He Did Not Ring It

Corin did not ring the bell that night. It was the first time in three years he had refused it, and the bell did not like to be refused. He sat in the tower until dawn with his hands jammed under his arms so they could not betray him, and the bell pressed at the inside of his skull the whole time, patient and cold, repeating the name. The baker's wife. The baker's wife. As if he had simply misheard. He had not misheard. He went down at first light and walked past the bakery, and the windows were lit, and the smell of new bread was in the lane, and the baker's wife leaned out and wished him good morning and asked after his mother. She was not dead. She was the least dead person Corin had ever seen. He went to the old bellringer's grave — the man had passed the winter before — and he stood there in the cold and said, out loud, "It's ringing for the living. What do I do." The grave, of course, said nothing. But the bell, far above him in the tower, gave a single low hum, as though it had heard the question, and was considering its answer.