Read Online Chime by Franny Billingsley - Free Book Online

a witch. Perhaps you didn’t kill Stepmother, not technically, but that doesn’t mean St. Peter’s going to wave you through the pearly gates.
    Slurp and swallow, slurp and swallow. Mr. Dreary had vanished. Too late to pull him out. The false lights had vanished. Everything had vanished except Eldric and me. Everything had vanished except the two of us, the lantern, the stars, and the swamp, which breathed slowly through its jellied lungs.

7
Girl What Can Hear Ghosts
    Rose and I stood in our usual place, facing Father and the headstone. We usually stand beside the grave, but there’d be no grave for this funeral. You need a body for a grave, and Mr. Dreary’s body had been taken by the swamp.
    Taken by the swamp.
No, Briony, please try to remember! Not
taken.
The Wykes lured Mr. Dreary into the most treacherous part of the Quicks, where he fell and drowned. Where anyone would have drowned, unless he could walk on water, which I venture to say Mr. Dreary could not.
    But I could not forget how the swamp slurped and swallowed. Those were not the sounds of falling.
    Father had prepared a sermon on the meaning of Mr. Dreary’s life. That’s what stories do, they try to create meaning from nothing. But there’s no meaning to Mr. Dreary’s life. He lived, he smelled of tinned soup, he died.
    When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture.
    That’s what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it’s all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You’ll end up with a lunatic scribble.
    But Father has to try. It’s his job.
    He looked up; the crowd fell silent. Fall silent; fall into the Quicks. Slurp and swallow. Stop, Briony! Please try to remember: Mr. Dreary had a Bible Ball.
    Rose and I faced Father; the congregation gathered behind. I was used to playing clergyman’s daughter, dressed in funeral black, down to my ribbons and lace mitts. Rose was identically dressed, but she wasn’t playing. Rose can never learn how to play.
    “Black isn’t a color,” said Rose.
    I shook my head. “Hush, Rose!”
    The daughter of a clergyman will attend hundreds of funerals. She may attend as many as two or three a week when the swamp cough is on the prowl. I’d stood beside dozens of graves since Stepmother died, but hers was the one I remembered. I remembered the dark oblong; I remembered its corners, clean and sharp, like the angles of a hospital bed.
    “I match up with pink,” said Rose. “I don’t match up with black.”
    I put my finger to my lips. “Father’s speaking.”
    But Rose doesn’t like to be hushed. “Black isn’t a color. I want my pink ribbon.”
    The crowd rustled behind us. They’d be staring, of course, at the reverend’s peculiar daughter. I don’t mind the disapproving ones so much. It’s the tolerant ones I can’t stand, the ones who smile at Rose, who speak to her ever so slowly and gently. They don’t realize how very intelligent Rose really is. They’re just terrifically pleased with themselves.
Look at me!
they all but shout.
See how broad-minded I am! How wonderfully progressive, how fantastically twentieth century!
    “I match up with pink.”
    “Come along, Rose.” I turned round; she followed me into the graveyard. I used to stop by Mother’s grave, but I haven’t recently, not for several years. I used to stop to talk to her and tidy up a bit. I used to trim the ivy on her headstone. But now ivy and lichen have run riot over the gravestone carvings, which are not the usual cherubim but sunflowers and daisies—Mother’s favorite flowers. They’re exquisitely carved. I’d say you could almost smell them, except sunflowers and daisies haven’t much of a smell. I wish I might have known Mother. I wonder whether I’d have taken such a