Read Online Somewhere Beneath Those Waves by Sarah Monette - Free Book Online Page A

whenever one of their daughters or daughters-in-law or granddaughters announced she was pregnant. I was determined to be careful, more than willing to let Martin coddle me as if I were his child rather than his wife.
    We followed the narrow path through the trees, our shoes rustling damply among the dead leaves.
    “This must be lovely in the spring,” I said.
    “You don’t find it lovely now?”
    “Oh, it’s pretty enough, I guess, but . . . I don’t know. It’s awfully bleak.” Barren, I thought, but it was not a word I was prepared to say. Not now. Instead, I smiled up at him and said, “I like my landscapes brightly colored.”
    “I’ll plant you roses,” he promised, smiling back.
    I heard the voices first as no more than the wind among the crumbling dead leaves. But they were voices, children’s voices, and after a moment I could understand their words.
    Ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . . ashes, ashes, we all fall down  . . .
    “Do you hear that?”
    “Hear what?” said Martin.
    “Those children.”
    “Children? What are you talking about?”
    Ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . . ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . .
    “Don’t you hear them?”
    We had both stopped in the middle of the path. I was holding onto Martin’s arm with both hands. He was frowning, head cocked, listening but—I realized, my stomach tightening into a cold knot—not hearing.
    “Just the wind, beloved.” He started walking again; numbly, I followed suit. But I could still hear those small, thin voices, that dreary singsong chant: Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. . . And I heard it all the way back to the house.
    I tried to put it out of my mind, tried to concentrate on our house, our child, the life Martin and I were building together. I found myself avoiding the windows that looked out on the woods, found myself stopped, listening, at odd times of day, for voices that I did not hear. One afternoon, while Martin was teaching, I walked down to the woods by myself, and the voices came rushing to meet me, as if I were a playmate they had been waiting for. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down  . . .  ashes, ashes, we all fall down  . . . I fled back to the house, but even a long, hot shower could not entirely dispel my shivering.
    That Saturday, I suggested to Martin that we go walking in the woods again. He was agreeable, and we started down the path together. It was snowing, and I was glad to have his arm to hold to.
    The voices sobbed in my head from the moment we passed the first line of trees. When we’d safely reached the bottom of the hill, I stopped Martin and said, my voice unnaturally casual, “There they are again.”
    “What?”
    “Martin, please. You really don’t hear them?”
    “Hear what ?”
    “The children. Singing.” And I joined in: “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . . ashes, ashes—”
    “I don’t hear anything of the sort,” Martin said, but his face had gone pale and his mouth was tight. “Come on. We’d better go home.” He turned and all but dragged me back the way we had come; we were halfway up the hill before I could brace my feet and pull free of him.
    “Martin.”
    For a moment, I thought he would simply keep walking, head down like an angry bull. Then he stopped, sighed heavily, and turned. “What?”
    Nothing, I almost said. You’re right. I was imagining things. But for once I stood my ground. “You know something.”
    “About your imaginary voices? No. But I’m starting to think I should call Dr. Baines when we get back to the house.”
    The cruelty in his voice took my breath away. He had never spoken to me like that before. “You think I’m hysterical,” I said. “Pregnant women have their fancies, right?” It was another topic on which my grandmother and great-aunts could hold forth for hours.
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “Go on back to the house then,” I said, my voice high and shaking with anger. “Go call Dr. Baines. I’m going to