Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 44 of 150

Ben came up the slope with the tree-shaped container under his arm. The scream still tore through the trees behind them. Joe was already at the pines. Anita and Justin had the chest open on the moss, wax seams broken along the lid where Al had sealed them. Amanda crouched beside it with a stick, holding the lid up. Eleven boxes sat inside, snug against the felt. There was no room for the twelfth. Ben knelt. He set the tree container next to the chest and measured with his eyes. The container was wider than the others by two fingers. If he forced the lid down, the wax would crack. If the wax cracked, the hum would leak, and the horn man would come back to a chest that sang. "It won't fit," Anita said. "Not without splitting the seam." "Take the relic out of the tree," Justin said. "Put it in a plain carved box. Small box, same size as the others." "We don't have another carved box," Ben said. "Then leave one behind." "No." Amanda's stick shook. "Ben. The scream will stop soon." Ben looked down the slope. Movement between two trunks. A woman walking up toward them, barefoot, unhurried, a linen sweater loose on her shoulders. She carried nothing. She stopped ten paces off and watched them the way a person watches weather. "You're loud," she said. "Who are you?" "Paige. I came up here to sit." She looked at the chest. "You're going to break that." "We need the last piece inside." She walked closer. Justin stepped between her and the chest. She didn't seem to notice. "The wooden shell is what's too big," she said. "Not the thing inside it." "Opening it lets the sound out," Ben said. "Ten seconds. The men will hear." "Then don't open it here." She pointed downhill, past the pines. Ben saw it then, tucked in a fold of the slope he had missed: a small wooden porch, a shingled roof, curtained doors standing open. A cottage no bigger than a shed. "My porch," Paige said. "Thick walls. I was going to nap." Ben looked at Anita. Anita nodded once. They ran the chest down. Paige held the doors. Inside, a soft chair sat in the middle of the room. The walls were log, chinked tight. Ben set the tree container on the floorboards. Anita worked the lid off the shell. The hum spilled out, low and even. Ben lifted the small stone relic from the hollow and laid it in the felt space where the tree container had been meant to go. Anita pressed a spare carved lid over it, one of Barb's, the last spare. The hum cut. He closed the chest. The wax seams held. Twelve pieces, sealed, quiet. Outside, the scream stopped. In its place, a horn sounded once, long, up the slope. Paige sat down in her chair. "You should go."