The few people I see stare at me. It’s unusual to see a woman running down the middle of the street after dark. I make myself slow down. Then, I greet the occasional passerby with a curt nod and a quick glance, just like any Curdle Creeker with a right to be here. I even stop by Fleming’s. I rattle the doorknob. Knock on the door. He isn’t in. The shop is shut for the night. The handmade sign is turned to Closed, Come Back in the Morning.
I need to see Daddy. I go by Carter’s. It’s not yet Carter’s Everything Store. Since they don’t sell food and drinks, they aren’t open after suppertime according to the sign on the door. The only thing open is the Curdle Creek Gazette, out churning news till midnight because according to them, The news doesn’t sleep just because we do. The mill is closed this time of night. The guesthouse is shuttered.
Daddy knows everybody and everybody knows Daddy. Where would he go to have a few minutes to not worry about rituals and ordinances, rules and systems? If it was me, I’d go to the sign. As soon as I think about it, I know where to find Daddy. Even though he isn’t my daddy yet.
The streets are not paved here so I follow a rough mud path and the sound of running water down to the Creek. There’s a sliver of a moon and no stars. The Creek is beautiful when you can hardly see it. It’s easy to forget how many bodies are in there. I walk down to the edge. Breathe.
“Be careful, it’s slippery down there.”
The voice is kind, friendly.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Osiris.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard about you.”
“That cannot be good.”
Daddy has a lovely laugh. I can see why Mother’s smitten. She’s stingy with her laugh. Doesn’t use it near often enough.
“What brings you to Curdle Creek?”
“I’m visiting. Just for the day. Heading out in the morning.”
He looks me over. I picture what he sees. No shoes, stockinged feet, too-large, old-fashioned dress, hair in an absolute mess.
“Take my word for it: leave tonight. No telling what the morning will bring in a place like this.”
“You ever think about leaving?”
“I got a girl here. I love her. Wouldn’t leave her for anything in the world.”
“Not even if you could live a longer life?”
“Not even for that.”
The stench of burning wood fills the air.
“It’s too early for the Moving On. I wonder what that’s about.” He points to the edge of the woods. All I see are bobbing, glowing lights.
“Lamps?”
“Torches. We used to use them in the old days, back before the new declarations, but, once the other towns started using them for riots, raiding, and stuff, we stopped. Tonight must be a special occasion.”
I’m getting fidgety. My hands are starting to itch. I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. The light is getting closer.
“Check the Creek!” Grandfather shouts.
“Looks like we got company,” Daddy says. He takes a deep breath. “You’d do best to leave the way you came.” He presses a warm stone into my hand. “Use this. You’re going to need it.”
He slips back along the bank. The trail of torches is not far behind; I say a quick prayer, take a deep breath, climb back up the slope, and run.
FILLED with newspapers, books, photographs, records, and more trinkets, gadgets and knickknacks than one person could ever catalogue, the Town Hall is plum in the middle of Main Street. It’s a grand mausoleum of history, a forebear of justice. It’s massive. And above it, winking and gleaming, near-twinkling in the sun so that you have to squint to see it, is the bell. It’s gleaming and new, adorned with flowers and ribbons.
I’ve only ever been in the Town Hall on school trips and special occasions. Even as an adult, I’ve only gone inside when I’ve been summoned. Witness a statement, verify a form, swear to a new ordinance. I’ve never just walked in without an appointment. Not that I’m counting but this might be the third rule I’ve broken. If there’s a Hell, I’ll go straight to it. Breaking rules is one of the surest ways to show you can’t be trusted. If the ancestors, escaped slaves with nothing but a sense of what’s right and a need not to be like the all-white districts on the outskirts of town, could see me now, they’d be appalled at my rule breaking.
“Forgive me, but I’m going in,” I whisper.
There’s a large, gaping keyhole above the front doorknob where the oversized key to the city that Mother Opal had specially made would fit. I don’t have a key but I still have the pocketknife bound to my chest. I look around to make sure no one’s looking. I peer through the glass like a tourist might, to be sure there’s no one inside. It’s empty. Not even a night watchman. Nobody steals anything in Curdle Creek. Just as we learned to in survival school, I pick the lock. Twist, twist, jiggle, jiggle. Click. I push the door open. I’m inside.
Moonlight streams through the windows. It bounces off the marble floors and tiled walls. There are gilded handrails and large chairs with lions carved on the armrests in the waiting room. All of the doors are closed. They aren’t locked. I try them all. I find boxes filled with old almanacs, discarded rules, handwritten Life Books, thick, leather-bound Books of Sorrow. I could lose myself here. It’s just like Mother Opal’s basement only there’s no room to walk in here.
I flip through the stacks full of newspapers. Just as the textbooks said, Curdle Creek was founded in 1864. There’s a photo of Father Seamus looking sour and Mother Creek looking bitter. The papers go up to October 31, 1905. Today’s date, I reckon. I don’t have to read the paper to find out what happened. Today, there were nineteen names called. Biggest vote in Curdle Creek history. Even the Council was in cahoots with it. It’s the last time they use the family nomination system. The last time the Council can override the vote. The last time the Warding Off was unregulated. That doesn’t save the nineteen soon-to-be Moved On souls.
I make my way to the reception stand, though of course there’s no one here to greet me.
There’s an ink blotter, an hourglass, an empty sheet of paper, and a guest book labeled “Turner” in the center of the table. I sign it. Thick stacks of books cover the rest of it. I only mean to read the first page but each page has a little heading followed by key words and a detailed summary of a wrong committed and of the name of the accuser. Of course there are no good things to be found; it’s the Book of Sorrows not the Book of Thanks. The conclusions are worse than the summaries, and the recommended punishment even worse than that. I turn to the back. Read the verdicts. My heart stops. Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty. The punishment—death by any means necessary.
There’s a boom, boom, boom, in my ears and the room spins. They’ve found me. Outside, Grandfather, and what sounds like the rest of the town, bang on the heavy doors, demanding to be let in. Torches light up the night. Someone throws a rock through a window. Glass shatters. I lean against the desk to steady myself. The first rock is followed by larger rocks. Before long, there’s glass and splintering wood everywhere. The splintering is followed by cracking, pushing and shoving. The mob is inside the building now. There’s a sharp whistle. I know it when I hear it but I can’t make myself move fast enough. The rock sails across the air just as I turn to face it. There’s Mother, arm still crooked, aim just as steady as it will be decades later. Just before the rock hits, I’m reminded what else happened in 1905. It’s the year of the Great Fire. The one that burns the Town Hall, and everything inside it, down to the ground.