Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

"Mother of God!" Van Grut exclaimed as Duncan laid open the mutilated palm. "He was crucified!"

"I have seen many violent attacks," Duncan continued as he unfastened the buttons over Burke's chest, "but never have I seen such a piercing, nor the likes of this," he declared as he pulled open the shirt.

The color drained from Van Grut's face as he saw the gear wheel in the dead man's chest. The fear on his face, however, quickly migrated to confusion. "It was not the cause of his death," he observed. "Then why mark the body so?"

"It was done while he yet lived. See how the blood has flowed into the adjoining skin."

"Are there more?" the Dutchman asked with a grisly fascination.

"More?"

"Gears. In Germany once I saw a mechanical woman in a glass box who lifted her hand and waved. Clockmakers in Zurich had constructed her for a prince. People often ran in fear when they saw her. Others dropped to their knees and prayed for her."

The words strangely disturbed Duncan. "Burke was flesh and blood."

"But if he died this way, was he not becoming a machine in the end?"

Duncan stared at Van Grut, not entirely comprehending, then lifted the dagger and with effort jerked the blade free of its scabbard. He twisted the blade in the light, showing a dark red line that ran along its edge, more red that covered its tip. It had been blood that had glued the blade into its case. With the tip of the blade he began to pry up the gear.

"McCallum!" the Dutchman protested. "You know not what you meddle with! We must study the gear's function. In Germany I was told the clockmakers started with a living woman. What if you find another gear connected underneath?"

Gooseflesh rose along Duncan's spine. For a moment he froze, caught up in his companion's irrational fear, then with a wet sucking sound he pried the gear out of the breastbone.

"May the hand of God smite you demons!"

The hoarse disembodied voice sent both Duncan and Van Grut leaping back, gazing in horror at Burke's bloodless face. The Dutchman seemed about to seize the gear to place it back in the chest when a specter emerged from the darkness.

"Unhand the dead, you thiefl" the shadow boomed, and one massive hand seized Duncan's wrist as a second rose toward his throat.

A sign of relief escaped Van Grut as he raised the candle. "Corporal, you're drunk!"

The burly man from the rocking chair hesitated, then dropped his hands and stiffened as if an officer had addressed him. "No drop will e'er prevent me from protecting them what gave their lives for blessed King George."

Duncan recognized the thick northern accent and saw now that a Bible was tucked in the waist of the man's britches.

"Mr. McCallum's a medical man," Van Grut explained.

The soldier, tottering slightly now, eyed Duncan suspiciously. "Beg pardon, sir, but this one's beyond servicing."

"In Yorkshire," Duncan ventured, "There are those who sit with the dead and absorb their sins so they can pass on to heaven. It is an honored profession."

The corporal paused as if he had to consider his answer. "It was how my mother, poor widow as she was, kept bread in our mouths. She died all twisted and gnarled for it." He shrugged. "I know most of the dead I sit with. Ye catch the flavor of a man's sins, well enough, when ye sit with his body through the night. Not for me to play a hand in the fate of their soul, just want them to know they ain't alone. As to why I do it, back home a man with but one root lives on alms until the winter, then dies frozen in the gutter." He tapped his right leg and for the first time Duncan saw the worn oaken stump that extended from his britches. "Lost it to a French cannonball two years ago. They keep me on the roster because I do that which no one else will do."

"Like getting drunk with the dead?"

"The dead be perfect company with a bottle. N'er disagree, n'er take a drop, always listen and-" the corporal added with a perverse gleam, "after the first hour or two they sing right along with ye." He punctuated his explanation with a belch, then reached down and carefully straightened Burke's shirt. "A soldier's got to be strong all the way to the end, especially if there be enemy in earshot. I remind them they still be in battle until their final breath. Chin up and mind the colors. N'er let the French frogs see ye weak."

"Mr. McCallum helps the dead, same as you," Van Grut explained. "He reads their body, like an aborigine reads a trail."

The corporal wiped at a spot on the body's brass gorget. "Didn't know this one, hard to read."

"The killer struck him in the head first," Duncan explained, pointing to the bruise at the temple. "Burke was dazed, or unconscious, long enough for his hand to be nailed to the tree, probably with the same ax that laid open his thigh a moment later-" Duncan paused as he looked at the dagger again. He gestured for Van Grut to hold the lantern close to the exposed thigh wound as he pressed back the flesh. "His own dagger was used to finish him. An ax leaves an ugly wound, a crippling wound even, but not always a fatal one. The killer was not satisfied with the flow of blood, so he jammed the dagger into the artery. My friend and I found him minutes later."

"Did he not speak of his killer as he lay dying?" Van Grut asked.

"He seemed unable … " Duncan replied, realizing he had no ready explanation for Burke's inability to speak. The jaw did not readily yield when he pushed it, the rigor beginning to hold it tight. The crunching noise when he pushed harder caused Van Grut to visibly shudder, but he held the candle close as Duncan bent to look in the mouth. Pausing in confusion at what he saw, he reached in deep with a finger and scooped out a lump of metal. He extended it on his open palm to his companions as if for explanation. It was a lump of copper, melted and hardened, as if dropped from a forge.

"Jesu' protect us sinners," the corporal muttered fearfully.

Duncan and Van Grut exchanged a confused glance. The metal made no sense, except for that which had occurred to the worn-out soldier. In the old ways that lingered in Scotland and the north country of England metal was used to fend off the devil.

"The major is in a great rush to resolve this killing," Duncan said to the soldier after a moment. "Who is he expecting?"

"They be passing through Ligonier on the way to Lancaster."

"Who exactly?"

"The dignitaries," the corporal replied. "The treaty conference between Virginia, Pennsylvania, and the Indians."

Duncan studied him, confused. "But surely any peace treaty will be made in Europe. And surely there would be no participants from the wilderness."

The corporal shook his head at Duncan's obvious ignorance. "Affairs of the wilderness don't get settled over lace cuffs and tea. I speak of an Indian treaty. Chiefs from the Iroquois towns and western lands be attending, the black-and-white prigs from Fort Pitt along with them."

"Black-and-white?"

"Goddamned Quakers," the corporal spat, then looked down. "Beg pardon, sir. The gentlemen representing the provincial government in Philadelphia. A magistrate and his kin what they sent to run the new provincial trading post at Pitt."

Latchford, Duncan suddenly realized, was trying to hang Conawago before the treaty delegation arrived. "Was it you who cleaned the body, corporal?" he asked.

"I assisted. 'Twas a frightened lad with red hair. A cousin, he said. Weeping so hard he had to stop several times to collect himself. `Who will tell his mother?' he kept muttering, and `oh this cursed struggle.' I told him what I tell all the forlorn creatures, that where the good Lord directs the metal is for no mortal to question."

"Metal?" Van Grut asked.

"'Tis always metal, ain't it? Be it blade or ball, 'tis metal that takes the soldier."