Resonance

by Celine Kiernan

‘It has spoken directly to her?’ asked Wolcroft. ‘Without aid? Without the board? Raquel! What did it say?’

  The carriage driver said, ‘She is heading for the light.’

  They passed Harry as if he were no more than a bundle of rags.

  Don’t forget me, he thought. I’m still here. He tried to crawl after them, but his body had its own ideas and curled back into a juddering grub-like huddle. ‘Come back,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll … I’ll show you a trick …’ He could feel his fingers shivering against his chin. The water that had dribbled from his clothes was freezing – fanning out around him in hard, curved patterns on the moonlit frost.

  Through a blur of encroaching darkness Harry saw Tina, quite a distance away. She was dressed in nothing but her petticoats. Her long, dark hair was straggled loose across her shoulders, and her eyes were horribly wide. She had one hand pressed to her temple, and she was pointing at the gangrenous light that pulsed beneath her feet.

  ‘Here,’ she was calling hoarsely. ‘Here, here.’

  The woman called Raquel clung to Wolcroft’s arm. ‘It is the Demon,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ whispered Harry, his eyes slipping closed. The ice had become the softest of pillows beneath his cheek. All he wanted to do was sleep.

  Voices sounded, far off in the fog: Wolcroft and the carriage driver, arguing. The woman said something unintelligible, then her voice rose impatiently above the men’s: ‘… nevertheless, now that she’s given us her message, the seer cannot remain here. She must come inside, at least until we fetch her some furs.’

  Footsteps came again, clunk-clunking towards him. Harry gasped and forced his eyes open in time to see Tina’s snow-crusted black stockings. She was dragging one foot after the other, her petticoats framed against the woman’s immensity of skirts, and it was obvious the woman was supporting her. They swished past with no acknowledgement of Harry’s presence, leaving him to his worm’s-eye view of the men following slowly behind.

  Wolcroft was animated. ‘A demon, Vincent! Like I have always told you! Like the other seer told you! Now do you believe? We are dealing with instruments of the divine.’

  ‘There is nothing at all in what has happened to suggest the divine.’

  ‘The Angel spoke to her! It sent her here!’

  ‘What of it? I do not deny the Bright Man exists, Cornelius. Merely that it is a creature of your fantastical god!’

  ‘Two separate seers, two hundred years apart! Both told by the Angel that there is a demon in the lake! Explain to me, what else can it be?’

  A machine, thought Harry.

  The men were within inches of him now, their boots gritting the frost as they passed. He heard the carriage driver sigh. ‘Do not always be so ready to think in terms of the divine or the profane when there are so many other possibilities.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A machine,’ croaked Harry. Vincent paused and Harry, desperate to keep his attention, flashed out a hand and gripping his boot. ‘A machine,’ he croaked. ‘A machine, Vincent. It’s a machine.’

  Searing hot fingers grabbed his chin and raised his head. ‘Boy!’ cried Vincent. ‘Boy! Tell me of this machine! What was its nature? Describe its appearance.’

  Harry gazed stupidly at him. Someone, perhaps the woman, called that they should get inside before the seer caught her death. He was dimly aware of the men lifting and dragging him, as the women led the way.

  Frost glittered beneath him; reeds brushed him; then grass.

  The carriage driver continued to hurl questions at the top of his bowed head, until Wolcroft snapped, ‘For goodness sake, you will get nothing from him in that state! Wait until he has defrosted.’

  The air grew fragrant. The toes of Harry’s boots made harsh sounds in gravel. Stone steps jarred his shins. He was inside. The woman tutted. ‘He is leaving tracks on the floor.’ He lifted his head fractionally but could not find Tina. He let his head drop again. They passed through a warm rectangle of light, the scent of candles drifted through a door, then they were on the stairs, bumping upwards.

  Suddenly they halted, and Harry found himself momentarily buried in Raquel’s skirts. The fabric smelled vaguely unpleasant – dusty and old. Jet beads scraped his cheeks. Her skirts disappeared from view as she and Tina took the last of the steps to the first-floor landing.

  Harry managed to lift his head. The women were above him now, outlined in silver against the moonlit arch of the picture window. Both were gazing down at something that lay on the floor beneath the sill.

  ‘What is that doing here?’ asked Raquel.

  Wolcroft made a strangled sound, and Harry fell to one side as the man abruptly let him go and ran to the women. He was saved from smacking to the hard steps by the carriage driver’s arm clamped around his chest. Out of his range of vision, Wolcroft said, ‘Oh, Raquel, I am so sorry. I had meant to dispose of it, but—’

  ‘Get rid of it,’ cried the woman. ‘I cannot bear it!’

  ‘I shall put it in the attic,’ Wolcroft assured her.

  There was a rustle of skirts, as Raquel pulled aside. This was followed by a hesitant silence. Then Wolcroft said, ‘You … you are in my way.’

  Harry half-raised his head again. Wolcroft’s shoes and the mud-stained cuffs of his trousers, and the bottom tiers of Raquel’s skirts, were on eye level with him. Standing firmly between them and the window, Harry saw Tina’s small, black-stockinged feet, the filthy lace trimming of her petticoat. Water pooled where the snow melted from her stockings. On the floor behind her lay something crumpled and still.

  ‘You’re to carry her to my room,’ Tina whispered.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Raquel, utterly appalled. ‘No! Absolutely not!’

  ‘Carry her to my room,’ Tina insisted. ‘And … and Harry, too. All of us. In my room. Or I won’t talk to your angel anymore.’

  Wolcroft dithered a moment, apparently torn between the two women. Then he dodged past Tina, lifted the rustling bundle from the shadow beneath the sill, and led the way to the second staircase. Tina followed.

  Raquel and Vincent stood in silence punctuated by the steady dribbling of water from Harry’s clothing.

  ‘He cannot mean to,’ she said eventually. ‘In my room. In my bed. I can’t … it can’t be allowed.’

  ‘Raquel,’ sighed Vincent. ‘It will do you no harm. It is only—’

  ‘It is disgusting! It is old and vile!’

  ‘It is only for a while, Raquel,’ he replied. ‘And only to please the seer. After the extravaganza, everything will be back to normal. In the meantime, can you not muster even a moment of patience? For Cornelius, of all people? He asks so little of us, and does so much. Just keep away from your room for the time being, meu amor. I promise that when this is over, I shall dispose of that thing in whatever way you wish.’

  The man’s arm tightened around Harry’s chest, and Harry allowed himself to be hauled along the landing and hefted up the second flight of stairs. As far as he could tell, the woman remained behind.

  ‘PUT HER IN the bed.’

  Wolcroft sighed. ‘I assure you, girl, this creature is not in any way the person you once—’

  ‘Put her in the bed.’

  ‘May I be permitted to remind you of her vile plan for you? Her complete willingness to prostitute you to my whim? There is not an ounce worth saving about this creature. Surely you—’

  ‘You’ve no right to judge her, mister. Put her in the bed.’

  Vincent dragged Harry into the adjoining room, which was pitch-black, the moon having abandoned this side of the house, but Vincent seemed to have no trouble finding his way about. It took all of Harry’s self-control not to protest as the man, holding him up with one strong arm, stripped him of his clothes and scrubbed him dry with some coarse and dusty fabric. He was laid down onto chokingly musty sheets and pillows. A blanket was drawn across him.

  He felt surprisingly well – it was as though the house had wrapped a healing cocoon around his body. H
e kept his breathing steady and his body lax, waiting to be left alone. To his frustration, Vincent instead sat down on the edge of the bed, apparently listening to the conversation in the next room.

  Wolcroft said, ‘The Angel spoke to you?’

  Tina gave only silence in reply.

  Wolcroft said, ‘I should very much like to hear what it had to tell you.’

  Suddenly Vincent’s voice spoke in Harry’s head. Little magician? Are you awake?

  Harry couldn’t help but flinch at this, and the man leaned across him, hopeful.

  Magician? Are you?

  Harry made a feeble stirring on the pillows, as if disturbed in his sleep, and then went still.

  In the next room, Wolcroft, his voice hesitant in the wake of Tina’s persistent silence, said, ‘Luke has caught some game. After you have rested, I could cook you something. I … I used to be quite the cook. We have bergamot in the garden – I could fix a little tea, if you think it might restore you?’

  ‘For the others, too,’ said Tina softly.

  ‘Of course.’

  Listen to him, whispered Vincent’s thoughts. So engaged after so long asleep.

  He shifted his weight on the bed, and Harry barely kept from crying out as Vincent’s hand, blazing hot, absently pushed the damp hair from his forehead.

  I knew he would blossom again, once you were restored. I knew you would bring him back to life. It will be so good to have you home, Matthew.

  As if realising his mistake, the man’s hand froze. He surged to his feet. Harry waited through a moment of breathless confusion.

  ‘Apologies,’ said Vincent. ‘I get confused.’

  He left quickly, closing and locking the door behind him. There was a brief rumble of voices before the women’s room fell silent.

  Harry forced himself to count to one hundred before creeping from the bed. He spent a moment listening at the door; then he rescued his lock-pick set from the sodden pile of his clothes and coaxed the lock. Carefully, he cracked the door.

  Someone had lit candles. Tina was standing on the opposite side of the room, her hands clenched, gazing at him as if she’d been waiting for his arrival.

  ‘Harry,’ she whispered. ‘You need to hurry. They won’t leave us alone for long.’

  He kept the door between them, his head just peeping around. ‘I’m not decent.’

  She couldn’t seem to understand this; he got the impression she had to focus very fiercely just to keep him in sight. ‘Turn your back,’ he whispered.

  It took only moments to unlock her door and let himself into Wolcroft’s room. The man’s clothes were folded neatly in a locker at the end of his bed. Harry took an undershirt, shirt and trousers. He stole a warm woollen jacket. He helped himself to two pairs of socks. He couldn’t bring himself to take underwear. Wolcroft’s boots were too small – he would have to pull on his own wet ones.

  He crept across the corridor like a furtive mouse and sat to pull on his boots. Damn, but they were soaked. He had to roll Wolcroft’s sleeves up on his shorter arms.

  ‘We gotta go, Tina. I’ve got a feeling you only stay alive here for as long as you’re useful or entertaining, and neither of those things seem too good for your health round here. It’s gonna be darned cold outside the gardens. You’ll need to wrap up warm. Where is Miss—’

  Harry froze, horrified at the creature Tina had just finished tucking into bed like a child. The creature’s oversized eyes followed Tina’s hands as she took something from her travel bag. It was a rosary. Tina wrapped the glittering beads around the creature’s wizened claws, tucking the crucifix into its palm.

  ‘There now,’ she whispered.

  ‘Tina,’ warned Harry. ‘Come away from that thing.’

  ‘This is Miss Ursula, Harry.’

  Harry’s heart sank, recalling the horrible maggot-creature in Vincent’s laboratory, and how Tina had called it Joe. ‘Tina,’ he said firmly. ‘You come away from that thing now.’

  Tina smoothed the thing’s wispy hair off its wizened face. ‘It’s all right,’ she told it. ‘We’ll come fetch you as soon as we’ve found Joe.’ She bent lower to whisper, ‘Don’t worry about what you expected me to do with that man. I know you were frightened; I know it was the only thing you could think of.’

  To Harry’s confusion, a tear rolled down the creature’s cheek. It moved its fingers to touch Tina’s arm. Tina just kept stroking its hair, until gradually it seemed to sleep. Then she straightened.

  ‘Harry,’ she said, ‘I need you to pick some locks.’

  He followed her down the stairs to the first floor, hissing protests all the way. ‘Tina, I’m not leaving without you, so you’ve gotta listen—’

  ‘This door, please, Harry.’

  ‘Aw, kid. We’ve already been in here. Please don’t tell me we’re gonna find Joe in there, because—’

  ‘This door, please, Harry.’

  He grimaced, and knelt to once again unlock the laboratory door. ‘Was it the old lady playing the piano?’ he whispered. ‘Where’d she go after that? Let’s find her.’

  Tina pushed past him and into the familiar, living quiet of Vincent’s room. To Harry’s dismay, she made straight for the windows and the long, narrow box that held the snake creature. ‘Tina, that’s not Joe.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘It’s … it’s the Angel’s Joe. It’s …’ She breathed frustration through her nose, her fingers travelling the red wood of the box as she searched for the right words. She looked up to meet Harry’s anxious gaze, and he saw that her eyes had once again filled with tears.

  ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘I love Joe.’

  This stopped Harry in his tracks. Uncomfortable and moved, he searched for a reply, but Tina pressed her hands flat onto the gleaming lid of the box and said, ‘This is the Angel’s Joe. He yearns for this. He pines for it. I can’t … I don’t think he can live without it, Harry.’

  He stepped closer. ‘What angel?’ he whispered.

  Tina didn’t seem to hear him. ‘But this poor thing is dead. Really dead, forever dead, not like Joe.’

  ‘What do you mean, not like Joe?’

  She crouched so she was at eye level with the wood, watching as something invisible rose and fell before her eyes.

  ‘The light led me here – see how it’s all straight lines here? How it all travels through this thing before going back to the Angel? I thought it was bringing me to Joe. I thought …’

  She pressed her hand to the side of her head, grappling with her thoughts.

  ‘Because …’ she whispered. ‘Because our feelings are the same: the Angel’s and mine. His feelings for this, my feelings for Joe … the same. We … we got confused. We confused each other.’

  She squinted up at him again.

  ‘I need you to undo this lock now, Harry. I’m taking it back to the Angel, and … and the Angel will give me back my Joe.’

  Fair Exchange

  IT CANNOT SEE me, but it is chasing me: the feel of me, or the smell of me – something like that. I run from it because it frightens me.

  Parts of me have been coming back as I run, and I almost completely recall who I am supposed to be now. I am Joe – aren’t I? I am her Joe. She loves me.

  I stumble through darkness on yielding pathways of sand, head ducked to avoid the low snatch of ceiling. I run from its searing light, the shredding thunder of its voice. At one stage, I am herded back into the cave where I first came to life, and I run without thinking into the shallows of the glowing pool. The water grabs me as if it is hungry; there is a clutching at my heart, a deadening of my legs below the knee, and I fall.

  It is dead, I think. The water is dead. And it is killing me.

  I flounder to shore, where I fall facedown, my heart slowing to a standstill. Then the creature draws near and my body stutters to animation again, filling with sparks and flashes. The creature’s voice raises, and I push myself up and run. I must keep my distance. This creature’s touch will unravel me as
surely as the water deadened me.

  I run. My footsteps ring hollow on wooden flooring. I bump a wall, my hand closes on something metal, cold and ornate, as I round a corner: a wall-mounted candlestick. I slam against an obstacle – it is a door. I push through, and I am in an open space that smells of fresh, planed wood and paint. I trip, tumble down thickly carpeted steps and come to a halt against a velvet cushioned seat.

  I listen, panting. There is something familiar about the atmosphere of this place. I grope about, and realise I am crouched between rows of seats. I look up into the pitch-dark, half-expecting the glitter of a distant chandelier.

  An anemone of light opens in the darkness as the creature follows me through the open door. The space around me comes alive with the subtle winkings of metal fittings, the soft glow of illuminated velvet. Below me, rows of seats lead to the silent maw of an ornately appointed stage. Above me, the creature rises to its full height, swaying and moaning and feeling all about for me.

  Far above, through layers of stone, Tina descends steps in darkness, a dead thing in her arms, a boy at her back. She tells me not to be afraid; that she is coming for me. I tell her that I am not afraid. I tell her she must stay away.

  Tina tells me this creature is an angel. Immediately, her image of it tries to impose itself on mine – the curved body straightens, heavenly light casts from outspread wings. Its face is tragic with desperation.

  Part of me wants to accept this picture, wants Tina’s vision to erase the fluid entity before me: the heavy head and arched back, the arms that act as forelegs, the vast swarm of eel-like protrusions. But I did not wait all those years outside churches for her simply because I was too stubborn to go inside. I have not been secretly longing for my moment on the road to Damascus. I can no more believe in the existence of angels than I can be persuaded there is a God in heaven weeping for the damaged innocents of this world. This is not an angel, and in the end, I see it for what it is.

  I sink between the seats, hoping it will leave. I think it might. It is groping about and seems to neither see nor sense me where I crouch. Dimly layered over this, I see the image of Tina’s angel searching in growing hopelessness, as if about to give up.