Conrad Edison and The Living Curse (Overworld Arcanum Book 1) Page 5

  I didn't want to think about such awful things.

  The patter of rain drew my attention to the window. The sunny afternoon had turned dreary and wet. Most people would abandon working on the fence until better weather prevailed. Brickle would not. If anything, working in adverse conditions only made him happier. He always seemed eager to prove he was a pure, unstoppable alpha male. Nothing would dominate him. Nothing could stop his relentless march.

  I made my way downstairs, put on my rubber boots, and went into the steady downpour. Brickle stood next to the brown barn. Water poured down his head and into his thick, bushy beard. A grin creased his face, no doubt because he observed how miserable I was.

  Yet another person who revels in misery.

  My muscles still ached and my stomach threatened to heave its meager contents. A bundle of posts lay just outside the barn. Instead of the triangular oak posts from the old fence, these were thick and coated in tar. There were also many more than necessary to repair the fence. In fact—I knew before Brickle opened his mouth what he intended. We were to replace the entire fence and not just the damaged section. The swine were absent, relocated somewhere else.

  "Is it really necessary to replace the entire thing?" I asked just as he began to speak.

  He glared at me as if I'd stolen his thunder. "Ain't going to look right if we just patch it." His high-pitched voice thwarted the attempt to sound menacing.

  It suddenly occurred to me why Brickle was so intent on proving his manliness to everyone, including nature itself. He was compensating for his puny voice and perhaps a terrible childhood. I tucked away the observation and spoke. "Well, let's get started. No sense in wasting time."

  His eyes flashed, whether with disbelief or anger, I couldn't tell. "Fine, boy. Start digging holes."

  I took the post-hole digger to the location of the original fence posts. Gritting my teeth to prepare myself, I jammed the metal blades into the ground. Tears in my eyes accompanied the jolt of pain in my muscles. Every time I stabbed the earth, it seemed to stab me back. I knew there was no point in complaining. The doctor might have done more harm than good to my body, but Brickle would only deride it as weakness.

  Looking up, I saw him smirking at me. "This is work a real man can appreciate." I mustered a fierce grin, as if hard work in the pouring rain was reward instead of punishment. "None of that child's play, feeding animals and milking cows." I stabbed the shovel back into the ground and gritted my teeth, forcing the smile to stay on my face. "I'm glad I destroyed this fence."

  Brickle's forehead pinched. "The bull destroyed it."

  I spread my hands, looked up at the rain and laughed maniacally. "Yeah? Well look who killed the bull and the boar." I jabbed a thumb into my chest. "Me! How many men can brag about something like that?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "Nobody but me."

  The hulking man's back straightened. "Yeah, well I killed a bear with my bare hands."

  I didn't doubt it for an instant. "To real men!" I shouted as I ripped a clod of earth from the ground and threw it into the meager piled I'd made. "We're the only ones capable of building a fence in harsh weather." I laughed again. "Mother Nature doesn't know who she's messing with!"

  Brickle suddenly roared with laughter. "Right you are, mate." He rammed a much larger shovel into the dirt and tore loose a huge clump. Teeth bared like a lion, he threw the dirt into the pile, raised his fist, and howled.

  I estimated my competitive posturing had increased his testosterone production by another ten percent. Sure enough, he dug the larger holes quickly and then uprooted the other fence posts, hoisting them overhead like a victorious gladiator. I did my best to keep up, but I was no physical match for this brute. As we worked, I threw in more comments about real men and about how nothing could dominate them.

  By the time the rain stopped and dusk absorbed the light from the sky, all the new fence posts were set. Placing the sturdy new slats in their notches would be much easier. Though Brickle had done most of the work, it took every ounce of energy I could summon to keep moving. The rain had masked how much I'd cried from pain during the task. All I wanted now was food and sleep.

  Brickle brushed the dirt from his hands as it grew too dark to work. "Unstoppable." He spoke the words in a murmur, as if congratulating himself. His stomach grumbled loudly. "Think I'll have steak tonight."

  I'll have gruel or oatmeal as usual.

  After cleaning up, I went to the dining hall. Oadby dumped a blob of meat porridge in my bowl. At least I thought the dark specks and chunks in it might be meat. I found my usual seat and took a bite. After chewing on a hunk of meat until my teeth ached, I realized it was probably from the butchered bull. I inspected a cube of brown beef and noticed gristle laced through it.

  Ambria came to my table. Her eyes filled with concern. "Conrad, you look awful."

  I glanced at the bruises on my arms from picking up the heavy fence posts. "Thank you."

  "How was the doctor visit?" She dropped into the seat next to me.

  I told her everything.

  "You can't be serious." She touched my arm. "That's inhumane, even by the standards of this fine establishment."

  I looked at the head table where the Goodleighs drank red wine and feasted on juicy red meat. Brickle took a large haunch of beef and tore into it. The juices ran down his beard. "The only standards here are that the staff members get treated like royalty."

  "Without doubt." Ambria frowned. "I wish we could change that."

  "We're powerless."

  She looked forlornly at her meat porridge. "I'm afraid you're right."

  Avoiding the inedible bits of bull in my porridge, I finished it and told Ambria good night. I wished I could break into the kitchen for better food, but I was far too tired to plan an insurrection tonight. I went upstairs and, after changing into pajamas, fell into bed and a deep sleep.

  I dreamt of a dark, ominous shadow hovering over me. It took a humanoid shape for an instant before melting back into a dark cloud. The dream held me in a lucid state. I knew I was fast asleep, but couldn't seem to purge the wraith haunting me.

  My internal clock woke me at five in the morning. Still tired and sore, I dragged myself out of bed and dressed. When I viewed the downstairs chalkboard with the daily assignments, I noticed the Goodleighs had given me yet another task. I had to check the water tank for the sheep and goats. Staring with disbelief—for it was at least a fifteen-minute walk to the tank—I realized the handwriting looked different. Mrs. Goodleigh wrote in a lovely flowing cursive. Mr. Goodleigh preferred neat print in all capitals. This handwriting approximated Mr. Goodleigh's, but fell short of his immaculate lines.

  I wondered if someone else was trying to play a trick on me, but the idea was preposterous. The Goodleighs were adept at discovering such things and would deal swift punishment on the guilty. William had once tried foisting one of his chores on me. The Goodleighs had somehow traced it back to him and doubled his chores for a week.

  I decided to play it safe and do the task. If the Goodleighs discovered subterfuge, the person would be punished. If, however, another staff member had actually assigned me this task, I could not ignore it. Rare as it was for anyone else to schedule such things, it had happened. Perhaps Brickle decided I needed something else to do after my boasts the previous day.

  Fresh, cool air greeted my lungs this morning. I drew in a deep breath and adopted a brisk walk down the dirt road. As I passed the chicken coop, it suddenly occurred to me that something was missing. I looked inside the building and all around it. There were eggs aplenty in the hen's nests, but the chickens were nowhere to be found.

  Perhaps Brickle removed them because he intends me to rebuild this shack.

  My time was limited, so I pressed onward toward the end of the road, my mind processing possible reasons for the missing chickens. The sheep pasture lay to the left. The water tank was located a little way past the gate. I reached the end of the road and entered the pasture. A wall of wool bloc
ked further progress. I flinched from my thoughts and looked up.

  A stocky ram stood at the head of the sheep formation. Goats, ever prone to strange behavior, stood atop the sheep. One of them made an awful screaming sound. The sheep bleated in response.

  To the side of the formation stood a middle-aged man dressed in black robes. He stood perhaps five feet tall with a head of thinning brown hair. His face bore a resemblance to someone I'd seen before, but couldn't place. The man glared at me with what could only be described as pure hate. "Here to clean the tank, Conrad?" Malice formed daggers of his words.

  "You put that assignment on the chalkboard?" I asked. Is he a new staff member I haven't seen?

  "Yes." He held a wooden staff up and motioned it forward. The ram took several steps toward me. The sheep and goats followed right behind.

  I backed up a step, my eyes widening with surprise. The sheep are acting just like the cows did yesterday. The ram is acting like the bull. Does this man have some way of controlling them? "How are you doing that?"

  "Zoomancy." His sparkled like cold hard diamonds. "Then again, you should know that."

  I've never heard of such a strange term. I took another step back. "Did you send the bull to kill me?"

  He giggled hysterically, though the anger on his face remained. "Oh, yes, you seed of evil." Spittle foamed on his lips. "I know who you are, Conrad Edison. Your parents hid you before they died, but I dug and dug and dug and dug and dug." Giggles burst from his mouth. "I found you!"

  "My parents hid me?"

  "Don't lie!" He shook with rage. "Those evil monsters killed my family, boy. Now I will snuff the rest of their bloodline."

  Clucking sounded from behind me. I spun and saw the chickens forming another wall behind me. I quickly decided the chickens were far less dangerous than the ram. Still, this man knew about my parents. He'd called me by a last name I'd never heard before. The Goodleighs never discussed dead parents with the orphans.

  I held up my hands in surrender. "I don't know anything about my parents. What can you tell me about them?"

  "After the war, they tried to seize power. They had powerful relics. Killed so many people." He slammed the end of his staff into the ground. "Murdered my family!" Panting in shuddering breaths, he turned his furious gaze on me. For a moment, sanity seemed to find him. "You cannot be allowed to live." With that, he thrust his staff forward.

  The ram, the goats, the sheep all rushed me. The clucking behind me reached a fever pitch. Ducking my head, I ran through a forest of feathers and sharp claws. The chickens' clucks turned to screeches of pain. I looked over my shoulder and saw the sheep trampling the birds that hadn't managed to flutter above the stampede.

  Every pounding step sent throbbing pain into my legs. Somehow, I managed to keep upright. The wide metal gate hung open at a ninety-degree angle to the fence. I grabbed it as I ran past and swung it shut behind me. The latch clicked into place an instant before the ram's horns rang against it. Unlike the pigpen, the pasture walls were made of stone with sturdy metal gates.

  The flock of sheep crashed against the gate but failed to budge it.

  I heard the angry man shouting from somewhere behind the fracas.

  My body trembled with relief and with anger. Who had killed my parents and why? Why had they supposedly killed this man's family? I knew if I didn't do something to stop him, he would eventually succeed in killing me. I had to apprehend him and let the Goodleighs handle the rest.

  I ran inside the red barn and grabbed a shovel. The stone wall bordering the pasture ran behind the red barn. Stones jutting from the wall made it easy enough to climb despite my sore muscles. I crawled over the top and ducked behind a tree. The man stood behind the sheep, yelling at them. He didn't see me as I sneaked closer and closer. The last tree stood twenty feet from the man. I peered around it and made sure he was still preoccupied. Steeling myself, I crossed the open pasture in a steady pace.

  One of the goats gave me away at the last instant, its horizontal pupils allowing it tremendous peripheral vision. It turned my way and bleated. The man started to turn. Panicking, I swung the shovel as hard as I could. Steel rang like a bell as it cracked the man in the temple. He went limp and slumped to the ground.

  The goats and sheep collapsed. At first, I feared they'd all died, but within seconds, they wobbled on unsteady legs and began eating grass as if nothing had happened. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  "You're going to see the Goodleighs," I said to the unconscious man. Kneeling, I searched the man's robes but found nothing except for a crooked stick that looked much like the one Dr. Cumberbatch had waved over me. It had a neatly polished handle and strange symbols inscribed in the wood. The man's staff bore similar inscriptions. Just as my mind had readily identified the scientific classifications of some animals, it tingled as though trying to dredge up the significance of these items.

  Instead, a sharp ache formed in my forehead. I pressed my hand against it, but the pain was too deep. When my vision cleared, I realized blood was pouring from an open wound in the man's head.

  Check his vitals.

  I remembered how doctors put a finger against my neck or wrist to check the pulse and mimicked what I'd seen. I found no pulse in the man's wrist or neck. I put my ear to his mouth and realized with horror he wasn't breathing.

  Chapter 6

  I killed him!

  My stomach heaved so hard, the world went black.

  A loud thumping wakes me up. I leave my room and see Cora standing at the top of the stairs, eyes focused on something below. Standing beside her, I follow her gaze. Bill lies at the bottom. His eyes are wide. His left foot twitches.

  Cora goes into her bedroom and returns with a brown bottle. She tosses it down the stairs after Bill. Liquid splashes with each bump. It comes to rest next to him, leaving a puddle.

  "Sometimes, bad things have to happen." Cora squeezes me in a hug. "It doesn't mean you're evil, does it?"

  I squeeze her tight. "You're the best person in the world." This is the truest thing I know.

  I staggered to the side and caught myself on a tree.

  Almost incapacitated with nausea, I forced myself to think. Even if the man had been up to no good, the Goodleighs would be very upset that I'd murdered him, accident or not. In fact, they would likely do as they had before and blame me no matter the circumstances. They might send me to jail for the rest of my life. The only hope of avoiding such a fate lay with the tool that had killed the man.

  I found a spot beneath the trees and dug. I cut the sod into neat squares and carefully put them to the side. Ignoring the awful aches in my body, I burrowed as deep as I could. Because of the trees, roots made the chore difficult. I hacked through the small ones until the hole was about four feet deep. I dragged the man into the hole. He was too tall so I rolled him on his side and bunched up his legs. I filled in the hole quickly and patted it flat. The sod fit over it neatly, disguising the patch of disturbed dirt from its surroundings.

  Using the same method as before, I climbed the stone wall, rinsed the dirt from the shovel, and then put it back inside the red barn. Time was slipping quickly past, so I hurriedly gathered the eggs and put them just inside the door. I grabbed the milk buckets and raced to the cow barn. Unfortunately, milking the cows could not be rushed. Taking deep breaths to overcome my panic, I put my mind to the task at hand. I finished my chores perhaps ten minutes late.

  After rinsing my muddy boots and cleaning my face and hands, I walked into the dining hall and tried to pretend that all was well. My insides were another matter. My bowels churned and my heart felt as if an invisible fist clenched it tight. Not only had I killed someone, but the attack on me had likely killed several chickens and sheep. So preoccupied had I been with burying the body, I hadn't even thought to check on the animals or clean up the carnage.

  Someone will discover them for sure.

  "Something serious must be on your mind."

  I flinched and found Ambri
a seated to my right. "Sorry, I'm very tired from yesterday."

  "I imagine you are." She scooped a spoonful of watery oatmeal from her bowl and made a face when she put it in her mouth. "Slimy."

  Shoveling a mound into my mouth, I winced in agreement. "At least it's a change from porridge."

  Ambria touched my arm. "Conrad, your eyes look practically black and blue this morning. You look as though you haven't slept for a week."

  "I feel as though it's been a month."

  Her eyes softened with worry. "Perhaps you should ask the Goodleighs to let you stay in today. Tell them you're sick."

  "You know they won't care." I stuffed more oatmeal in my mouth and forced it down my throat.

  "Maybe you can take a nap at lunch."

  I nodded. "I'll try."

  The smell of blueberry pancakes wafted past my nose. I looked on with envy at the feast on the main table. "How are we supposed to survive on this rubbish?" Without proper protein, my muscles wouldn't heal very quickly. I looked around the room and noted even the sturdier boys were quite thin, though not as scrawny as me.

  "I hope this is the year I find real parents." Ambria sighed with longing. "Unfortunately, it seems the only ones who find permanent homes are the ones the Goodleighs actually like."

  I remembered those who had gone on to better homes. Most had done so within weeks of their visit to Dr. Cumberbatch. "I'm afraid the Goodleighs don't consider me good enough." I remembered what she'd told me about her visit to the doctor. "They seemed very happy about your last doctor visit. Maybe that means something."

  "It's possible. You've had several fosters at least." She frowned. "I've heard stories about what happens to them. Are they true?"

  "Is what true?"

  "Do all your fosters die?"

  I looked down at the nearly empty bowl. "Not all, but most. I can always count on a freak accident." Even when dumb, I'd noticed it always happened close to my birthday. "I might be cursed."