Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  “Mister President,” the medical officer stammered, “I’ve never seen anything like this, she’s created a miracle.”

  Hunching his shoulders to fit the full length of his lanky frame inside the tent’s entrance, the president saw Abigail kneeling to help a debilitated young soldier to his feet. The president blinked and his senses felt dizzied by a most surreal disorientation of time and space. Looking down, he saw the mound of blood-soaked bandages left strewn in the wake of the formerly wounded soldier’s halting, but increasingly confident steps. Lincoln felt his pulse dangerously quicken as one by one; the scars that had riddled the soldier’s mangled limb began to melt away like drifts of December snow from the warm breath of spring’s thaw.

  “I can’t believe it,” the corporal infantryman exclaimed, “Doc here said the shrapnel wounds were so severe I’d have to have it amputated. But now,” his lips began to stammer while glancing at Abigail. His face enlivened as if he had been granted a heavenly epiphany, “I’ll be damned if I’m not as good as new.”

  “His leg was shattered right down to the cartilage, femoral arteries were ruptured by some flying shrapnel from enemy cannon fire,” the officer medic chimed.

  The medic reached down and examined the soldier’s damaged limb with his methodical fingers. Astonished, his eyes grew wide and he stood rubbing the strands of his chin’s neatly trimmed beard. Indeed, there seemed to no explanation for the healing of the soldier’s mangled limb, other than a miracle having taken place.

  “Now however,” his flummoxed lips struggled to articulate, “there are no traces of severe injury whatsoever.”

  After drawing in a long breath, and though finding rational logic absconded from his mind, Lincoln’s incredulous expression settled on the young miracle worker. He recalled the intriguing secrets Abigail had divulged earlier that evening, and as the corners of the president’s thin mouth brimmed into a knowing grin, his wondering eyes began to alight with admiration.

  “I merely applied light frequency therapy to heal the wounds, Mister President,” Abigail explained as the medical officer’s lips struggled to acknowledge what was clearly beyond the failure of words to describe.

  “I’ll see to it you’re immediately sent home to your family, corporal,” the president proclaimed, “and I shall take care to write to them and tell them what has happened here, and to tell them the war shall soon be over. I plan also to emphatically tell General Grant this evening that a lasting peace shall very soon be secured so that none of you – and if I can help it for as long as I breathe – shall never have to suffer through such atrocities again.”

  “Thank you, Mister President,” the grateful corporal said, “because old General Grant probably just as soon send me out there to get shot up by those damned Johnny Rebels again.”

  Yet unable to maneuver his stymied lips, the medical officer’s tumultuous thoughts churned while attempting to discern exactly what Abigail meant by ‘light frequency therapy’.

  “Though I still can’t fully accept what my own eyes have witnessed,” the officer managed to stammer.

  His hand reached for his black medicine bag perched on a small table next to a bright kerosene lamp and snapped it shut.

  “Nevertheless, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude, young mistress.”

  “Along with your gratitude, major,” the president related, addressing the medical officer by his rank, “I think it would be best if, you delay in issuing your final report to the General until after the corporal is home, safe and sound,” an adamant president requested. “I shall personally see to it; he is delivered away from here as soon as possible. For I think he may be correct in assuming he is in jeopardy of being sent back to the front lines once more.”

  The corporal felt his blood simmer with ecstasy’s mad rush.

  “Thank you, thank you so much, Mister President,” he gushed. “And to you ma’am,” he added, turning toward Abigail. “Now, I can go home to my girl back in Boston on two legs, rather than just the one,” he exulted.

  Lincoln stepped closer to Abigail and extended his arm.

  “Please, my dear Mistress de Orleans,” the president said.

  Passion burned within the coronae of Lincoln’s eyes, brighter than the kerosene lamp’s flickering flame.

  “I would consider it quite an honor, if you would allow me to escort you to my carriage. My driver will see to it you are delivered quickly and safely back to the warmth of your inn.”

  Charmed by the president’s gallant gesture, a faint, crimson blush began to color Abigail’s dimpled cheeks.

  “Of course, I am deeply grateful, Mister President, but I’m afraid that isn’t really necessary.” Her feeble dissuasion belied the palpable charge igniting her own blood’s passion.

  She began to consider that lesser men, while set in Lincoln’s position – those not willing to stand by staunch convictions or perhaps most with none – would have readily relented to the unconquerable impulses of an uncompromising and ravenous lion such as General Ulysses Grant.

  “Oh, but I must insist, Mistress de Orleans.”

  Torn, Abigail noticed the president’s lidded eyes now shone like beacons. His haggard countenance transformed and seemed renewed with a youthful vigor. Before her halting lips could elicit a response and, perhaps sensing Abigail wished to remain independent of the Victorian era’s chivalrous social customs, the president unleashed a bowel rattling chuckle.

  “Perhaps your facility for wisdom surpasses even that of your talent for summoning magic, Mistress,” the president said. “I should stay on progress with my intentions to appeal to the general before the morning light arises.” Abigail secretly delighted as she felt the president’s insistent fingers lightly caress her hand. “Allow me though to at least,” she heard the eager president suggest, “accompany you back to your carriage and see that you are off to your destination safely.”

  Obliged, Abigail took the president’s arm. From her periphery, she could sense the furtive glances from the soldiers as they remained huddled about the raging fire.

  “Before I meet with the general, you must tell me more about this spiritual adversary he’s disguising,” she heard the president utter in a hushed tone over the hissing fire’s crackling sparks.

  On the far horizon, yellow dawn’s brave advance shimmered upon the Potomac’s black mirror, fighting to conquer what remained of the cruel night’s dark legions.

  “What truly, has made this Artemis,” the president wondered, consternation like swatches of opal darkening his frail brow, “this foul spirit – while in the guise of General Grant – so determined all this time in prolonging war’s hostilities while here on Earth?”

  Nearing her canvas covered wagon, Abigail gently released the president’s gallant arm. She reached out to pat the mane of her white horse shivering beneath the cover of a large woolen blanket while anchored by a single rope fastened around a tall oak’s robust trunk.

  “Stirring up war and strife fosters mass fear, which stimulates the release of adrenochrome in the human nervous system, inundating the blood. Though they never have realized, human emotions register as light frequencies beyond visible perception. During periods of war, Artemis feeds off the massive waves of collective dark energy, a light frequency emanating from this chemical reaction,” Abigail related.

  The president tightened the woolen scarves more firmly about his neck.

  “This fearful reaction is even more intense in younger humans, particularly children. When he materializes in the flesh, here on the earth plane, he prefers to sacrifice a young child, or sometimes more than one, during the season when the moon’s light is at its most potent cycle, to quench his thirst on the adrenochrome, which is derived from both the pineal gland and the spinal column, the tree of life.”

  Abigail pursed her crimson lips as the president turned to look away and beheld the serpentine Potomac’s burnished sheen.

  “My god,” the president finally uttered into a soft chill
of wind. “Then it is no wonder Grant is so determined to march his armies to Richmond and to the sea beyond, before I can negotiate a surrender with Lee and President Davis.”

  “The adrenochrome is the forbidden fruit from the biblical ‘tree of knowledge’. Consuming it, whether in the form of collective dark light energy or directly from the blood of sacrificed young children, helps to elongate the life span of whatever body Artemis chooses to inhabit while here each time. The war’s end will deprive Artemis of the dark energy he needs to survive while here on the earth plane.”

  “So then,” the president replied, “the chaos of war that Artemis brings to this material world are as well, reflected in the spirit realm?”

  He began to help Abigail remove, fold, then stow the large woolen blanket covering the mare into her canvas covered wagon.

  “I suppose that is why, Mistress,” he added, “it has often been written: as above, so below and, on earth as in heaven?”

  Together, while in the act of folding the thickly woven horse blanket, Abigail and the president drew closer. At first, though skittish, Abigail could not help but fall prey to the sensual temptations assaulting her nerves like insistent hammers. Looking up, she saw the president’s towering figure adorned with a passionate smile.

  “That is so, Mister President,” she managed to reply. For the moment, she feebly averted his concentrated gaze. “You are, indeed,” she revealed as the soft declaration purred from her sensuous lips,” so very astute.”

  “Then we are allies, in not only an earthly war, but a spiritual one as well,” the president replied.

  The risen sun’s orange hues scaled over the brightened horizon, and spread out over the sprawling landscape, shattering the impenetrable darkness into fragments. The sinuous Potomac’s surface transformed and shone like smelted silver.

  “As a man who considers himself quite honorable and against my better and wiser inclinations, nonetheless,” the president said, “may I kiss you, Mistress Abigail?”

  As Abigail closed her eyes and felt the president’s tender caress, the sun’s full glory began to rise over the far horizon.

  “There’s no need to be so formal, Mister President,” Abigail said while basking in the rush of mortal blood, “from now on, you may call me Abigail.”

  “I shall consider your wish as my command, Abigail,” went the president’s reply as he gently took Abigail’s arm to help hoist her onto the wagon.

  “We shall see one another soon, I expect, Mister President,” Abigail said, jostling the horse’s reins.

  “Please, Abigail, let us dispense with such formalities,” the smiling president related as the braying white mare lurched the wagon forward. “You may, henceforth, call me Abraham.”

  The curtain of darkness now completely withdrew to reveal golden dawn’s full radiance, and for a moment, Lincoln watched Abigail’s wagon thread along the sinuous road leading away from the vast campgrounds. Hastening to his awaiting coach, the president ordered the shivering driver.

  “I must speak with General Grant immediately. Take me to his headquarters.”

  Before the driver drove the team of horses forward, a slew of mounted soldiers surrounded the president’s carriage.

  “We heard you were on your way to see General Grant, Mister President,” one of the men mounted atop the surrounding steeds said, “and we’d consider it an honor, sir, if you’d allow us to escort you, directly that is.”

  Pulling the coach’s curtain completely aside, Lincoln nodded with an acknowledging grin. “That would be most satisfactory, gentlemen,” he agreed. “Let us then speed onward.”

  The President’s driver shook the horse’s reins and the carriage hurried along the winding road accompanied by the surrounding gaggle of mounted troops. Though the thunderous charge of hooves from outside the heated comfort of the carriage began to jostle his nerves, the president’s focused mind ruminated upon Abigail’s stark account of Artemis, the immortal and sinister god come to earth and disguised as his uniformed, commanding general. Fighting back a tiny prick of foreboding from the certain knowledge he would soon face such a cruel and unusual creature well capable of all manner of treachery, his face began to mold with a determined grimace.

  Soon, the president’s speeding convoy arrived at a sharp bend in the Potomac. There, they were greeted by a trio of armed sentries guarding a series of log cabins. Lincoln pulled aside the coach’s curtains. His nostrils dilated from the distinctive odor of peals of black smoke spiraling from the cabin’s red brick chimneys. Observing the presidential seal embossed onto the carriage door, the sentries straightened their postures and stood ramrod straight. One of the escorting soldiers, a sergeant cavalryman, dismounted and informed the president.

  “I shall tell the general it is urgent you see him right away, Mister President,” he said.

  Lincoln solemnly nodded. “Thank you, sergeant, I am most appreciative.”

  Lincoln stepped down from the carriage. His nerves throbbed. Foreboding and excitation entangled his senses while waiting and watching outside as the sergeant charged into the general’s cabin.

  “Good morning, General Grant, sir,” the sergeant’s urgent voice cracked.

  From behind an enormous wooden desk, Grant’s scowling face emerged from behind an officially sealed government document and the obscuring wall of sinuous smoke floating from a granite ashtray’s graveyard of discarded cigars.

  “Have you forgotten how to salute, soldier,” the general barked, scolding the cavalryman.

  “No sir, there’s no excuse, forgive me, general,” the sergeant feebly replied, snapping his blue clad arm to immediate attention. “The president has arrived, and he urgently wishes to see you, sir.”

  Tossing the document aside, Grant slouched in his chair. His steely eyes carefully studied the cavalryman while his turning mind sorted through calculating formulations. The general shifted his heavy girth, then lurched forward as the sound of determined footsteps entered the cabin. The cavalryman turned to glimpse the president’s towering figure, donned in a tall, black top hat and wrapped in scarves of heavy dark wool.

  “My thanks to you sergeant, and to your men in choosing to kindly escort me here,” the president said in calm appreciation as the cavalryman turned to depart. “Good morning, Ulysses. Allow me to offer, in advance, my apologies for barging in at such an irregular hour,” Grant heard the president greet.

  Grant’s dark brows tightened into a dour array, sensing the president’s cheerful preamble masked news of greater urgency.

  Lincoln strode over to the roaring fire burning in an iron stove positioned near Grant’s sprawling wooden desk. Rubbing his hands over the waves of intense heat spooling from the stovetop’s black surface, the president then loosened his scarves.

  “I am here to inform Ulysses,” the president began in an adamant tone, “that I wish for you to cease and desist with your plans for further advance upon Confederate emplacements, for I have now fully resolved the war shall soon be put to an end.”

  Grant’s face froze with stunned severity. Amid an unsettling silence broken only by the soft crackling of firewood burning within the bowels of the black stove, the general’s firm hand reached for a brass monogrammed mahogany box placed on his desk. Grant withdrew a fresh cigar and, Lincoln heard the slashing sound of the general’s cigar cutter like a guillotine’s blade, merciless in slicing through the unfortunate neck of a condemned prisoner. While the severed end of Grant’s cigar performed a reckless cartwheel across the general’s desk, the president averted his gaze. Sorrow, like a gull’s mournful cry echoed, spurning the memory of Abigail’s stunning news concerning the general’s identity. Stifling what felt like an involuntary wince, he began to sense subtle tremors rising in his limbs like an orchestra’s treacle crescendo. He shuffled closer to the stove to relish the comforting warmth wafting about his bare fingers that, despite the brazier installed in his carriage, still stung from the harsh bite of winter’s cold. Then, a deci
sive inkling began to dominate his thoughts: this was not the time to display any demonstrative sign that could be construed as weakness.

  “As commander in chief,” the general replied, betraying nothing, “you’re obliged to do whatever you feel is best to preserve the Union.”

  Lincoln slowly removed his top hat. “Then, I expect,” the president began before the general interjected.

  “However,” Grant’s gruff tone charged forth, “I think your constituents in the north that elected you would prefer to see their troops stay the course, now that they’ve been made aware decisive victory is at hand,” Grant declared, then added, “I think they’ll be disappointed to learn the boys who’ve fought and bled on the battlefield will be deprived of victory’s great reward from a president favoring appeasement towards a most malicious and dishonorable enemy.”

  The vibrant embers of the general’s cigar flamed.

  “I expect peace to be its own reward, general,” the president parried, “and I don’t believe, when it comes, as you say, to the preservation of the Union, there is any great dishonor to be found in the great forgiveness of an enemy, however malicious during wartime.”

  Grant took a long pull on the cindering cigar and his dark eyes began to glare at his commander in chief from behind a thick veil of gray smoke.

  “I have it on good authority as to your genuine intentions in prolonging this war, general,” the president said, “and who you really are behind the façade of that uniform.

  Lincoln donned his top hat and, once more tightening his scarves, turned towards the cabin door.

  “I happen to know from where and upon whose good authority that word derives, Mister President,” Grant said. A guttural chuckle began to leak from his bearded mouth. “I would advise caution in trusting the source of that word, however,” the general added as he followed the president to the door of the cabin. “For, I’ve learned never to expect veracity from the fairer sex.”