Helen closed her eyes briefly. Little Arnie was partaking of the dead, and though he was not drinking substantial milk, Helen could see dark threads that wove into his thin aura, the unformed soul of a baby invaded with death.
The child was changed now, no doubt of it. Whether for good or ill remained to be seen. Perhaps she should allow things to play out. No. She remembered other cases where a soul had been infested with the threads of death. They became men and women to whom death had little meaning. It could mean heroic deeds or gifts like her own, or the creation of a monster, a human who hunted other humans to taste that death they craved, the death they wanted to fill up empty places in their souls where the strangleweed taint had murdered it.
Arnie should decide his own fate. It was not meet that the dead decide it for him. Elayne had rocked the baby to sleep. She put him down and disappeared through the window, dancing down the moonbeam path back to her grave.
Dr. McCoy stopped playing. Helen stood, and he leapt to his feet, kicking aside the bench. His breath was harsh and heavy. He'd had no idea Helen was there.
"So this is why you play."
McCoy glared at her. "Miss Highwater, I do not see where it is of any concern to you."
"The dead are my concern. Just as my father cares for the living, I care for the dead. And you are meddling."
"She is my wife."
Stilling the Dead
A Helen Highwater Story
The music grew louder near the house. Dr. McCoy never looked up, and Robby sat on the steps in his underwear, rocking the screaming baby. "He won't talk to me, Helen. He doesn't love me or Arnie anymore." Robby had taken to calling the baby Arnie.
Helen hugged the little boy and picked up Arnie, who quieted immediately. She passed out her sandwiches, forcing McCoy to take one, and fed the baby. After cleaning, she sat down and waited, rocking the baby quietly.
Robby went to bed by himself, sniffling a little when he kissed his daddy. McCoy ignored him. Helen let him leave. What was to happen didn't concern the boy. Darkness fell. McCoy played on, his long fingers stretching for arpeggios and scales, the same song over and over, singing in a whisper. Helen stretched and settled down in a corner, making herself invisible in the darkness. She could see moonlight glittering off McCoy's eyes.
And she felt Something.
It was the cold presence of the not-living, coming from outside, drifting in, thin shadow wavering in the path of the moon. McCoy turned to face it, smiling. Helen nodded.
Elayne's long white burial gown -- her wedding dress -- shifted and drifted in the light breeze. She floated inside, a fresh red rose in her hand. The baby stirred and grumbled.
She picked up Arnie and settled into the wicker rocking chair near the window. Ignoring McCoy, she focused on the baby, unfastening her bodice and holding him to her cold breast, where he latched on and began sucking contentedly.
