by Daniel Caet
An image formed in her head, the charred body of Claire Davenport. That had not been a dream or anything she had imagined but it had been the first unexplainable event of her life. And despite everything, it was very real, Claire had died that afternoon at the school and she was the one who had killed her. She was the origin of the flames that devoured her body and she had not yet been able to get rid of the smell of her burned body, a bittersweet smell that clung to clothes, body, soul. Her rational part started to function again automatically as it had done whenever a situation began to overcome her. Her rational cycles always tried to take everything inexplicable and turn it into something tangible, logical, manageable, but this time even her rational part surprised her. Her mind caught all the inexplicable events of her life, the flames, the father who had emerged from nowhere, the man in the fountain, the blood in the book, and elaborated the only possible explanatory theory and threw it on her face. What if all those moments were related? And, if each of them could be the explanation of the others because they are part of a whole? Each and every one of those events had to do directly or indirectly with her family, with her absences and sudden appearances, with her mother, with her father, with herself. Without realising, her hands moved automatically and opened the book to show that first page. When her eyes looked down they found that word again. And then the scientist inside her took care of the rest. The best way to attack a big problem is to break it down into parts. She could not resurrect her mother, she could not explain the fountain incident or what happened with the book, but she could investigate more about the only living person who was still part of the puzzle. Maybe that was the Ariadne's thread that would take her out of the labyrinth she was in. Her father.
She put the book back on the nightstand and dressed quickly. Her face in the mirror was that of a ghost, pale, haggard so this time she decided to put on some makeup before going down for breakfast. It was important that everyone thought that everything was fine. Only she would know the truth, if truth existed. When she reached the lower floor, Charice was waiting on the landing.
“Ouch! you've put on makeup. You must have had a real bad night,” she answered. Charice knew her very well.
“Yes, the truth is that bed is killing me, I did not sleep at all,” she lied.
This time Eustace had prepared the dining room for breakfast. It was a pretty small room, decorated in a very basic way with dark and shiny wood furniture. The table was prepared for a palace dinner. There was enough cutlery for a five-course meal. Becca was not used to such pomp, but she understood that the man had done it to make her stay and Charice's as pleasant as possible and said nothing.
Charice made her forget about everything during breakfast and even made her laugh with her descriptions of what her life would be like now that she was a real mansion mistress. According to her, it was imperative that, now that she was a millionaire, she dressed the part, so she convinced her to go to Glasgow to spend the day shopping. Becca was not very excited about the idea but for the sake of appearances she agreed, truth was she could use some air. But that meant one thing, her father would have to wait. The idea of postponing the plan that had just germinated in her mind did not drive her crazy, so she decided that before going out with Charice she would at least try to move something forward. Unfortunately, a quick call to Mr. Mason, her lawyer, confirmed that her search was not going to be that simple. Becca had imagined that they would have a contact address for their client but that was not the case. The man confirmed that all transactions with Lord McGregor had been made through a legal representative he had only seen once when the parcel was delivered to them. Lord McGregor had paid his fees in advance and, once they had confirmed the delivery of the package, no other interaction had taken place. Becca could not understand anything, her life was beginning to look like a cheap thriller book in which nothing makes sense, but Charice's voice calling her from the hall forced her out of her thoughts.
The day flew by. Charice dragged her across the city from one end to the other, from store to store making her try on a thousand and one outfits, shoes, accessories, most of which Becca would never put on; but in the end, they returned home with an immense number of bags, eighty percent of them for Charice. Despite everything, Becca managed to disconnect from of the noise inside her mind, the book and everything else for several hours; and that helped her.
When they returned to Duncan Hall it was night time. They had dined in the city before returning, so Charice went straight to her room to try again everything she had bought giving Becca some space to put her ideas in order.
“Mrs. Dermott,” she asked the housekeeper who greeted them at the door, “Is there a computer in the house that I can use? I would like to look at my work e-mail in case there is something urgent.”
“The truth is that I could not tell you, ma’am, I'm afraid I'm a bit out of all that modernity,” answered the woman with a smile.
“I can provide ma’am with a laptop if she wishes.” echoed Eustace's voice behind her. “It's not very modern but I'm afraid we do not have better IT equipment. We use it for monthly orders and when it is necessary to contact a contractor to carry out maintenance in the house.”
“Don't worry Eustace, it will work perfectly.”
“I'll take it to ma’am’s office immediately.”
“Eustace,” Becca replied. “Could you tell me how to get to the office, please?”
“Yes, of course, excuse me,” said the man with a smile. “It is the door before ma’am’s rooms”.
“Thanks,” Becca replied, smiling as she walked up the stairs.
When she reached the door and opened it she found that the room was completely dark, and she could not see anything. She groped to find a switch on the wall next to the door and the light flooded the space. To be the mansion office, it was not the great room that Becca would have expected. In the background was a large wooden desk with a matching chair and on the wall a glass bookcase with many books. A dense carpet on the floor and a fireplace that was now extinguished completed all the decoration. There were no paintings and the paper on the walls was completely neutral. It was as if someone had forgotten that room when they decorated the house. Becca sat in the chair and lit a small Tiffany lamp on the table. At that moment Eustace came in with the laptop and left it on the desk.
“It's connected to the house Wi-Fi network, ma’am,” he informed her.
“Well, I see that we do not live totally in the middle ages.”
“I'm afraid it's the only thing that saves us,” the man replied, smiling kindly before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
Becca did not waste a second and opened the computer browser. She quickly typed the name of the search engine and ran a search with the name Daniel McGregor. She did not know very well what she expected to find but the results that the computer returned in just a few seconds gave her a good reality check. Just over six hundred thousand entries. Becca felt as if a very large stone was falling on her. She began to go through the entries one by one trying to find something that caught her attention, but it was impossible. After seeing about two hundred profiles in different social networks, of all kinds that corresponded to the different Daniel McGregor of the world, she gave up. It was ridiculous to believe that there would only be one person in the world with that name and that the computer was going to give her the address, telephone and e-mail.
Becca was about to abandon her search when she realised she had forgotten an essential piece of information. There was something else she knew about her supposed father she had forgotten to include in the search engine. That man was Lord. How many Daniel McGregor’s of the world could have that title? She added the word ‘Lord’ to the search and immediately the results were reduced to barely a dozen. Her eyes began to read the entries and she immediately realised that something was still wrong. All the entries were from history books and pages, but not from contemporary history, but from sixteenth-century history. Was it possible that this
was another dead end? It was impossible that anyone could live in today's society without having a single entry on the internet. Everyone was on the net, it was impossible to hide completely.
In the midst of that frustration her eyes fixed on one of the entries that seemed different to the others. It was an advertisement for a hotel, apparently a manor house in Scotland. Rowhill Manor. Becca opened the entrance to find an extremely overloaded page full of images of a house not unlike Duncan Hall, only smaller. On the right side of the page was a small map with the location of the site, barely twenty miles away. Becca opened the section of the page describing the history of the mansion. Apart from a huge string of references to the architectural style of the house, the page explained that the mansion had been the family home of the McGregor clan for five centuries and that the current descendants still had close relations with the property. The scarcity of details was exasperating but at least it suggested that the current members of the clan still existed and that they were somehow linked to that hotel. If she wanted to find her so called father, that was her best option. Maybe someone in the hotel, the manager or the owner knew that man. Maybe he was the owner himself. After all, he was a Lord, he could not be a stranger and, hopefully, they would be able to tell her how to contact him. Until that moment Becca had not considered the possibility that her father did not want to be found but in that same place and moment she decided that she did not care in the least. If that man had decided to appear at that moment in her life, it had been his own choice and, considering the number of inexplicable things that were circulating around her life, he would have to fuck himself if he did not like his daughter to ask him a few questions. Many.
Becca began planning her visit to the hotel. Obviously, she did not want to and could not involve Charice unless she wanted to be dragged to a psychiatrist. So, she would have to invent something to be able to go alone; luckily, the obligations and legal procedures of a rich heiress were going to be the perfect excuse. She was not sure where the courage was coming from to face all that madness, that lack of clarity but somehow her mind was pushing her forward, to do anything to get out of her confusion and return to a stable and predictable life. With a definite plan in mind, she decided that it was better to try to sleep a little bit, so she closed the computer deleting the search history first and went back to her room.
When she entered the bedroom, the heat of the fireplace that the girls must have lit for her made her feel immediately well. The light that the fire projected in the room was wonderful and Becca leaned back on the bed trying not to think, just enjoying that little moment of pleasure. Inevitably her eyes looked at the painting of her mother who ruled everything in that room. The woman's face seemed to look directly at her with a friendly smile like no other Becca had ever seen before. Suddenly Becca remembered the book that remained on the bedside table. Her hands stretched to catch it without thinking exactly why and her fingers opened the first page. There, in a beautiful scarlet color, the only word that had appeared the night before was still present.
“Family,” she said loudly, still staring at her mother's painting. “I wish I knew what that is!”
She noticed that the weight of what had been her life, that life that had been imposed on her, the one she had not been able to choose, began to make a lump in her throat and her eyes returned to the book. Why had they prevented her from having a family? And why did the little she knew about them seem like a huge and ridiculous secret?
Maybe it was that word that kept calling her from that first page, maybe the effect of having her mother's face looking at her from the painting or simply that Charice was right and she had gone completely crazy but, as if animated by a spring, she got up running and she entered the bathroom. Her hands trembled as she rummaged through her toiletries until she found the blade she used to shave her legs. She returned to the bed and without thinking for a second, she made a small cut with the blade at the bottom of her hand. The pain brought her back to herself and she automatically closed her fist to contain the blood that was beginning to spill. Her mind screamed at her asking what on earth she was doing but something deeper took control and, as if strong fingers guided her hand, she relaxed and let the drops of blood spill over the pages of the book. Immediately the volume reacted to the presence of that liquid of intense red colour and the pages began to be filled with letters, the letters forming words and the words phrases. Becca turned the first page and found a new phrase that asked her not to look away, to continue reading. Only two words. I am.
I am
I could start in a thousand different ways. If one wishes to tell the story of his life, he would probably start by saying something like ‘I was born in …', but I am afraid that in my case it is not so simple. I, simply, was not born of a womb like you among blood and pain, I was born of the light, I was created like the trees, the seas, the sky, like almost all the beautiful things of this world. Yes, I know, as a reader right now you will be thinking that it is a very arrogant way to start telling my story but, as you will see, a certain degree of vanity was always a weakness of my character.
I must admit that starting this story is more difficult than I expected. I'm not used to writing and I'm not used to talking about myself. Usually there are others who talk about me, in fact too much. Telling the story of my life among you. Oh, it's such a human idea! Probably that is what makes it so irresistible, that is what is so special about you humans, you are irresistible.
I trusted that the words would flow without much effort, that the scenes of my steps among you would be reflected in my head with clarity and ease and from there to paper with total lightness; after all, I am who I am. But I'm afraid that the images that seem to shriek in my memories are nothing but murmurs in the desert when I try to put them in writing, scenes fighting to be expelled, shaped, shared while I struggle to order them and give them a meaning. There is so much to tell that choosing is complicated.
You will have to understand that this story will always be incomplete. It would be absurd to try to explain how I was created, it would be too complex, not even I can pretend to know what went through my father's head at that time, so ... do not expect it. Do not expect either to discover the intricacies of the universe, of what you do not know or, to be more exact, you must not know. Others must come forward and to them I leave this task, it will be when and if they want in the same way that my story is because I want it.
I have lost track of the time I have spent among you. I know, you do not believe me, and you do well for I know perfectly the time that I have spent among you. An eternity. But it is true that I was not always here in the same way, maybe I should say that I have lost track of the time I have been forced to be among you (or that is what some will want to believe, that I have been forced, but that will come later). I have seen you born and die, cry and laugh, I have seen you love with all your heart and with the same heart, destroy yourselves. In conclusion, I have seen you being human with all that implies.
Oh, my name! You will not understand anything if I do not start with the basics, my name. Well, once again the seemingly easiest task is the most complicated. Which of the hundreds that I have received over time should I use? Certainly, some of them will be enough for you to know who I am.
I am the fallen one, I am the exiled one, I am the evil one, I am the enemy, I am Lucifer, I am Helel and this is my story.
Flesh and blood
There are memories that remain etched like fire and not even time can make them diffuse. I remember the touch of the air as I fell, tearing my skin apart, producing a sensation I had not known before, pain. I felt like every fiber of my being screamed asking for it to stop, to end that nightmare. The speed of the fall did not let me open my eyes and in my head the images of the events that had taken me up to that moment were repeated as flashes torturing me even more. The offence, the trial, the betrayal, the voice of my brothers condemning me to prison, the fight, the swords of my brothers tearing me apart and finally the fa
ll. The cycle repeated itself in my head again and again until my body hit the ground in a brutal rumble. And then, silence and oblivion. The unconsciousness and a last mental image, the light taken from my being.
The first thing I noticed was the sound, murmurs, voices speaking softly around me. Suddenly the sound disappeared. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids did not respond to my wishes, it was as if my eyes did not want to show me what was around me. Little by little I regained consciousness of my whole body, the pain was still present but more softly, lethargic. I noticed that I could not move my limbs, I felt trapped, as bound, a completely new feeling for me who had always been free, immensely free. I noticed that my body was covered by some kind of fabric, I could feel its roughness through my skin. And then I realised. My body. For eons I had used a body to visit you, although I usually preferred to remain in an immaterial state, an anonymous observer and sometimes a silent enforcer. Some of my brothers enjoyed, even too much, their mortal bodies but I was never able to. The times I took material form had not been totally pleasurable, it was like being trapped inside a glass urn, a form of myself that was not myself, a kind of armour, of clothing that I found extremely heavy. But this time it was different, I could feel with my body, I could feel my body, each and every one of its parts, I could feel the pain. That body was not a shell, it was not a cloth used to try to generate closeness with humans, that was a real, material body, my body. Suddenly I began to understand what that meant, what the sensations I was experiencing implied. My body was human, completely human. The anguish that idea provoked in me served as confirmation of that new reality. My human heart started beating rapidly, I could feel my pulse increase and my breathing getting heavier and heavier. How could that have happened? Who could have punished me in such a harsh way? Who was responsible?