by D B Nielsen
‘I guess,’ I replied, giving a shrug. Settling into the warmth of the car, I turned on the radio. Adele’s latest hit single immediately filled the void.
I was careful not to examine what happened too closely. Mum seemed a little bit happier with the explanation she’d come up with but I knew it didn’t bear close scrutiny – after all, it didn’t explain why the dogs growled at the vet when he came near me and why they stopped when he backed off. And I didn’t want to have to admit to her that the incident at the kennels had freaked me out as well, especially following on from the vision I had last night.
Too many strange things were happening to me that I couldn’t explain and I couldn’t control. And I didn’t know what I was going to do about it all. My mind still whirled dizzily, full of images I couldn’t understand and some I fought to suppress. Only one thing was absolutely certain – it all began when I’d first laid eyes upon the artefact.
And that’s what scared me the most.
When we arrived home, I let Jasmine and Alex fuss over Indy, telling Mum that I would go rest in my room. I deliberately avoided thinking about what had just taken place at the kennels. My thoughts were rioting in my head and I couldn’t cope with analysing that event just now – at least, not on my own.
Instead, I dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and rushed over to turn on my laptop. While I was waiting for it to boot up, I ducked my head into Fi’s room wanting to share my experiences with her but her bedroom was empty. Figuring she might be downstairs, I decided to catch up with her later – I had more important things on my mind at the moment.
Loading up the website for Eton College, I crossed my fingers that this time I might find something more than my previous aborted attempt. I scrolled past images of Etonians in their traditional school dress, playing football and singing in the choir, till I clicked on the link to the Old Etonians which flashed up a list of famous former students. With a little bit more digging I found Elijah St. John Rivers. The first.
I guess my Dad was right, even though I couldn’t find anything on St. John himself – attending Eton must be a Rivers’ family tradition. I managed to pull up a black and white photo from 1885 depicting the Eton Eight, the champion rowers, carrying off the Ladies’ Challenge Plate at Henley that year. St. John’s great great-grandfather was standing proudly, arms crossed over his chest, in his white short-sleeved rower’s outfit with its black trim, next to his crew and their coach.
I felt a shiver pass up my spine. St. John was a doppelganger for his great great-grandfather.
It was an eerie vision of the past, looking at a man’s image who had lived so long ago. Yet, what troubled me the most was that it was also like looking upon the present. That they shared the same features didn’t so much bother me as the look in his great great-grandfather’s eyes. I’d seen an identical look when St. John had been standing across from me at the exhibition – he’d been staring straight at me just as the man in the photo had looked down the lens of the camera all those years ago.
It was a look of determination ... of self-assurance ... and of triumph.
DARKROOM
CHAPTER SIX
By the time Dad arrived back that evening, Indy had made himself at home in the solar. The solar used to be a private room on the first floor reached from the raised dais at one end of the hall reserved for the lord and lady of the manor; like a medieval family room. But, at some time in the past, a previous owner had made major renovations and the first floor had been converted into two private wings fanning out from the grand entry so that it no longer held a formal hall or ballroom on this level. Instead, at one end, Fi and I had our bedrooms and the solar was located in a larger drawing room at the end of our corridor. Jasmine, Alex and our parents’ bedrooms were housed in the opposite wing.
The Manor House was an architectural gem – parts of it could even lay claim to being designed by Sir Christopher Wren himself, such as the study. But such a piece of heritage cost a lot to maintain and that would never have been possible on Dad’s salary alone. Although we often took it for granted, we were living with one of the most acclaimed contemporary artists of our time. In fact, we were related to her.
Mum had burst onto the contemporary art scene in her early twenties and was hailed by art critics as following in the footsteps of Salvador Dali. Her most recent exhibition at the Guggenheim, titled The Shadow of Mourning, was hailed as a tour de force and was a resounding success. Her earlier works were now much coveted by contemporary art collectors and those entrepreneurs looking for an investment – one painting auctioned at Sotheby’s recently sold for over £600,000 – and British Airways had commissioned a triptych of Rose Wilde-Woods for Heathrow’s Terminal Five.
As a result of Mum’s success, we lived in relative luxury.
I couldn’t say I was a fan of art just because Mum was a successful artist. I knew what I liked – mainly the Impressionists and Pre-Raphaelites because they were so romantic – but I didn’t care much for modern art and didn’t have an artistic bone in my body. Fi was the only one who seemed to show a talent in that area out of all four of us kids, which must have been some consolation to my mother, as both Alex and I turned out more bookish like Dad, and Jasmine we all expected to become a veterinarian. But ever since Fi was old enough to hold a crayon, she’d decorate any surface she could find, from the bedroom walls to the kitchen cabinets – though, luckily, they were easily removed. The only time my parents intervened in Fi’s creative streak was when she’d painted her bicycle bright red the morning of our flight to America. Sporting splotches of red paint and smelling of turpentine as the taxi waited out the front of our house, the meter ticking over, Mum could do little more than give her a quick change of clothes and leave the others soaking in the laundry tub to deal with after our two weeks away. After that, Fi was confined to painting in Mum’s studio, wearing a smock.
Indy’s claim on the solar went noticed only by me as Fi had not appeared all day and Jasmine and Alex had soon lost interest in competing for his attention. Abandoning my research, I found Indy sprawled on a pile of old sheets left there by the painters who had redecorated the room in dusky blue and cream. In fact, the entire wing had been repainted in tones of blue, cream or beige, and gold. My parents’ desire was to try to bring the Manor House back to its former glory. Over its many owners and lifetimes it had become a little lacklustre, but Mum wanted to restore it to as close to its original state as possible and to make it as noted as Manderley from the du Maurier novel – she meant the showpiece and not the burnt-out ruin.
The overwhelming smell of fresh paint still lingered, made more pronounced as the room was still bare, awaiting its furnishings to arrive. Stroking Indy’s soft ears, I sat on the floor next to him and thought about the incident at the kennels. The way the dogs had responded was as one, with a pack mentality. It was as if they were naturally inclined to guard and defend those whom they considered were under their custody. They had acted as if they were my guardians and, if they had not been caged, I knew they would have flanked me to protect me.
While the incident at the kennels was really “spooky” as Mum had said, I found the vision that I’d had last night even more startling. Details of the vision now came back into sharp focus, especially the abundance of different scents. I recalled the sweet, spicy, fruity and exotic incense which lingered upon the breeze as if lit in an oil burner. It was the same as when I had photographed the artefact and before in the study but, this time in my vision, I could perceive the burst of perfume, the fragrant release of essence as my bare soles crushed the flowers underfoot.
I could also recall with clarity how my perception had been altered – I could depict each individual leaf on each branch, each pollen grain of each flower. If I had looked down at the grass and moss and flowers at my feet, I would have seen each blade or petal perfectly. My senses had been so extraordinarily sharpened and refined that even in darkness I could feel the way the moths fanned the air with
each beat of their wings. I was aware of my heightened sensitivity as the silky edge of musk rose brushed against my skin, a touch so light and yet tangible. I could even hear faintly the beating of my own heart and distinguish it from my beloved.
And I had been a man. In my vision, I had shared his spirit, inhabited his body.
But even as the vision had faded so had I failed to see some tiny significant details that would give me a better understanding of what it all meant. I sat there in the solar in silence with some niggling thought bouncing around at the back of my mind; some echo or connection that had appealed for my attention but was now gathering cobwebs with the rest of my discarded ideas. I hoped if I left it, it would come back to me in time.
From my vantage point at the window, I could see down into the gathering gloom of the courtyard. Night came earlier now with the onset of winter and the silver birch trees bled deep shadows onto the gravel path, blending seamlessly with the dark woods behind. From the edge of the drive emerged a slight figure. Fi trudged home, her camera slung around her neck. I guess she must have gone out to take more photos in the woods, but I also had the sneaking suspicion that she might have returned to Satis House.
Another ten minutes or so passed before I heard her tread on the stairs and called out, ‘Hey Fi, in here.’
She paused at the drawing room entrance unable to see me from where she stood as I was crouched on the floor beside Indy. Realising I was in the solar she made her way towards the dais, coming to sit down beside me. Without lifting his head, Indy’s pleasure at her presence was made known with the rhythmic thumping of his tail on the floorboards.
‘Hey there,’ she said, ‘what’s up?’
‘Not much,’ I replied, not in the mood to disclose what had occurred earlier, ‘You?’
‘Same,’ she evaded, bending down to scratch Indy’s hind leg, ‘I see you collected the pooch.’
I nodded in confirmation, stroking Indy’s muzzle. I told her about our trip out to the kennels but left out the unusual behaviour of the dogs. I also mentioned that I’d found a photo of St. John Rivers’ great great-grandfather.
‘I managed to book a photographic studio with a darkroom for hire in Kent,’ she said, giving me the good news, ‘The owner sometimes rents it to uni students and amateur photographers but it’s mainly used for freelance work like modelling portraits.’
I threw Fi a look. ‘Like artists’ models?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s the only one I could find that fits within our budget. They even needed me to fax over proof that I’m no beginner or they wouldn’t have let me near the place.’
‘Hey, I’m not complaining. That’s great.’ I said, ‘When is it booked for?’
‘The day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning,’ she said, standing up and stretching.
I followed her lead, standing up to brush dog fur from my jeans. ‘There goes my beauty sleep.’
As Fi descended from the solar with Indy at her heels, she tossed over her shoulder, ‘Meh. Never mind – you can buy a pair of shoes to match the bags under your eyes.’
‘Cow!’ I called after her.
Fi’s laughter floated back to me through the open door accompanied by Indy’s excited bark. I caught them up in the corridor, throwing Indy a look of disgust.
‘Traitor,’ I hissed. He looked up at me with soulful eyes, nudging my palm with his damp nose. I decided to give up – Indy was never going to be my protector. But I found that I didn’t mind that at all. I much preferred Indy’s reassuring energy and exuberance than having a guard dog. Around Indy, forever tripping over his ungainly paws and trying to follow rabbits into warrens, I could even pretend that things were still normal.
Two days later, Fi and I were standing outside a converted stable near Maidstone. We’d woken that morning in the dark and quiet of the house – it was even too early for Dad to be up for work. It reminded me of having to catch the early morning plane out of Sydney to travel to England – the memory still lingered bittersweet. Airports and train stations, I often felt, were at their loneliest at such times of the day. There seemed to be too much space in the almost empty echoing halls of customs and the boarding lounge. And I had been sullen and silent for most of the trip – resentment burning within me at having to move to London. But now everything had changed. In the space of a few short weeks I almost couldn’t recall my former life. And I realised that I was again like the Great Gatsby – believing in the “orgastic future”.
From Fi’s description I’d been expecting the worst such as some shoddy backyard garage converted into a studio, but was pleasantly surprised when we’d arrived. The studio was situated in a pasture off the M20, its red brick exterior faintly outlined in the creeping dawn light. Thorny vines bereft of leaves, which in the spring and summer would surround the building in idyllic greenery, hung tangled over the large stable doors reminding me of how the Prince in Sleeping Beauty had to fight his way through thorn and thistle bushes surrounding Beauty’s castle to rescue his heart’s desire.
At the moment, though, I felt more like the fire-breathing dragon than the Prince – my breath in the pale winter dawn bursting forth in puffs of steam every time I exhaled as I fought to keep the cold at bay. Stamping my frozen feet on the solid ground, I waited with arms wrapped around myself protectively as Fi tried to find the right key on the brass ring she’d collected earlier from the caretaker to open the stable door. Even in the dim half-light I could see her hands were shaking with cold, so it took several attempts to fit the key in the lock.
Inside the entire stable had been whitewashed and rigged with track lighting. The concrete gave way to timber flooring and cove and floating ceiling. Although it was still cold inside the studio, the thick stable walls protected us from the elements outside. Fi used another key to open the locked door at the end of the studio leading to the darkroom.
Flicking on the overhead white light, Fi gave a low whistle, seeming impressed by the set up.
‘See that?’ she gestured to a piece of equipment that was mounted on the opposite wall, ‘That’s a De Vere enlarger. Worth a pretty penny.’
‘Uh huh,’ I nodded, not having a clue what she was talking about.
‘Sweet! They have facilities for alternative processes – salt printing and cyanotype.’ Her voice was almost a loving caress.
I took in the scene before me wondering what I was missing – there were three other enlargers though not wall-mounted, what looked to be some easels, several developing tanks along the right wall, and a myriad of cylinders, canisters, thermometers and photographic paper. It looked like any other darkroom and it didn’t seem all that exciting to me.
‘This is so much better than I expected! Come on, help me get things ready,’ she said enthusiastically, stripping off her coat like she meant business.
Over the next few hours, Fi made me work harder than I had since preparing for my Finals. I couldn’t believe that processing one roll of film could be so involved – the exposure of the negatives, determining the base and emulsion sides of film, fixer chemicals and stop baths and colour separation. Admittedly, my experience was limited to taking my memory card to one of those stores that had a huge machine that looked something like a printing press or photocopier that did it all for you at the press of a button, returning my prints to me within the hour, but I just didn’t realise how complex photography was until now.
What seemed eons later, as Fi clipped the photos to dry after washing them she called me over to her side, ‘Sage, look at this.’
I peered intently at where she was pointing.
The photograph had captured the subtle beauty of the artefact as an organic, living thing. Even in its dormant state it evoked mystery and power.
‘Pretty spectacular, isn’t it?’ I whispered.
‘I had no idea,’ Fi breathed in awe, ‘Even from your description of it, I wouldn’t have guessed it was so beautiful.’
I continued to gaze at the artefact; its
detail more pronounced as Fi had enlarged the image from the negative. The symbols almost leapt off the paper – I almost felt that if they had been musical notes I would have heard each one. The artefact had been placed this time as I had suggested; balancing in airy defiance of gravity, the larger ziggurat dominating the smaller. A psychologist might have seen it as representing yin and yang; anima and animus; masculine and feminine. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but knew instinctively that this wasn’t quite right – it represented something other than that.
‘Oh my God! Sage!’ Fi called out from where she had moved to at the opposite end of the darkroom, her voice strained with a mixture of horror and excitement.
My head snapped up. ‘What? What is it?’
But then I saw it.
The photos of the artefact like those taken of Satis House were flawed. The artefact was almost obscured in specks of light that looked like the camera lens had been covered in something – like grit or dirt or rain. Looking more closely, I could see that what I had mistaken for particles of dirt were, in fact, more like hundreds of tiny holes in the artefact itself that bled light – as if the artefact had been eaten away by insects such as borers and its sap was leaking out through the holes they’d made.
‘Sage,’ Fi’s low voice interrupted my thoughts, ‘you know what this reminds me of?’
‘What?’ I responded with a feeling of déjà vu.
When she answered, it came as no surprise, ‘Constellations.’
Hadn’t St. John said that the tablet which bore similar symbols to the artefact was like a cosmic map?
‘A map of the cosmos?’ I murmured to myself.
Fi blinked, bewildered. ‘Could be.’
I shook my head in denial. ‘No, not a map of the cosmos.’
‘What then?’
My voice was filled with an inexplicable certainty. ‘A cosmic interpretation of reality.’