Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(77)
Surely, I am asking the wrong questions. No one could commit such acts of atrocity and still be deemed sane, regardless of his apparent clarity. But I’m finding my way toward the right questions.
Maybe. I think.
Courtesy of the Maplecroft crew, as I’m coming to think of us collectively . . . I have compiled a list of symptoms and cross-referenced them with my own notes, from the cases I’ve seen about town. I’ve also noted that in my recollections of these cases (in the previous weeks) one could almost make the case that my own mind has been slipping, too.
I worry myself, when I read those entries. I sound like a man on a precipice.
But no longer. I am returned, restored, and ready to solve this mystery. I hope we can solve it in time to save Nance, or if not her, then the rest of the town. Maybe the rest of the world, for all I know.
We must at least begin with Nance.
She’s within easy reach, being held and cared for by my only full and knowing allies, and if she does continue to deteriorate, well, I’ll have a firsthand case study that will ultimately surpass the usefulness of the Bordens, and their sad demises. At the risk of sounding morbid, they fell victim to the ailment and became violent, and eventually were killed . . . but all the while, Lizzie had no inkling that it was anything other than an isolated case. She told me herself that she hadn’t paid close enough attention (a fault that makes two of us, I fear), and hadn’t recorded their downfall in any useful fashion. With nothing to rely on but her memory, several years old at this point, the details have become muddled and the progress unclear.
But now we have Nance, and she will be my subject. I do not mean to suggest I’d experiment on the poor dear. That’s not my intention at all; but I have no earthly idea how to treat her—and I can only cross my fingers that I’ll stumble across some pattern of symptoms that might give me insight into her condition.
If I can figure out what’s wrong with her, I can devise a system to address the problem.
I say that as if it’s fact. I know it isn’t. People die from known causes every day, and this isn’t merely an unknown cause—it might be a supernatural one. Little wonder the Maplecroft ladies have discovered so little with any certainty.
? ? ?
I now describe the general progression of symptoms, compiled from my own notes previously recorded, and from a conversation with the ladies last night. Below is a general flow, not a positive timeline of events. Different people manifest the symptoms in different orders, though the general arc seems more or less the same across the board.
1. Distraction, accompanied by obsession.
2. A change in appetite, followed by a significant decline thereof.
3. Skin takes on a strange pallor, bloated appearance.
4. Dilated pupils, and the cessation of blinking.
5. Excess saliva, sometimes accompanied by digestive issues.
6. Fever (Sometimes. This one is by no means consistent.)
7. Slowness of movement, speech.
8. Cessation of talking, except certain words or phrases, which are repeated at length.
9. Difficulty controlling the limbs and joints, resulting in jerky, violent movements.
10. Difficulty breathing, resulting in a distinctive rasping sound.
11. Full-fledged madness, manifesting in self-harm or harm to others.
Lizbeth suggests that it’s possible . . . God help us . . . that the final stage in this affliction might be a transformation into the wretched, twisted, shuddering, glass-toothed creatures that have been making themselves known at Maplecroft. But I’ll not yet write that down in the list of symptoms, because I have my doubts. The anatomy was all wrong—not merely a warping of human physiology, but a different form altogether, some different species. It’s always possible that I’m off the mark, but I think not.
Whatever these things are, I am positive they’re related to the Fall River Madness; but I don’t think they are victims of any illness, supernatural or otherwise. More likely, they’re a vector.
Lizbeth does not seem to think so, but she’s not a medical professional—she’s a research enthusiast, coming at the problem with Bibles, tomes, and texts of ancient magic. I do not record this to demean her efforts, for she’s accomplished such great things that I dare not call her an amateur—indeed, if there’s any expert on earth with regard to this Problem, it’s her.
But I wish she’d confided in me sooner. I wish she’d invited some third party to lend perspective, or at least approach the matter from another angle or two. We might have saved some of those who’ve fallen. Or then again, we might not. And to be clear, I understand why it’s taken her this long to admit someone into her strange little circle. It took great courage—and no small measure of Emma’s prompting, I suspect—for her to do so.
So, we’ve become a team late in the game, but now we’re coming at the Problem as a united front. We must make the best of it. We must pool our resources—Lizbeth’s copious research, and my education—and find some set of overlapping details, some recognizable pattern, however peculiar or unlikely.
We must save Nance O’Neil, and then Maplecroft, and then Fall River. Then Massachusetts, and the nation, and the world if it should come to that, and I fear that it might. The thought is so huge, it makes me choke. But if I choke, and the ladies are overcome by the terrible professor on his insane, inhuman errands . . . what hope is left?