A sudden convulsion passed through Enoch’s body and the sheep heart started to beat, spraying out a fine mist of bloody pickling solution. Enoch took fast, shallow breaths. He seemed to be channeling something. I studied Martin’s body for any hint of movement, but he lay still.
Gradually the heart in Enoch’s hand began to slow and shrink, its color fading to a blackish gray, like meat left too long in the freezer. Enoch threw it on the ground and thrust his empty hand at me. I pulled out the heart I’d been keeping in my pocket and gave it to him. He repeated the same process, the heart pumping and sputtering for a while before faltering like the last one. Then he did it a third time, using the heart he’d given to Emma.
Bronwyn’s heart was the only one left—Enoch’s last chance. His face took on a new intensity as he raised it above Martin’s rude coffin, squeezing it like he meant to drive his fingers through. As the heart began to shake and tremble like an overcranked motor, Enoch shouted, “Rise up, dead man. Rise up!”
I saw a flicker of movement. Something had shifted beneath the ice. I leaned as close as I could stand to, watching for any sign of life. For a long moment there was nothing, but then the body wrenched as suddenly and forcefully as if it had been shocked with a thousand volts. Emma screamed, and we all jumped back. When I lowered my arms to look again, Martin’s head had turned in my direction, one cataracted eye wheeling crazily before fixing, it seemed, on me.
“He sees you!” Enoch cried.
I leaned in. The dead man smelled of turned earth and brine and something worse. Ice fell away from his hand, which rose up to tremble in the air for a moment, afflicted and blue, before coming to rest on my arm. I fought the urge to throw it off.
His lips fell apart and his jaw hinged open. I bent down to hear him, but there was nothing to hear. Of course there isn’t, I thought, his lungs have burst—but then a tiny sound leaked out, and I leaned closer, my ear almost to his freezing lips. I thought, strangely, of the rain gutter by my house, where if you put your head to the bars and wait for a break in traffic, you can just make out the whisper of an underground stream, buried when the town was first built but still flowing, imprisoned in a world a permanent night.
The others crowded around, but I was the only one who could hear the dead man. The first thing he said was my name.
“Jacob.”
Fear shot through me. “Yes.”
“I was dead.” The words came slowly, dripping like molasses. He corrected himself. “Am dead.”
“Tell me what happened,” I said. “Can you remember?”
There was a pause. The wind whistled through the gaps in the walls. He said something and I missed it.
“Say it again. Please, Martin.”
“He killed me,” the dead man whispered.
“Who.”
“My old man.”
“You mean Oggie? Your uncle?”
“My old man,” he said again. “He got big. And strong, so strong.”
“Who did, Martin?”
His eye closed, and I feared he was gone for good. I looked at Enoch. He nodded. The heart in his hand was still beating.
Martin’s eye flicked beneath its lid. He began to speak again, slowly but evenly, as if reciting something. “For a hundred generations he slept, curled like a fetus in the earth’s mysterious womb, digested by roots, fermenting in the dark, summer fruits canned and forgotten in the larder until a farmer’s spade bore him out, rough midwife to a strange harvest.”
Martin paused, his lips trembling, and in the brief silence Emma looked at me and whispered, “What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it sounds like a poem.”
He continued, his voice wavering but loud enough now that everyone could hear—”Blackly he reposes, tender face the color of soot, withered limbs like veins of coal, feet lumps of driftwood hung with shriveled grapes”—and finally I recognized the poem. It was the one he’d written about the bog boy.
“Oh Jacob, I took such good careful care of him!” he said. “Dusted the glass and changed the soil and made him a home—like my own big bruised baby. I took such careful care, but—” He began to shake, and a tear ran down his cheek and froze there. “But he killed me.”
“Do you mean the bog boy? The Old Man?”
“Send me back,” he pleaded. “It hurts.” His cold hand kneaded my shoulder, his voice fading again.
I looked to Enoch for help. He tightened his grip on the heart and shook his head. “Quick now, mate,” he said.
Then I realized something. Though he was describing the bog boy, it wasn’t the bog boy who had killed him. They only become visible to the rest of us when they’re eating, Miss Peregrine had told me, which is to say, when it’s too late. Martin had seen a hollowgast—at night, in the rain, as it was tearing him to shreds—and had mistaken it for his most prized exhibit.
The old fear began to pump, coating my insides with heat. I turned to the others. “A hollowgast did this to him,” I said. “It’s somewhere on the island.”
“Ask him where,” said Enoch.
“Martin, where. I need to know where you saw it.”
“Please. It hurts.”
“Where did you see it?”
“He came to my door.”