A Badtime Story
Jacob and Jacob had been given new bed jackets to wear for the occasion, cut from the shrouds of long dead aunts. Their hairs had been brushed and each tooth polished and blunted. It was Father’s turn to read.
Nurse Mariam was not allowed to speak that evening.
‘Must we–’ began Jacob.
Nurse Mariam widened her eyes and stared at him.
‘But Father is–’ said Jacob.
Nurse Mariam cocked her head and held up a finger.
The twins slid into bed and watched as their elderly nurse heaved an urn onto the mantle above their meconium black fireplace. She placed three candles in front of the urn and then produced a tinder box and proceeded to light each candle. The flames sent shadows of ancient runes leaping from the urn to the row of books stacked beside it.
‘Sing to us, Nurse Mariam,’ said Jacob, smiling like a torn sheet.
Nurse Mariam glared at the twin and left the room.
Before too long, and before the children had fallen asleep, there was silence – except perhaps for the sound of gears clanking at the far end of the house.
‘Story?’ asked Jacob.
‘Good idea,’ said Jacob.
Together they sat up and looked towards the bedtime book pulpit. The heavy tome was closed and they dared not open it. The sight of the books beside the urn caught their eye, each leather spine glistening like chewed liquorice.
They checked their bedroom doors, one to the North corridor and one to the bathroom. Both remained closed as veins.
‘Let’s get one of those,’ said Jacob, pointing.
‘I’ll do the reading,’ said Jacob, climbing out of bed. He pressed a foot to the floor, causing a loose board to creak. Down at the other end of the house the clanking stopped. All the children could hear was the sound of the candles gasping for air and their own hearts staggering to each new beat.
Then, the clanking resumed and Jacob gave Jacob a warning look. Jacob nodded and moved more carefully towards the fireplace. They marched silently forwards until they stood looking up at the mantle which held the books, the urn and the three dark candles.
Jacob looked at Jacob and Jacob looked at Jacob. Their mouths opened as though surgeons were removing a heart and their eyes flashed in the flickering light.
‘Are you sure?’ said Jacob.
‘Just a look,’ said Jacob.
‘A book,’ said Jacob.
‘Yes,’ agreed Jacob. ‘A look at the book.’
He reached up to the mantle, his hand wavering between the urn and the book.
‘Book,’ said Jacob.
Jacob grasped the rightmost book but as he did so the sleeve of his new bed jacket brushed against the urn.
‘GO TO SLEEP,’ boomed their father. Out of the urn poured a cloud of ash, swirling itself into an angry genie of death.
Jacob and Jacob dropped to the floor and lay there until morning, the ash settling over them like a million dead stars.
Goodnight.
—
Illustration © 2017 Carl Pugh