one at that) in the few days that followed their arrival, Penelope learned that they had travelled a long way on horseback (one they had stolen, Anna admitted) before it eventually fell over dead, nearly killing both her and her mother in the process.

The child's mother had been sick for days when Penelope had spotted them, perhaps longer, and although Anna had been in better shape it wasn't by much. Not the sickness, Penelope had thought, just worn and malnourished from travel. Her mother, though...

Both Anna and her mother had started to cry when Penelope reached them, relieved, and while her touch and voice were soft and soothing she hurriedly ushered them indoors. Penelope knew that if she did not get them off the high road someone would take advantage of them, and stealing what little the two travellers had would be the least of it.

Anna's mother had deteriorated quite quickly over the following three days. Penelope had watched over the child—making sure she drank and ate little at first, increasing the amounts as she felt better—and cared for Anna's mother as best she could, which could not be considered saving life so much as it had been stalling death.

On the fourth day, Penelope sat on a low-backed stool and looked upon the woman lying in bed, whose chest was now only rising so slightly it was close to non-existent. The cause of the sickness was unknown, but the symptoms were familiar: fever, vomiting, severe cramps, and then nosebleeds, pneumonia, and headaches, eventually—always—death. Like all the others, Anna's mother had been bent by it. She would break, surely, but before that happened...

"You must take her with you, keep her safe."

Penelope shook her head slowly. She had a feeling it would come to this, and had been trying to think of a reasonable excuse, a way out of it, but there were none that seemed plausible and all of which left her seized with guilt.

The woman in the bed winced. She bit back a cough, but when another threatened there remained no strength with which to hold it. The sound was wet and deep, and painful to listen to. Penelope reached out and wiped the spilled blood from the woman's lips and chin. Anna, crouched in the corner, her knees pulled to her nose, moaned, a worrisome cry that rattled in her throat. Penelope glanced at her, their eyes locking, and then back to the child's mother. The woman closed her eyes and licked her lips once her chest had settled, trying to regain her strength. When her eyes opened, they were composed, as blue as an unclouded sky. In them Penelope saw a peaceful knowing, a confidence. But behind that there was urgency, one that could not be ignored.

"She must go with you," the woman continued, "because there is no one else. Her father is...an evil man, the devil. If he finds her..." Her breath hitched, and then another coughing fit took hold of her. Her wide eyes snapped shut, bracing for the pain of it. Her chest was wet with phlegm and specks of blood, her chin stained with dried smears of it. "Please," she urged, and the rest sped out at a near-impossible rate, as if wanting to finish before the next coughing fit seized her. "Take my daughter away from this place, as far away from him as you can. I ask you a lot—too much—I know, but you must. I am dead already. My daughter might be if you take her, but she will be if you do not, if he finds her."

The girl was standing beside Penelope; she had managed to creep there while her mother lay dying, speaking, pleading. In the girl's hand she held a small bag. She laid it in Penelope's lap, and then cautiously lowered herself on the bed beside her mother.

"That is all the coin that I have," the dying woman told her, "that and my daughter. Use one to save the other. Go as far as you can. The coin will not last long, but if you are smart with it, if you are careful, it should take you far enough."

Perhaps it was the softening of Penelope's eyes or perhaps it was the urgency in her own, but the woman knew that Penelope had been, if not fully convinced, persuaded in her favour. She turned toward her daughter. "You must go with her, like we talked about. Listen to her, help her. She will keep you safe. Run from Father. You know what he is capable of." And then, with a smile: "I love you, Anna."

The child took Penelope's hand. Penelope stood, slipping the bag of coins into the pocket of her smock. Anna bent and kissed her mother's forehead; the kiss was soft and sweet, her mother's forehead sticky, hot. Her mother inhaled: the faint aroma of vanilla and jasmine. It was this memory she would hold onto when, not three hours later, she slipped into deep and utter blackness, death.

Anna did not ask Penelope if her mother would be okay; she had seen enough death over the last two years to know better than that. She had also known better than to ask if she and Penelope would be okay.

Good, Penelope thought. She's smart enough to have an idea of the odds we're up against. Penelope would do her best to keep the child safe, but was afraid of how little her best may prove to be.

Later, with her prayers and goodbyes finished, Anna helped Penelope gather what little Penelope owned, anything they thought might be useful.

A family—father, mother, son—with two horses and a weathered trailer was heading east, passing through, and Penelope paid a pittance to ride with them. Through subtle coughs, the father had demanded more, but his wife had reminded him they were doing God's work, that they were all heading in the same direction and salvation was found in helping those in need. Besides, his wife had added, two more in the trailer would not slow them any. He had agreed, but said they would need to part ways at the next town, and on this point he was immovable. Until, that was, he heard their story.

So they left, and neither Penelope nor Anna looked back once they had cleared the broken picket fence that marked the town line...except once. Penelope searched the fading horizon for rising dust, a growing cloud that may be their fate racing toward them. There was nothing, but she crossed herself just the same.

(CONTINUED IN PART THREE)