by D B Nielsen
As the shutter clicked, it happened – I experienced again the artefact’s transformation. It began to pulse, turning vivid amber in colour. The ivory symbols began to perform their mystical dance as the interior speckled with pinpoints of light, writhing like the aurora borealis. The ebony, now almost translucent, seemed to hold a nebula within. I quickly continued taking more pictures, hoping to capture its mysteries.
And then there was a subtle change. This time I smelt it. I didn’t even know how that could be possible – I was standing outside the air-tight vault which was sealed – but the sweetness was intense and overpowering. Surprisingly, it smelt the same as the study in our Manor House. Accompanying this sweet scent, the symbols started to make meaning. This time I recognised some of the cuneiform script; similar to the tablet on display. Ancient cartography. A modelling of reality. But this was more abstract, cosmic. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but I knew that I was missing something. Something incredibly important.
And I didn’t have any time left.
I broke eye contact with the artefact and, in that moment, it returned to its dormant state. The compulsion to enter the vault was also gone. Quickly exiting the room, I found myself back in the empty corridor. Only minutes had passed but it seemed like hours and my earlier anxiety returned. I hurried along, reaching the junction when St. John Rivers unexpectedly came out from the suite of offices at the far end.
I felt myself slowing down, my lips of their own accord curving into a wide smile.
But he didn’t respond. In fact, if anything, he looked right through me. Apart from a slight tightening of his jaw, he might have been unaware of my presence. To my dismay, I found he was deliberately giving me the cold shoulder, ignoring me.
What did I do wrong? I thought, feeling confused and dejected. Didn’t he recognise me from the other day?
He passed me in the corridor without a word, close enough to feel him draw back so he wouldn’t brush against me, so he wouldn’t have to touch me – like I was some kind of leper. With chagrin, I realised the probable cause – I wasn’t me. I was Fi today.
I turned to face him. I wanted very much to talk to him, but he seemed totally unaware of my movement and simply walked on by. I blinked back the moisture in my eyes and would have burst into tears if I hadn’t noticed that he held himself rigidly, his hands balled into fists; the skin taught over his knuckles, white to the bone.
I couldn’t believe that this was about me. It had to be about something else, something that had happened before he walked out into the corridor and saw me there. Something to do with my Dad perhaps. Or maybe one of his current projects. It couldn’t be about me.
He punched in the password on the keypad and disappeared from my view through the door I had only just exited, not once bothering to glance back my way. I don’t know how long I just stood there staring blankly at the door to Conservation. I only know that I was fighting back tears all the way home.
When I got home, I dumped my bag and Fi’s camera on my bed and decided to run a steaming bubble bath. I was still visibly upset from today’s encounter and chilled from the train ride home and I didn’t want any member of my family seeing me like this and bombarding me with nosy questions. I spent some time washing my long hair and soaking in the bath tub before the water started to become tepid. But, at least, it had done its job – I was more relaxed as I felt the tightness in my body unwind.
Drying off, I put on my most comfortable pair of jeans – the one’s my Mum wouldn’t let me wear in public because they were too worn and had too many holes in unmentionable places – and a soft knitted top that was slightly too big as it kept sliding off my shoulder and I kept having to pull it up. But I couldn’t be bothered changing as I liked its bright red colour which helped to buoy my mood.
It wasn’t quite evening yet, so I decided to help Mum by starting dinner. Some steaks and ribs were thawing in the kitchen waiting to be prepared. I marinated them for her, wrapped foil around the potatoes to bake in the oven and placed the corn in the steamer. I then sliced some onion, capsicum and tomatoes to be char grilled, adding a sprinkling of herbs for seasoning.
Dinner was coming along nicely when I heard the front door slam.
‘Hey,’ I called out to whoever had arrived home.
‘Hi,’ Fi called back. I could hear her running up the stairs to her bedroom and locking the door behind her.
That’s odd, I thought. Fi didn’t normally behave like that – not even when she’d suffered extreme mood swings with her eating disorder.
I considered calling out to her. She had simply disappeared into her bedroom and shut me out, not even bothering to ask how my mission today had gone. But as I was still busily preparing dinner, I decided it was easier to just leave her be.
Half an hour later the BMW pulled up in the driveway. I could hear Jasmine and Alex whining and bickering before they’d even gotten out of the car. I didn’t know why Mum and Dad felt that they needed “a period to adjust” before they started school in the new term – it would have been a lot easier if they’d already begun, especially since their Nintendo Wii hadn’t arrived yet and all their excess energy was left undirected. From the kitchen window I could see the harassed look on Mum’s face.
‘Thanks, love,’ Mum said gratefully, dropping the shopping bags on the breakfast table as she entered the back door. Crossing to the stove, she gave the pepper sauce a quick stir. ‘Looks like you’ve done most of it. I’ll take over from here.’
With nothing else to do I thought about answering some emails from my friends and former tutors. As I made my way down the hallway towards the stairs, I heard the crunch of gravel on the path leading up to the front entrance and male voices deep in conversation. Dad was home and it appeared he’d brought a guest. Because this wasn’t an unusual occurrence as Dad often brought colleagues home from work to dine with us, I didn’t have time to prepare myself for the shock of facing St. John when the door was flung open.
‘Ah, Sage, meet Dr Rivers, a fellow worker at the museum,’ Dad introduced St. John to me, ushering him inside from the winter chill.
All my hard-won calm vanished. He seemed to dwarf the hallway with his impressive height and radiance. He practically lit up our hallway like the Colossus might have done at Rhodes. I felt awkward and gauche and knew I was blushing madly, barely managing to get out a greeting which I hoped sounded intelligible.
‘Sage, nice to meet you again,’ he said, sounding slightly annoyed. His eyes tracked the movement of my hand as I pulled my red top back onto my shoulder for the umpteenth time.
No! No! No! I hadn’t told Dad we’d met!
Dad raised a brow, ‘You’ve met?’
‘At the museum,’ I said, panic was clear in my voice but Dad didn’t seem to notice, unlike St. John who was frowning, his clear jade eyes a touch cooler than before.
‘I was looking at a piece in the new exhibition and St. John – I mean Dr Rivers – was kind enough to explain its significance to me,’ I amended with a hard glance at the subject of my statement.
‘You’re a braver man than I,’ Dad laughed, draping his arm round my shoulders, ‘Sage is my Encyclopaedia Britannica – she’s going to take over my job one day.’
I groaned. Could this get any worse?
‘Honey,’ he addressed me, ‘why don’t you take Dr Rivers to meet the rest of the family while I go change?’
It wasn’t really a question. It was an order.
‘Sure. Dr Rivers, if you’d like to follow me, please?’
I turned on my heel and expected him to follow. I had no intention of keeping up pretences and engaging in small talk when he clearly wished me to go to the devil. The feeling at that moment was mutual.
Luckily my mother was the perfect hostess – her sparkling personality responding to St. John’s charm. I might have gagged in reaction to her gushing had it been anybody else but him, but I honestly couldn’t blame her – he was too damn perfect. Even Fi when she joined us seemed fascinat
ed – she watched us like we were a particularly interesting performance, both deliberately ignoring the other.
Dinner, as a result, was excruciating. If it weren’t for the fact that every now and again when his eyes alighted on me and his hands would clench his fork and knife in response – which I took as a sign that he wasn’t as indifferent to my presence as he wished to pretend – I would have screamed in frustration. The topic round the dinner table was kept light; apparently it was bad manners to grill the guest about his past.
So I don’t know why St. John decided to shatter my composure by his innocuous statement, ‘It’s a pity I couldn’t stop to chat with you today, Sage.’
All conversation stopped. My gaze locked with St. John’s and I felt myself flush hotly. Dad looked slightly bewildered as he looked at me.
‘Actually, that was me. I was at the museum today.’
Thank you, Fi! I owe you one!
St. John’s cool jade eyes narrowed. ‘I could have sworn it was your sister.’
At that, Dad chuckled. ‘You’re not the first person to get them confused. I swear there are times I can’t even tell them apart.’
Mum agreed, adding, ‘They may look alike but they have very different personalities. Safie usually wouldn’t set foot inside a museum unless she needed something from Robert – what was it this time, honey? You ran short of cash?’
‘A lift home,’ Fi replied, keeping to our story.
‘Why didn’t you wait then?’ asked Dad perplexed.
Fi rolled her eyes, quick on the uptake. ‘Because Sylvia said you were busy. All day.’
I choked back a laugh. Good one, Fi!
I almost felt like I’d dodged a bullet except that St. John was still staring at us, looking like he was unconvinced at our little deception.
All through the following conversation I could feel St. John’s eyes upon me. I tried very hard not to be aware of him for the rest of the meal and, since that was impossible, at least not to let him know that I was aware of him. The others didn’t seem to be affected by him in the same way as I was. I could tell my Dad was impressed with the breadth of his knowledge as he conversed on a wide range of topics from travel to sports, and Mum and Fi acknowledged his good looks, but none of them seemed to react to him in the way that I did.
‘That was a lovely meal,’ St. John complimented Mum, offering to help wash up.
‘Oh, it wasn’t me,’ Mum shook her head, smiling, ‘Sage made dinner tonight.’
St. John gazed with probing intensity into my eyes. ‘Then I ought to thank you, Sage. The meal was delicious.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I muttered, looking down at my plate as soon as his eyes released mine. I couldn’t believe the flood of emotion that filled me simply because he’d thrown me a compliment. Maybe it was the way he’d said the word “delicious”. I was truly pathetic – it wasn’t as if he’d meant it for me and not the meal.
Mum proposed that we have coffee in the living room and we began clearing the dining room table. I heard Dad excuse himself briefly to make an important phone call, directing St. John to the front of the house. As soon as Dad’s back disappeared out the door and with the others safely in the kitchen, I moved to block St. John’s path.
‘Can I talk to you a minute?’ I hissed under my breath. He took a step back from me, his jaw suddenly clenched.
‘It was you I saw today not your sister,’ he said accusingly through his teeth.
‘I’d like to speak with you alone, if you don’t mind,’ I pressed.
He glared at me, his eyes remarkably cold, gesturing for me to lead the way. I was conscious of his mood, the anger focused behind me palpable. As soon as we turned into the living room, I spun around to face him.
‘What’s going on? You owe me an explanation.’ I demanded.
‘I owe you an explanation? What was that fairy tale your sister spun for the benefit of your parents?’ he snapped.
‘Nothing that concerns you!’ I fumed. I was so mad I could feel myself on the verge of tears. ‘What I want to know is why you blew me off today?’
He stared at me incredulously, but his face was tense and defensive.
‘You think I blew you off today?’
‘Yes, I do. You wouldn’t even look at me.’ I insisted, ‘You sure didn’t act that way when I first met you. You were even spouting Shakespeare at me.’
‘It’s better if we both forget that unfortunate incident,’ he said, cuttingly. His eyes were cold.
I felt dreadfully hurt and intimidated by his tone. ‘Why?’
He glared at me. ‘Sage, you’re seventeen. I’m much older than you. You’re the daughter of my colleague. It’s not going to work.’
I flinched back from the cruelty in his voice. ‘I’m almost eighteen and you’re not that much older. And besides, you already knew that Professor Woods was my father when you approached me.’
He was staring at me incredulously. ‘If I’d known you were seventeen then I wouldn’t have approached you at all! This is my fault – I should have known better and maintained my professionalism! But I’m no cradle-snatcher!’
My temper flared up, and I glared at him defiantly. ‘I’m no child! Don’t treat me like one!’
‘Then stop acting like one!’ His voice held an edge of derision.
I scowled at him in silence, his beautiful face remote and unyielding.
‘So you’re going to continue to ignore me whenever I’m at the museum? Whenever I visit Dad? You’re going to give me the cold shoulder then?’ I asked frigidly. ‘Exactly which one of us is the child?’
I was so angry I turned my back on him and walked away. I didn’t care to look at him as I stormed out of the living room. Passing Dad in the hallway, I pleaded a headache – it wasn’t a lie as I could feel the onset of one throbbing at my temples – and told him that I was going to bed.
Crawling under the covers, I ignored the sounds of laughter coming from downstairs. I ignored the farewells from the hallway. I ignored the car revving in the drive before it sped off.
That night I vowed that I was not going to think of St. John Rivers any more.
QUARANTINE
CHAPTER FIVE
I am walking in the royal park, the King’s forest. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet but I tread upon dewy moss, leaving no mark. Fragrant climbers of musky rose brush lightly against my skin as I pass by; their soft incense hangs upon the boughs. The moths beat their wings against the embalmed darkness as I follow my love; we move amongst their whisperings and the silver-peppered stars in the purple ink of night. I am created in this wild halo of thought. I touch my side where my rib bone is missing but not lost.
I am dancing in a copse of wild fruit trees with their aromatic sweetness cloying to my skin and hair. I taste the ripeness of forbidden fruit on my lips with its saccharine stench of decay, the rotten sweetness of corruption. Side by side, my love and I sleep and dream the real and the imagined world. Wake to hold the promise in a Word. Fall to the sharp edge of an angel’s flaming blade. Burning.
That night the visions began.
It was like no other dream I’d had before; the experience completely unnerving, out-of-body. I was aware that I was dreaming and yet not dreaming – my spirit inhabiting two dimensions simultaneously. When I awoke I didn’t feel rested. I felt I’d lived another life. And there was a strangely disturbing element to this vision – in being not myself but another, I was no longer female. Instead, I was a man – but no ordinary man. I was a golden god.
When I awoke, it was to the dim half-light of early morning. I glanced, disoriented, at the clock on my bedside table – it read six thirty-two. Groaning, I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my face in my pillow, my quilt in disarray having partially slid onto the floor some time during the night as I’d tossed and turned in my sleep. I contemplated trying to get back to sleep but knew if I did that I’d feel even worse later.
It was no use. I would not be going back to sleep.
But that didn’t mean I had to get out of bed just yet. As I lay there, sprawled across my mattress, I contemplated my next move for the day. The weather did not sound promising; the constant dripping of rainwater from the pipe outside my window set up a dull percussion, a reminder of the wintry world outside the Manor House, kept at bay by its sturdy walls and central heating.
My subconscious dredged up a reminder of the photos I’d taken yesterday. They would need to be processed but I didn’t want them being sent out to a same-day film processing lab as I knew that not only did Dad and his colleagues wish to keep the artefact hidden from public view but I couldn’t risk exposing my own secrets. Leaping out of bed, I grabbed the camera from my desk, deciding it was payback time.
Fi was cocooned in the warmth of her bed, her quilt a barrier against the cold. I bounded over to her bedside and pulled the quilt down from around her face and shoulders, saying, ‘Wake up, Fi! Come on, get out of bed, we’ve got a lot to do today.’
There was no response. She was comatose.
I tried harder, giving her inert form a rough push. ‘Fi! Get up!’
‘What?’
‘It’s time to get up,’ I lied lightly as she struggled up from under her covers.
She opened one eye to look at me. ‘What time is it?’
‘About twenty to seven,’ I admitted impishly.
‘Go away!’ She pulled her quilt cover back over her head, blocking me from view.
‘Fi, I took photos of the artefact! They’re here!’ I said, waving her camera around. ‘What do I do with them now?’
‘Leave them on my desk,’ came the answer, muffled beneath the quilt, ‘I’ll deal with them later.’
As Fi didn’t intend to budge, I did as she instructed and left the camera with its precious contents on her desk. Back in my room, I made my bed and headed to the bathroom to perform my morning ritual. The hot shower didn’t last very long, not nearly as long as I’d hoped it would. I thought about blow-drying my hair but instead, deciding it was too much effort, wrapped it in a towel and plodded back into my bedroom where I changed into a clean pair of jeans and a V-necked cashmere sweater after towel-drying my hair and twisting it into a topknot held in place by what looked like a pair of chopsticks.