Upon a Time

by R. L. Stedman

  There are many dark-skinned children running about, all barefoot, but so smiling and friendly we feel quite welcome.

  We picnicked on benches in the shade of the buildings (where I sit now) and Mister Black introduced us to the Monseigneur. The priest offered us tortillas in what Sir Roger and I took to be a sauce made of tomato. Amy squeaked when I went to eat it so I stopped before it touched my lips, but Sir Roger was too late, and took a mouthful of the purest red pepper! Poor man! It took him quite some time to clear it from his mouth and I am sure that for a while he thought death was imminent.

  We walked around the church – pleasantly cool after the sun’s heat – and rested for a time. I write this while we wait.

  The others have returned from seeing to the horses. Sir Roger and Amy are speaking quietly and Mister Black sits beside them, nibbling a piece of grass.

  Amy sounds annoyed. She says: “But surely, she must understand. I cannot be shipped to New York like a piece of luggage.”

  “Miss Carmichael,” Sir Roger says, “I will speak to my mother.”

  Sir Roger does not yet understand the difference between choice and necessity.

  Lady Fatima does not choose to see events of the future; visions appear, whether or not she wishes to see them. I am grateful that my Gift is different to Lady Fatima’s. In general, I do not wish for foreknowledge. In fact, I am quite relieved that my skills lie in the art of matchmaking. Not the highest, most prestigious of the Arts, perhaps, but I do maintain it is one of the most important. Although I do not see the future as Fatima does, still I sense when souls are compatible, or not. (I have to say, diary, that I do not feel Amy and Mister Black are destined to be together; no, nor Amy and Sir Roger either.)

  Sir Roger adds: “Miss Carmichael, my mother is elderly and easily confused. Quite probably she has mistaken you for someone else.”

  He saw me watching him then, and flushed, and I knew that he had left Lady Fatima behind in Manterory without telling her where he was going or when he would return. That is the problem with foretelling; it can create paranoia. After all, what harm could possibly come to Sir Roger in such a pleasant place?

  The blot was an accident, dear diary, pray forgive me. My hand slipped as I penned this, and quite ruined your page!

  I write this later.

  Oh diary! A dreadful, dreadful afternoon!

  We crossed the hill by the bridle path, and returned to the plateau upon a gravel track. Amy and I longed for a gallop, but Mister Black insisted that we kept to the path. He said that at this time of the year it was wiser to keep out of the tall grasses and flowers.

  Amy begged Mister Black to pick her a bunch of flowers. “They will look so lovely at home. And there is no one who knows as much about flowers as you, Ebony. I hear you have become quite the expert. Daphne, entreat Mister Black for me.”

  I may not be as strong as Fatima, or as talented, but just then I knew something would happen. Diary, I could feel waves of unease simply boiling from the earth.

  I begged Amy not to encourage anyone to get down from their horse, but she laughed and told me not to fuss. “Well,” she said, “if Daphne won’t help me, what about you, Sir Roger?”

  “By jingoes,” said Sir Roger, “flower picking, eh? Been a long time since I’ve turned my hand to that, Miss Carmichael.”

  Dismounting, he handed his gloves to Amy and began to pick flowers. Amy laughed and giggled like a child, and all the while Mister Black and I just watched and felt left out. At least, I did. Who can tell what Mister Black was thinking?

  Sir Roger picked a large bouquet – pink and yellow, blue and gold; the colors are still there, vivid in my mind – and was about to pass them to Amy when it happened. A snake!

  Amy screamed. “Look out!”

  Sir Roger stood, paralyzed. Staring at this thing that had come from a bunch of wildflowers. And then, diary, the oddest thing, so strange I feel I must write it down, even though I did not believe it at the time and barely do so now. The animal seemed to almost leap at him. It was so fast. I had no idea a snake could move so quickly.

  The serpent sank its fangs into the web between Sir Roger’s thumb and his first finger. He screamed terribly. I can still hear that heartfelt cry.

  The horses saw the snake and began circling, restless. Amy, crying hysterically, was of no use at all. But Mister Black cut at the snakebite and fashioned a tourniquet from a torn sleeve. I thought he was supposed to suck at the venom, but Mister Black shook his head, no.

  Diary, it was horrible. I don’t want to write the details.

  I have seen men die – I was present when my grandfather passed away – but I know now it is different when death is unexpected. An old man surrounded by grieving relatives is not the same as a young man dying suddenly.

  Sir Roger seemed in terrible pain.

  We could not find the serpent. For which I am grateful, strange as it may sound, because it had not set out to kill; it was just doing what snakes do.

  Mister Black and I managed to get Sir Roger onto his horse. We laid him across the saddle, and Mister Black led the two horses. Amy was still sobbing, but I called to her until eventually she calmed enough to ride.

  Sir Roger’s face had swollen from the poison. His eyes were like hard marbles, staring at the sky. It was awful. Even now, I feel sick when I think of it. I think he was nearly dead by then. At least, I hope he was.

  I rode on ahead to find help. I cantered through the twilight until I reached the village. I must have looked a fright, coming up out of the scrubland with my hair in disarray. The people seemed not to notice. I suppose living here teaches one not to be overly concerned with appearances.

  Some of the farmers went back along the trail, and I watched their lamps disappearing. Their wives begged me to wait, but I said No, because I had to tell Sir Roger’s mother what had happened. They understood. So I rode back to my uncle’s house, where I knew Fatima would be waiting.

  In Manterory the gas lamps had been lit. Fatima stood outside, waiting for me. The hunch on her back seemed more noticeable in the darkness.

  “Where is he?” She knew what had happened, of course.

  “It was an accident.” When I dismounted, my legs felt so weak I could barely stand. I clutched at the stirrups like a cripple. “They are bringing him to you.”

  “I thought, perhaps by being here, I could have stopped this. I was a fool. And so was he; he would not listen to me.”

  “None of us can prevent such things.”

  “Some of us can.”

  I shook my head. “Not this.” I told her of the snake, and the speed at which it had struck.

  She took a deep breath. “They’re bringing his body?”

  I nodded.

  She looked up at the house. “You’d better go in. Tell your uncle. He’ll alert the magistrate. Men like being busy.”

  “And you? What about you?” I should have embraced her, I know, but I was too tired to think clearly.

  “I will wait. And pretend surprise when they bring me the news. This is our curse, Daphne. We know evil things will happen; yet we are powerless to prevent them. What is the point of such knowledge, if one can do nothing?”

  “Fatima.” I didn’t want to leave her, this old woman. She looked shrunken, as if her son’s death had squeezed something from her.

  “Go,” she said.

  Gods forgive me, I left.

  Much later

  I sit at the top of the stairs. The magistrate is talking with Uncle Carmichael. Eavesdropping is bad, I know, but so is ignorance. The magistrate doesn’t seem to understand why the snake attacked, but it will be put down to an accident. The magistrate is polite, respectful. His name is Tom. Uncle appreciates his discretion. He said so. I appreciate your discretion, Tom. Uncle is an important man in Manterory. He owns the banks. The rich men need the banks; the rich men need my uncle.

  Amy arrived home, pale-faced and stumbling. Aunt has given her laudanum and speaks of sending her to a r
elative in New York. She wants me to go with her. Tomorrow, I (and Amy, if she is well enough) are to file a deposition before the coroner. Uncle Carmichael will arrange to have a solicitor accompany us. Mister Black is also to provide a statement. If Mister Black can be found.

  I am so tired.

  Later Again

  I cannot sleep. Every time I shut my eyes I think of Sir Roger and the snake, and my gallop in the dark to Manterory. At the time, I had felt that the ride would never end. I feel as though I’m still on my horse.

  Mister Black, it seems, is missing.

  I try to find him, but my mind is too tired to focus. Instead all I feel is Fatima’s anger. I hope she hasn’t blamed Mister Black for her son’s death. After all, it was an accident.

  Chapter Five

  What Happened to Ebony Black?

  On reaching his house, Ebony found the house a-buzz with activity.

  “Oh sir,” Giles gasped. “You are safe! Thank the Virgin. We heard about the accident, sir. And you are alright?”

  “Not a scratch on me. Really.”

  “A miracle!”

  “Hardly.” Ebony felt suddenly exhausted. “Luck, that’s all it was. Luck, and good sense. I knew better than to pick wildflowers in a snake-infested meadow.”

  “That is what happened? A snake?”

  Ebony nodded.

  Yes, go pick the flowers, Ebony had thought when Sir Roger dismounted. Let’s see what you find in the grasses. But he, Ebony, should have said something. Especially when the man (that stupid, foppy man) had held his hands, his naked hands, so close to the grass stems. Still, it was an accident, was it not? Ebony hadn’t willed the snake there, hadn’t forced it to bite the Englishman.

  All this was true, and yet – not. Ebony had seen the grass stems shimmer as if alive, and had known, as every local Mantorian knew, such a sign meant one thing: Snake. Of course Amy hadn’t seen it; she was taking Sir Roger’s gloves at the time. Foolish, silly child.

  “Sir?” Giles, anxious as a hen, was watching him.

  Ebony forced a smile. “God’s breath, it’s been a long day.” That, and a man was dead because of him.

  “I’m sure, sir. Would you like anything else?”

  “Just my bed, and sleep.”

  No bed for Sir Roger; just cold earth. Ebony had seen men die before: in battle or by accident, or from illness. But a death such as this? The poor fellow had taken such a long, long time to die. Inch by bloody inch, as the venom forced its way through his body, suffocated him, stopped his heart. Might Sir Roger have been aware that his breath was coming slower, or (mercifully) had he lost consciousness long before the end?

  Ebony slept badly, roused awake by dreams of staring eyes and blue-stained lips with saliva bubbling on their surface like foam.

  Early next morning, before the sun had fully risen, a door slammed downstairs. Ebony, lost in dreams of putrefying flesh, started awake and blinked at the gray dawn. The door to his bedchamber banged open. A figure, squat and misshapen, crouched in the open doorway.

  “Ebony Black?”

  He lifted himself onto an elbow. “Hello?”

  The person advanced into the room. A woman, old and misshapen by a hunchback. Her face seemed etched with sadness and vaguely familiar.

  “Madam. Do I know you?”

  “You knew my son, Mister Black.”

  Ebony felt suddenly ill. “You mean …?” Could this crone be Sir Roger’s mother? But she seemed quite different to her son; her accent, the color of her skin suggested an Eastern origin.

  “I am the Lady Fatima.” The old woman’s face was wild, with loss or with grief, or perhaps this was its habitual pattern. She did not meet his gaze. “I was his mother. I understand, sir, you tried to save him?”

  “I tried, madam. I did try.” And Ebony began to cry, much to his surprise and embarrassment. But his sleep had been unrefreshing and the night had tired him even more than the terrible day, and strangely, although it was unmanly, it was a relief when the tears came. “It was a snake, madam. An accident, a terrible accident. Truly, I am most sorry for your loss.”

  “And you did not warn him?”

  “I did not have time. It all happened so fast.” Ebony closed his eyes. Pink flowers, and blue. Red and gold. He could never look at wildflowers again.

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Madam?”

  “You knew the hazards; you know the meadows held dangerous animals. Yet you said nothing.”

  “Madam, I …”

  She shook her head. “There are no excuses. My son lies dead because of you.”

  “Madam? What could I have done?”

  “Sir, I would have had you say Stop! These meadows are home to dangerous serpents. I would have had you tell my son that no flowers are worth the danger. I would have had you say, ‘Sir Roger, I see grass stems rustling in a manner that suggests a snake.’” The woman moved closer to the bed. “My son lies dead, and you? You did nothing.” She stopped, as if waiting for a response, but he had no reply – what answer could he give? She shook her head. “You are altogether shameful.”

  Lady Fatima raised her arms, and for the first time, Ebony realized that his house was unnaturally still. No servants setting fires, no noise from the kitchen, no horses moving through the stables. Nothing and no one and here stood this woman, shaped like a witch, with hands raised as though to curse.

  “I tried my best.” His voice sounded frail. “After he was bitten, I set him on my own horse. Madam, I tried to save him.”

  She lowered her hands. “Yes. That is true. You did.” She looked quizzically at him. “Do you know Miss Possett, sir?”

  Ebony forced his mind to think. Perhaps he was still asleep; perhaps this was part of his dream. Miss Possett was Amy’s cousin. “I met her yesterday.”

  “She spoke well of you, sir. Said you tried to save my son.”

  Ebony sat up in bed. “I wish,” he sounded out the words hesitantly.

  “You wish you had saved him.”

  “Of course. I wish I had tried harder. Yet madam, all you said is correct. I was jealous of him. Jealous.” He laughed, wiped his eyes. “Jealous of a dead man.” It felt a relief to be saying this, like giving confession to a priest.

  Sir Roger’s mother took a deep breath. “So,” she whispered. “I was right.” She raised her hand.

  “Fatima! No!”

  Ebony, who had ducked from the threatening, outspread fingers – cowering before an old woman, I must be losing my mind – looked up. “Miss Possett!” Amy’s cousin wore a long nightgown, and her silver-blonde hair hung down her back like a veil. Whatever was she doing here? This was too strange; he must be still asleep. Ebony lay back on the pillows, hoping to wake up.

  Miss Possett seemed to know Sir Roger’s mother. “Fatima. It was an accident.”

  “He admits otherwise.”

  “I should have done more,” Ebony said. “I should have warned him. Miss Possett, what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “You have disappeared. So they say. The magistrate is searching; everyone in town is out to find you.” Miss Possett frowned at Fatima. “Is this your doing? You entered his dreams?”

  Fatima nodded. “And you also, it appears, my dear. I’m surprised at you, a young woman of good character.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  “He killed my son. He deserves to die.”

  This was all his imagination. Shortly Giles would bring him the newspaper and his hot chocolate and he, Ebony, would read the society news and feel the familiar twinge of pride and apprehension.

  “He did not kill your son.”

  “He feels guilt.”

  “Certainly he feels guilty,” said Miss Posset impatiently. “He could not save Sir Roger. I feel guilty. But did I place the serpent in your son’s path at that time? Of course not. It was an accident, I tell you. Fatima,” she tugged the old lady’s arm. “You k
new something would happen – it was the whole reason you accompanied Sir Roger. So why punish Ebony?”

  “Because,” Fatima said slowly, “he saw what might happen, and yet did nothing to stop it.”

  “Accept it, Fatima. Death is stronger than any of us.”

  “No!” Fatima said, emphatically. “I do not accept this.”

  “Fatima?”

  And the old woman moved fast, so fast she seemed almost like lightning, and Ebony watched as a line of fire emerged from her hand, toward him, toward the bed, and Amy’s cousin, Miss Possett, Daphne, interceded, putting herself in its path, so the light struck her on the chest and she spun about it.

  “Daphne!” Fatima dashed forward. “Daphne!”

  “Too late,” sighed the girl. “Too late.” And the light took her and she was gone.

  Fatima’s face was ragged with sorrow.

  Ebony felt a strange puzzlement. What had happened to the young woman? Come to think about it, what was happening to him? He was beginning to glow. “Where’s Miss Possett?”

  Fatima waved a hand; the unearthly light flickered and bloomed about her fingers. This time it was red, like blood, like the petals of a rose.

  “She wouldn’t have wanted you to kill me,” Ebony spoke desperately. The light was thickening about him, lifting him up. “She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  Fatima tipped her head, considered this. “True. She would not.” She laughed. “But I know what she would have wanted.” She flung back her head, shouted loudly. “Daphne? Are you watching, girl? This is for you. You are wrong; death is not as strong as you might think. I have overset it, for a while. As you will find.” She glared at Ebony. “As he will find.”

  Fatima dropped her hands. Light spun and spun and spun and Ebony was rolled over and over; a fly to a spider. He struggled to get free. “Help!” But his arms were tightly pinioned to his sides; there was no escape.

  A faint whisper: “There must be an out.”