Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Page B

pale face emerged into the sunshine from out the coach window, blinking, followed by a long, thin body, unravelling itself awkwardly. Two smaller heads popped up and down, children watching their father’s every move. His trousers were soiled and stained, shirt torn, jacket shrunk so small it barely reached his elbows. My heart groaned a mournful wail when I saw the familiar growth pushing through the skin of his neck. A bubo. This one was white, the most deadly kind, meaning he would certainly die. He stared, long face haggard, brow dripping. Not an old man, I realised with a jolt, just withered.
    He stretched out a hand, trembling on spindly legs. Dowling stepped away as the man staggered towards him. The two little heads protruded farther now, necks stretched. Their father lowered his hand and made a sad noise, words I supposed, though I couldn’t discern them. What he sought of us I couldn’t tell, but Dowling dug into his pocket and pulled out some coins. Much good money would do him.
    Before Dowling or I could move, Withypoll kicked his big horse forwards and brought his blade slashing down upon the infected man’s neck. Blood arched in a great spray upon the road. The man shuffled in a tight circle, clutching at his throat, eyes wide, afore falling to his knees and then his side. The heads disappeared.
    ‘Did you not see the children?’ Dowling roared, grabbing at Withypoll’s bridle. A long line of blood marked Dowling’s shirt and trousers, from chest down to his knee.
    ‘He would have died before sunset anyway,’ Withypoll sneered. ‘It eases your conscience to leave children in the company of a corpse-to-be, rather than a corpse? You won’t be able to look away so easily where we’re going.’ He wiped the blade of his sword against his saddle. ‘Get back on your horse.’
    Dowling turned his back and strode deliberately to the coach. He climbed up onto its side and peered down into the box below before jerking up straight with his hands to his mouth, almost losing his balance. He crouched frozen a moment, before slithering back to the ground, breathing deeply, face flushed.
    ‘What will you do now, butcher?’ Withypoll laughed. ‘Cure them with a touch of your finger?’
    Dowling ignored him. He rummaged in his saddle and withdrew a round pie and full gourd. He returned to the coach, climbed up again on its side and held out the food. Children’s hands reached up, took the provisions and disappeared. Dowling took one last look at what he saw below, grey-faced and stiff-shouldered, then returned to his mount.
    ‘It’s a hot day, butcher.’ Withypoll gesticulated at the sky. ‘May you drink from the trough like the horses, for you’ll have no water of mine.’
    The dead man lay still upon the floor, flies crawling over the bleeding gash.
    ‘We cannot leave him here,’ I said.
    ‘Touch that body and I will slice off your hand,’ Withypoll barked, a cruel smile evaporated from his long, brutal face. ‘We have wasted enough time.’
    Dowling’s heavy-lidded expression betrayed an inner torment. He glanced at the body but left it alone. He remounted and kicked hishorse forwards. I waited for Withypoll to pull away ahead of us, far enough in front that I could talk to Dowling unheard. I drew up alongside and cast him what was intended to be an inquisitive gaze.
    ‘The mother’s been dead a few days,’ he muttered. ‘One of the children is dead, the other two infected.’
    Which few words created in my mind a vision so terrible I reined back, fearing he might share more. Withypoll’s back bobbed up and down, body moving easily with his steed, oblivious to the smell of death that followed us in long plume. How confident he was, mindless of the possibility we might knife him from behind. Well he knew us.
    Ahead squatted a low stone bridge, beyond it the sound of chains clinking. A black silhouette appeared on the bridge, advancing slowly in our direction, shuffling in rhythm with the rattle