Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  “I must be certain and write to the medical school at which you matriculated, my fair young lady,” he declared, joy reflected in his wondering eyes. “But first – may I have the pleasure of your name?”

  “It matters not,” she replied. “But if you must know, I am Apollonia, and I have come to Earth to ease the suffering of those victims of this war.”

  Stunned into silence, Robert saw her eyes sparkle like polished jewels. Smiling, she turned away. Her light but swift steps seemed to float beyond the tent’s canvassed entrance. Robert shuffled forward. Tearing the flaps of green canvas aside, the captain’s ears became assaulted with the raucous and drunken cries of revelry from his surviving comrades in arms. The captain strode a few paces from the tent, and though in desperation his eyes searched the bonfire scorched darkness to follow the departing path of the mysterious young miracle worker, he found that – sadly – she had gone.

  2

  The White House State Dining Room

  (February 1865)

  Are all tomorrows merely new yesterdays?

  On a fleet chariot’s showers of golden sunlight, she flew to Earth, to be born once again.

  An impression over which Abigail often mulled came to the fore:

  What is war, but a practice fit only for beasts, but none practiced so constantly as by a race of savage beasts called mankind. Are they destined to remain unaware they have fallen under the spell of a demon’s dark energy, yet unaware of their own transcendent power to become risen angels?

  Though she had returned from the spirit realm under many different names on missions of both mercy and justice, it still pained her to witness an entire race doomed to the mortal cycles of life and death, of day and night, lacking the ability to remember who they had been, who they truly were or more tragically still, what they could have been, if only they had dared to make it so.

  Regretfully, she observed how the multitudes of human souls – reaching the end of each brief, mortal journey having learned little or worse yet, still not caring to learn – seemed always so easily tricked into returning to the prison of flesh, to be used yet again as lowly energy slaves by her rival in the spiritual realm; he who held dominion over the soul recycling moon: her cunning arch enemy, Artemis.

  During this incarnation upon the material plane, she became Mistress Abigail de Orleans, twenty-four-years old, born the daughter of the Duke of Orleans, a cold brute who seemed never impressed with her penchant for magic rather than doing what was expected. Though the Duke had reared her no differently than other young women during that Victorian era, he could never understand why his daughter Abigail was not merely content to become married to someone among the most eligible young men of her aristocratic station. In readily observing that offering the Duke an explanation would have been an exercise in utter futility, she was determined not to be dissuaded or distracted by petty social conventions.

  This time, she vowed, her important mission would not be in vain.

  For on this occasion, she observed there was one mortal who should be held up as an example to the rest, a shining monument to posterity, virtue, justice, and spiritual transcendence. This time, she was determined the most promising among the multitudes of lost souls would be the first to finally reach heavenly ascendance, to someday shine with her as an immortal twin sun, to banish the curse of Artemis’s soul trapping moon, to free the material world forevermore from the dark realm of night over which he had presided for centuries.

  Upon returning each time, she discovered a greater appreciation, understanding, even sympathy for those majority of souls – though recycled through several incarnations – still willing to sacrifice the power of their own free will and inherent power to something or someone perceived to possess greater power or authority. She became just as dismayed at how so easily so many fell prey to sensual temptations, fated to the gluttonous appetites of the flesh and to the insatiable but petty desires of the human ego. Perhaps, such growing sympathy derived from the fact that while she remained here, there existed the element of great risk. For even she was not exempt from the cursed illusion of time and death’s perilous decay.

  As an immortal spirit, she was often annoyed by the material sphere’s dense light vibration. Nevertheless, she managed to meticulously construct a special machine from the most carefully chosen solid, conductive materials. A wondrous machine, though appearing indistinguishable from supernatural magic, she hoped would serve to remind those spirits wandering the material plane while trapped in the flesh, of their true angelic potential.

  Finally, arriving at the White House upon invitation, she found her mind stricken with a restless fever while waiting to be received by Mister Lincoln. Considering the war-beleaguered president, here was someone wise, and though equal in rank and stature, was so unlike her earthly, biological father, the Duke of Orleans. Here was someone who envisaged her as a brilliant protégé rather than undisciplined and improper, or perhaps even a restless dilettante, someone she expected was prepared to consider the groundbreaking merits of her most grand invention, the ‘silver light cube.’

  The president had been informed of her remarkable magical abilities creating grand illusions by an ecstatic Mary Lincoln, of her miraculous feats arranging particles of light into geometric objects of solid material. Mary told of how Abigail had electrified everyone while performing at a private summer garden party held at the Vanderbilt’s lush Georgetown estate. Such private engagements performed for the most well-to-do of Washington, the young mistress found, were exponentially more lucrative than her paltry weekly salary starring as the parsimonious P.T. Barnum’s featured circus magician. When it came to the future implications of her silver cube, somehow considerations of monetary profit paled in comparison. If only, she hoped, the wise Lincoln chose to utilize the fruits of her unique artistry in the service of something other than gaining strategic advantage during wartime. Nonetheless – Abigail quickly formulated while observing the dour, black-bearded General Ulysses S. Grant dining with Lincoln – this was her golden opportunity to fashion a strategic advantage of her own. Though the president was reputed to be an idealist, she knew that for the blueprint of her wondrous ‘silver light cube’ to be well-received and ultimately funded into mass production, she must first win over the stern-faced general.

  This is the advantage I must play to, she thought, if the dreams of my grand project are to come to fruition!

  While waiting patiently beneath the grand archway leading to the state dining room, her hazel eyes – which from birth had always been encircled with a strange orange corona – began to sparkle as she caught a glimpse of the president regally perched at the head of the long oak table, grandly set with gold vermes, crystal goblets and tall, black ivory candelabra.

  Her elegant fingers fidgeted as a formally attired steward strode forward. For a moment, she tried to imagine what the Duke would think to see her now. For here was his eccentric daughter, the magician, the occultic alchemist with quixotic ambitions, about to embark upon an audience with a powerful head of state.

  While these impressions chimed like sweet bells in her brain, a twinkling gleam flashed from her wild eyes. As Lincoln’s formally attired steward came closer, she felt her lips upturn at the dimpled corners of her full crimson mouth, that indelible smile had fluttered the hearts yet confounded the minds of so many born to the flower of aristocratic, French chivalry left behind on the shores of Europe.

  This was the very grin with which so many of her social station across Europe had become familiar, from primitive photographs and comically drawn caricature portraits, splashed upon the glossy pages of the society periodicals, brimming with juicy gossip. While still widely grinning, her mind recoiled at the brief recollection of such salacious trivium, hungrily consumed by matronly duchesses donned in enormous pink chiffon bonnets between delicate sips from porcelain tea sets spiked with fiery drops of bourbon.

  Thankfully, and come what may, she had willingly forsaken that former, stif
ling world, happily exiled from its decorous titles, musty estates, shallow trivia and its even greater numbers of shallow-minded adherents. Now, as an intrepid adventurer, she had ventured forth into the wild frontier of America, to profit from her own labors and ultimately, to achieve the grand goal of her spiritual mission.

  Though she had only recently landed on America’s shores with barely more than her aristocratic name and a sterling reputation as one of the most enticing young stage magicians in all Europe, she managed to leverage substantial credit from the managers at the finest hotels, until gainful employment could be found.

  Ruminating upon this, she began to imagine it had been her engaging, charismatic grin which left a lasting impression upon the male hoteliers. Though marveling as to why mortals held superficialities in such high esteem, upon further consideration, she knew this was perhaps her greatest physical asset. She also knew that to her rival Artemis, and to other mortal charlatan’s such as the notorious Mister Barnum, a smile was often merely a mask to conceal the scheming designs slithering like deadly asps within the blackest hearts.

  “It shall be the president’s pleasure to have you join him and the honorable General Grant, Mistress Abigail de Orleans,” she heard the steward’s plumy voice welcome.

  Abigail shot her fashionable, frilly cuffs.

  “Yes, thank you, I shall be most honored to join with President Lincoln and the distinguished general,” she replied.

  While striding beneath the soaring archway, Abigail heard the silver buckles of her black leather boots sweetly tinkle, the proud tap of her London tailored soles on the white marbled floor and she began to beam. Drawing closer to the state dining room’s long oak table, her nostrils recoiled from the putrid gust of gray smoke billowing from Grant’s after-dinner cigar. Halting tableside, Abigail felt the lining of her palpitating heart pierced with an electric jolt. The president’s noble brow enlivened with vibrant hues, and Abigail relished the flash of recognition like a streak of lightning across Lincoln’s pensive gaze.

  “Ah, the young Mistress, Abigail de Orleans,” Lincoln greeted. “How good of you to come all this way to see us this evening,” Abigail was pleased to hear the gallant baritone rumble. “Allow me to introduce one of my closest confidants and the commanding general of our Union armed forces, General Ulysses S. Grant,” Lincoln said with a majestic sweep of his gaunt hand. “General,” the president went on,” This is the young magician Mary so ardently informed was capable of creating such thrilling illusions – Mistress Abigail de Orleans – who perhaps along with the fine young actor, John Wilkes Booth, is among the most famous names known to American theater patrons now living.”

  Wolfish black eyes, perched just above the wild jungle of the general’s dark moustache and beard, peered at the youthful figure through clouds of lingering smoke. Abigail felt Grant’s intense gaze boring into her from out of the shadows thrown from the candelabra flames; predator’s beacons piercing the ghostly darkness of forested hollows.

  “Very well, Mr. President,” Grant grunted, twirling the cindering cigar in his coarse fingers. “Maybe, the young mistress trickster can make Lee and his damnable Johnny Rebels disappear for good, eh?”

  For a moment, while sensing the stench of finely aged whiskey wafting from the cotton fabric of the General’s rumpled, deep blue uniform, Abigail’s vibrant grin began to falter. But as she turned away from the piercing gaze of the scowling general, she managed to steadily regain her composure.

  “I think you’ll readily discover the technology I’m about to describe, will provide not only your army with a decisive strategic advantage, General,” Abigail explained, “But may change the concept of warfare itself.”

  Abigail thought to recoil from the gust of putrid smoke blasting from the General’s factory stack nostrils. Grant’s black forested brows began to severely knit and Lincoln warmly gestured.

  “Please, won’t you join us, Mistress de Orleans?” Lincoln beseeched, sweeping his hand toward a chair adjacent to the head of the long dining table. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of sherry, a soothing Amontillado to quench your thirst after such a long and arduous journey,” the gracious president offered.

  “Yes, that would be most satisfactory,” Abigail replied, seating herself at the table next to the president.

  From out of her peripheral gaze, Abigail could sense Grant, still as a silent monument, sizing up the youthful figure before him while taking a voracious puff on his log of a cigar.

  “General,” Lincoln kindly gestured, “Perhaps you’d like an after-dinner libation to accompany your fine cigar?”

  Grant vaguely nodded while still curiously eyeing Abigail.

  “No, thank you Mister President,” a gruff Grant muttered, “For I’ve taken the liberty of providing my own libation.”

  Pawing at an interior pocket hidden within the fold of his formal military jacket, Grant’s gorilla-like grip fumbled with a silver flask, filled with malt whiskey.

  The steward promptly delivered the goblet of sparkling sherry to Abigail and quickly refreshed Lincoln’s long-stemmed glass with a fine French Zinfandel.

  “I hereby propose a toast,” Lincoln ceremoniously proposed, lifting his glass. “To the preservation of the Union and, may God grant us mercy and forgiveness now that victory over the South is close at hand.”

  “Here, here, Mister President,” Grant mumbled, tilting the silver flask to his lips. “May God indeed forgive us because, in war, there is seldom any mercy to be had.”

  Lincoln delicately sipped the Zinfandel as the glow of the flames flickering from the tall candelabra shimmered like starbursts off the glass surface of his long-stemmed flute.

  “Mary was adamant that I should bring you here, Mistress de Orleans,” Lincoln said. “She swore her friends, among them my own Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, were completely mesmerized by your performance at the Vanderbilt estate. She claimed everyone present saw how you resurrected, for a time, Misses Vanderbilt’s long-dead but still beloved grandfather right there in front of everyone, and brought her to tears of joy,” the grinning president elaborated. “And Edwin himself, who couldn’t be here this evening, related to me you told him after your miraculous performance that not only could you resurrect the dead, but upon command, you can make any solid object disappear and reappear again out of thin air.”

  “If you’ll forgive me, Mister President,” Grant interjected, “But it sounds as if Mistress de Orleans is capable of occult divination, that sinister craft with which the First Lady has always been so enamored.”

  Lincoln’s thin mouth slid open and a dignified chuckle leaked out.

  “You needn’t apologize for such frank remarks, General,” a diplomatic president qualified. “Many are aware of Mary’s preoccupation with ideas of the mystical and even the supernatural. From what Edwin, in the strictest of confidences made me to understand, Mistress de Orleans’ brand of magical conjuring has more to do with a novel and fantastic machine of her very own invention, rather than any sort of occult divination and congress with otherworldly spirits.”

  Abigail savored the bouquet of the fine sherry.

  “It’s very true, Mister President,” Abigail said. “And though one may be reluctant in revealing trade secrets, as it were, I cannot help but feel compelled, due to your extraordinary generosity in inviting me here this evening, to confidentially divulge that I am indeed in possession of the most novel, newly patented invention, what is perhaps the most wondrous invention yet known to mankind.” Abigail brimmed. “Mister President – General Grant,” Abigail dramatically paused before offering her stirring revelation, “I call it the silver light cube.”

  Grant tipped the silver whiskey flask to his hungering lips and gulped.

  “And precisely how does this damned silver cube work, Mistress de Orleans,” the wondering general slurred. Grant wiped a drop of liquor dribbled at the corner of his lips with a quick swipe of his golden threaded blue sleeve.

  For a moment, Abi
gail felt chafed with a tremor of resentment, sensing the inebriated Grant had purposely barbed his inquiry with sarcasm.

  “I believe I’m correct in saying,” Abigail replied, “Your officer’s staff is leading an advance towards Richmond. But there are rumors swirling, the rank and file have grown weary of the war and are beginning to clamor like geese for disbandment, for the warmth and safety of both home and hearth. Furthermore, Mister President, I could not help but notice the grounds of your otherwise magnificent palace, which would be splendid enough even for the Roman Caesars of old, are in a bad way. While I was still in Burgundy, it was said when Charles Dickens visited here, he happened to have offered a most disparaging remark. It was said he remarked the White House resembled a ‘public shabby house’.” Abigail’s smooth brow grew severe. “Or at least something of the sort.”

  Lincoln’s sallow face creased with a dignified grin.

  “Forgive me, Mistress de Orleans,” Lincoln replied, stifling a chuckle, “I happened to have heard about those remarks from the renowned novelist after his visit here several years ago. Nevertheless,” Lincoln’s expression turned quizzical, “may I enquire as to what exactly you’re driving at?”

  “Mister President,” a respectful Abigail began, “With deployment of my silver light cube, could it not be possible,” she went on, unabashed, “that even after an official cessation of the war’s hostilities has been negotiated and contractually bound, for both sides to prolong the war for the sake of public appearances?” Abigail detailed, thinking a clever attempt at appeasement may win over the general. “Thus drawing a greater tax bounty from the public to build a more splendid palace, worthy of the greatness and magnanimous nature of he who now occupies it, to say nothing of erecting for posterity, a greater and lasting symbol that shall represent an unbreakable monument to the perseverant spirit of this great democratic republic?”