* * * *
More days passed. Emma finally made a local friend, Mary Waddell, the mayor's niece, and through her, Mary's fiancé, Roger Hornby, and several other young men and women. A few of the men were interesting, but otherwise committed, and others seemed to find Emma's company appealing, but they were uninteresting. This unhappy state of affairs was still preferable to her former isolation, and her new social life was sufficiently engaging to take her mind off Mr. Rackham until late in the fall.
She was in the market again, running an errand for her mother, when she saw Mrs. Nelson at a fruit vendor's stall and recollected her former acquaintance. “And how is Mr. Rackham doing these days?”
“And how would I know that, Miss, seeing as I've not set eyes on the man for these last eight weeks?”
Emma's brow wrinkled. “But aren't you his housekeeper still?”
A vigorous shake of the head. “He sacked me, lass, and without a hint of a warning. Told me to get out and never come back.”
“But why? Was he unhappy with your work?”
Mrs. Nelson looked affronted. “He had no reason to be, and I've not had a complaint out of him or any who came before him. One morning I came to his door just as I always did, and he was waiting for me. My services are no longer required, he tells me, and other arrangements have been made.” She grunted heavily. “Other arrangements indeed. There's not a working woman in the village gives as good service, if I do say it myself. And he's not had in any other help either. I'd have heard.”
“But surely someone must cook for him, clean his house? Mr. Rackham is not the sort of man who could do for himself.”
“Can't say that I would have thought it myself, Miss, but there it is.”
Emma decided that she must find an opportunity to call upon Mr. Rackham personally and find out the truth of the matter. He may have made a pest of himself in the past, but he'd never done her a disservice and it was her Christian duty to inquire further as to his welfare.
But then Virginia returned from her brief exile, and Emma was introduced to Thomas Wallenby, son of Sir Arthur Wallenby, and more time slipped away with no investigation of Mr. Rackham's odd behavior.
* * * *
Emma Wilson gave no further thought to Jared Rackham until the day her father mentioned the new curate in Merrivale, Robert Bowlby.
“But I thought that position had been promised to Mr. Rackham?”
Her father had shaken his head. “Strange situation that, Emma dear. It seems that he turned the post down at the last minute.”
“Then perhaps he had a better offer.”
“Wetancourt says otherwise.” Wetancourt was the innkeeper. “Apparently Rackham spouted some nonsense about serving God more efficiently right where he was. Sounds a bit daft to me, but there's talk in the village that he's gone Romish and is set to enter a monastery or some such.”
Her father had no further information, which did not prevent him from expounding on the subject for several more minutes, but Emma barely heard what he said from that point on. She had silently resolved to herself to pay a visit to Mr. Rackham and learn the truth from his own lips.
* * * *
The opportunity to follow through on her promise did not present itself for several more days. First she was required to accompany the family on a brief but tedious visit to her father's brother, a tiresome man who had never married and who still treated Emma and her sister as though they were children. Then they returned to discover that the servants had quarreled in their absence and it required a firm hand and some understanding to restore peace and efficiency to the household. And there were various other social obligations that must be satisfied.
But at last Emma found herself left to her own devices for a day and, with nothing to compete for her attention, she set out alone and on foot to visit Mr. Rackham, an impropriety which would have shocked her parents but which, in these modern times, seemed to her quite acceptable. Her parents were visiting the Wheelers and would not be back before dark, and Virginia was off somewhere with her newest companion, Evelyn Lane.
Emma had never actually been to Rose Cottage before, although she had certainly passed it often enough. The name came from the climbing roses that swarmed over its walls, so profuse in growth that only the roof of the cottage was visible from outside the property. There was a gate, of course, but it was open. Emma noticed with growing dismay that the grounds had not been tended in some considerable time. The modest gardens were overgrown, and a sizable branch had fallen from a tree and partially blocked the pathway to the door. She stepped around it and continued, determined to discover the truth of Mr. Rackham's situation.
The door stood slightly open, a circumstance that caused her some concern. Emma raised one gloved hand to the knocker. There was no response, not a sound from inside, so she leaned forward and called out his name. “Mr. Rackham? Are you at home? It's Emma, Emma Wilson. I came to see how you were faring. Hello?”
She paused, listening, but there was no response. Her first impulse was to leave, but she'd invested considerable time and effort in this venture already and besides, Mr. Rackham might be lying sick or injured and unable to respond. She pushed against the door, which swung further open, and started to call again.
But she stopped in mid-syllable, aghast.
She had a very limited view of the interior, but circumscribed though it was, it still revealed the terrible conditions inside. A table and lamp stood under a large painted landscape, beyond which stood a chair, a mirror, and a doorway. By shifting position slightly, she caught sight of a portion of a tapestry, another chair, and a second doorway. Every object, as well as the floor and walls, was covered with filth. The interior of the house was if anything in worse condition than the grounds. Appalled but fascinated, she deliberately opened the door wide.
Dirt lay everywhere, not the patina of dust left by neglect but a perceptible layer of dirt as though a flood had coursed through the hall, leaving a filthy detritus in its wake. Something terrible had happened here. Emma knew it instinctively, and her concern for Mr. Rackham's fate overwhelmed her sense of caution.
She stepped inside, calling his name. There was still no answer.
The arrangement of rooms was unfamiliar to her, and there was such a thorough application of dirt throughout the cottage that it was sometimes difficult to tell one from the other. Every surface was covered, sometimes with a thin layer, sometimes with actual mounds including a particularly large one in what was presumably Rackham's sleeping chamber. But in due course she found herself in the kitchen, having seen no trace of her quarry elsewhere. Nor was he here, but there was a narrow doorway that did not lead to the outside. This door too was open, and a brief look told her it provided access to the root cellar. Somewhere below, a lamp had been lit, because formless shadows danced on the near wall.
“Mr. Rackham! Are you down there? Please answer me. Do you need assistance?” No one answered, but there was a faint rustling. “This is Emma Wilson. Are you hurt? Can you answer me?”
She placed a foot on the top stair, which creaked slightly but seemed secure. Another call brought renewed muffled stirring but nothing else. Emma bit her lip. Logic told her that she should return to the village and seek help there, but what if she raised an alarm unnecessarily? She resolved to descend far enough to survey the cellar and no farther.
Once the decision was made, she didn't hesitate. She did, however, watch her footing carefully because there was dirt on the stairs just as everywhere else, although it was so hard packed here that it seemed almost like carpeting. Within seconds she had descend more than half way and, by ducking her head slightly, was able to see much of the space around her.
If anything had been stored in the cellar in the past, it had either been removed or concealed under enormous piles of dirt. The top of one mound had been leveled off to serve as a platform for an oil lamp, which accounted for the flickering shadows. There appeared to be a second light source further off, but the cellar was L-shaped and
she could not see around the corner. Beneath the staircase, wooden boards, an old barrel, broken glass, and other debris had been piled together in a chaotic mass. Rackham was nowhere to be seen, but there were signs of excavation and, not far from the foot of the stairs, one of the supporting beams had apparently fallen. There was a hint of color to one side of the beam and a shape that she recognized with sudden shock as the ankle and heel of a human leg. Emma promptly forgot her resolve not to descend all the way and hastened to investigate.
It was indeed exactly what she had feared. The beam lay across the knee and lower thigh, pinning them to the earthen floor. It didn't seem possible that the rest of Rackham's body could possibly fit into the shallow space beyond, but she didn't investigate. The condition of the flesh of the foot was sufficient to convince her the accident had occurred some considerable time in the past, and that there was nothing she could do for Rackham now.
But if that was the case, who had lighted the lamp? The rustling she'd heard might well have been rats or other vermin, but the lamps would not have lasted the day without being refilled. With the thought came another brief, furtive sound, from the pile of trash behind the stairs.
Although she was badly shaken by what she'd already seen, and certainly had no desire to encounter a rat in its lair, Emma found herself moving not to the stairs but instead toward the hidden branch of the cellar.
Even before she reached it, she noticed something familiar and disquieting. The walls had changed color, slowly becoming a uniform red, a familiar shade that she could not immediately place. Then she was around the corner. The second lantern was set in another column of dirt near the far wall, but the wall was no longer the delimiter of the cellar. A circular hole had been excavated through it, descending at a modest angle into the earth, and the walls of that hole, and the tunnel beyond, were covered with a smooth, almost ceramic layer of red hued material. It was then that she found the elusive memory and realized that it was the very same color as the tunnels of the beetle colony they'd stumbled upon the previous spring.
Emma knew that she should leave, but her curiosity was too great. She must know what lay within that tunnel. If she simply bolted and raised the alarm, she would certainly never be allowed to re-enter and see for herself. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped forward, caught hold of the lantern, and passed through the entranceway.
The slope descended only a few steps before leveling off, then debouched into a circular chamber where, to her amazement, she found a third lamp, also burning. But unlike the rest of the cottage, this space was almost immaculate. The walls, which curved into a domed roof, were smooth and red and seemed to be highly polished, as was the floor beneath her. But the real source of wonder was the structure that dominated the center of the room.
It was a perfect pyramid, constructed of the same material, with a single dark opening just large enough that she might have crawled inside if she'd been so disposed. But even Emma's curiosity had its limits. Without taking her eyes off the bizarre structure, she took a step backwards, intending to retreat.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
Emma spun around, nearly dropped the lantern, and caught her breath when she saw Jared Rackham standing just out of reach. Her first reaction was astonishment that he was alive; her second, shock, because he was completely naked, although his body was so heavily encrusted in filth that in the dim light it almost seemed that he was clothed.
“Mr. Rackham! I thought some harm had come to you!” In fact, she still did. He was certainly not in his right mind. The fact that he kept his distance did not appreciably diminish her alarm at his appearance.
“Harm! No, of course not. I am perfectly all right. More so than ever, my dear Miss Wilson.” He casually lifted his hand and filled his mouth with a handful of dirt, swallowing it almost immediately. “I am filled with purpose. I feel God moving within me every minute now. My life has direction and I have penetrated the fog of ignorance and seen the truth. For years I longed to understand the nature of the Creator and it is only now that I have come to realize that I was lost in a search for myself.” He stepped forward and swept his arm out, indicating the pyramid, or perhaps the chamber as well. “I am the Creator, you see, and this is my Creation.”
Emma had retreated instinctively although Rackham did not seem to mean her any immediate harm. She also noticed that he lurched rather awkwardly when he moved, and she observed belatedly that there was something slightly wrong with his legs, which were both covered with a red hued encrustation. The temptation to avert her eyes was strong, because he was altogether indecently exposed, but she persevered and realized that his right leg was noticeably shorter and more slender than the left. How could it have withered so when he looked otherwise hale and hearty?
And then she remembered the crushed leg at the other end of the cellar and realization made her heart race. The leg had not withered; it was being re-grown. Rackham had been caught by the collapse and had somehow severed his own limb. But how was this regeneration possible? Emma had no idea, but she knew that whatever mechanism might be involved, it was certainly no holy miracle.
“I must be going now, Mr. Rackham. I just stopped by to see if you needed anything, but I'm expected home.” She caught her breath and stepped forward, but Rackham continued to stand in her way. “Let me pass, please.”
“The work has taken much longer than I expected, but now that you've come to help me I'm sure that it will go much more quickly.” His expression changed. “You are here to help me, aren't you?”
“Yes, of course I am. But not just this moment. I will return in due course, Mr. Rackham. Now please let me pass.”
For a moment she thought he would do as she bid. He nodded, but it was to some inner voice that was audible only to him. “You must stay and help me.”
“And I will do so, at the proper time. I have other responsibilities to attend to first.” Her voice sounded wrong and she realized that she was afraid.
Rackham seemed to be considering her words, but only for a moment. “There is nothing in this world more important than the Creation. Perhaps when it is complete, there will be time for other considerations, but nothing must interfere with its progress.” He raised his arm, perhaps to point to the pyramid once more, perhaps not, but Emma interpreted it as an attempt to restrain her and she responded without thinking, turning to one side and swinging the lantern with her arm fully extended.
Rackham managed to duck away, leaving a gap through which she attempted to escape, but Rackham caught a fold of her dress with one hand and she staggered, nearly losing her footing. He would have had her then, but the dress ripped and the disparity between his legs proved his undoing. He stumbled, off balance, and lost his concentration as well as his grip as he tried to recover. Emma swung the lantern a second time; it barely grazed the side of Rackham's head, then struck the wall of the tunnel. Glass shattered, metal tore, and flaming liquid splashed out like fingers of fire.
Emma ran up the sloping tunnel into the cellar and then to the stairs, stumbling in her haste to ascend. She didn't stop until she was out of Rose Cottage and off its grounds, then collapsed under a tree not far distant, exhausted both physically and emotionally. When she glanced back the way she'd come, a thick column of black smoke was already rising above the wild roses.
* * * *
She stopped by a brook to wash her face and repair as best she could the damage to her clothing. The dress was no doubt ruined, but it would pass muster from a distance and if she was lucky, she'd have time to repair the situation before she was found out. It had already occurred to her that no one would ever believe her story, and that it would be best not to be connected in any way to the fire that had presumably destroyed Mr. Rackham, or whatever he had become, and Rose Cottage.
Arriving home, she quickly changed clothing and dropped what was not salvageable into the rag bin. Then she made herself some tea and sat quietly, waiting for the trembling to leave her hands and the images of Rackham to lea
ve her mind. She was still sitting there when Virginia arrived.
“Oh, tea! Is there more? I'm quite famished.”
Emma was relieved to discover that she could carry on a normal conversation and inquired about her sister's day. Virginia had taken Evelyn on one of her famous nature walks, apparently, but Evelyn was not used to such exertion and confessed herself quite “fagged out.” She'd gone home to soak her feet.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Virginia's hand plunged into the pocket of her sweater. “I brought you a present.” She brought out a small, ornate box and set it on the table.
“What is it?” Emma peered down, wondering whether or not she was meant to take the box.
“Well, open it, silly. I know you'll be surprised.”
With a faint smile, Emma picked up the box and shook it. There was a rattle, as though some small, hard object were imprisoned inside. The clasp was brass and rather stiff, but she pushed it up with her thumb and it opened.
“Be careful! Don't let it get away!” Virginia shouted.
But the belated caution did no good. The moment the lid popped up, the jeweled beetle inside leaped from inside the box to the back of Emma's wrist. Emma's mouth opened wide in surprise and shock, and the beetle jumped again, searching for the nearest place where it might be sheltered from the abrasive sunlight.
Emma choked and swallowed and felt God moving within her.
Copyright (c) 2007 Don D'Ammassa
* * * *
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Analog SFF, January-February 2008 Page 21