Resonance

by Celine Kiernan

  ii. Joe

  JOE JERKED TO life on hard gravel, flames lighting the sky above him. He was sprawled at the feet of heedless men and women, their attention fixed on a smoke-filled doorway. Tina’s voice was in his mind, or the echo of it was, or the memory, because she was not here. She had gone. But her insistence remained, the desperate plea that she had been drumming into him since the bridge. He rolled to his elbows, crawled from the smell of fire and ring of rapt watchers, and followed his memories into the darkness of the trees.

  The symbiote was where she’d remembered leaving it, lying in a dim shiver of light at the base of a stone wall in the ruin of a castle. Joe wrapped it in his waistcoat and carried it to the place Tina had been heading before Wolcroft had saved her life by breaking her contact with it. Down into the dark throat of the earth he went with it, fathoms underground, through depths and depths of darkness illuminated only by the nacreous glow of the creature in his arms.

  He turned a corner into a much brighter light, and there behind the thick bars of a rusting iron gate stood Tina’s angel. It paid him no heed at all, and it seemed not to even notice the creature in his arms. Its great spider hands were pressed to the ceiling above its head, its sea of tentacles held upwards like a cup. It filled the tiny space of the stone staircase with its presence, and it was, as it had been when Joe had first seen it, intently feeding.

  ‘Here,’ whispered Joe, holding the Beloved up to the bars of the gate. ‘I brought this for you.’

  The Angel did not respond. But the Beloved, as if reacting to the Angel’s light, raised first one, then another, then all of its trailing arms. Almost too weak to move, they groped and wavered, then finally, finally, made contact with the Angel.

  It was so graceful, in the end. Such an elegant, peaceful, tender union. After all the wailing and pain and need, it was like a gentle song, the way they came together.

  Joe put his hands against the bars as the Angel straightened and expanded and became whole. He could feel the power withdrawing from the air, the focus of energy shifting as the Angel withdrew its yearning light and began, as was its proper nature, to feed through the consciousness of the creature that had curled around its neck.

  Its own Beloved, that poor dead thing, was pushed aside, and it slipped to the floor, unheeded and unmourned. These were the things left behind when the Angel walked away into the tunnels: the body, long dead, of a casually discarded soul; and Joe, alone and lonely in the dark.

  iii. Vincent

  IT WAS MORNING when Vincent found the boy. He was sitting on a jumble of fallen stone, his head tilted back against the wall of the ruined castle yard, watching the sun rise above the smoking roof of the house. The air was bitter, the grounds bright with frost, and for the first time in many decades Vincent truly felt the cold. The boy watched his approach without lifting his head from the wall, and did not react in any way when Vincent offered him the blanket he had carried from the house.

  ‘Put it around you, boy, or you shall be ill.’

  ‘You look older.’

  Vincent sat stiffly onto the stones, the blanket bundled in his lap. ‘I feel older,’ he said.

  They watched the smoke rising and, not for the first time this morning, Vincent wished that he could cry. ‘My wife is dead,’ he whispered.

  ‘And Wolcroft’s kids?’

  ‘They were not Cornelius’ children. He brought them as a gift for Raquel when …’ Vincent glanced at the boy, who stared coldly back. ‘Yes,’ he answered flatly. ‘The children are dead.’

  ‘Is your house ruined?’

  ‘The upper floors are gone. The attics. The structure can be rebuilt, of course, but the occupants …’ He looked down at his hands, the already healing burns on his fingers and palms. ‘Not even the Bright Man can resuscitate ash.’

  ‘I gave the creature to your angel. I took it down those stairs.’

  Vincent nodded dully. ‘I think you saved our lives doing that, mine and Cornelius’. Had you not done so, I think the Bright Man would have sucked us dry.’

  ‘I didn’t do it to save you. I did it because Tina wanted me to. I thought I’d die afterwards … Why didn’t I die?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps because that particular creature and that particular symbiote are not meant for each other? Perhaps they do not fit quite perfectly and there is, even now, still something of the Bright Man’s power reaching out to us.’

  ‘I don’t want to live here forever, mister.’

  Vincent got to his feet and dropped the blanket into the boy’s lap. ‘That is up to you,’ he said. ‘You can always just walk away.’

  Joe squinted up at him, the rising sun in his eyes. ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘It’s time. I’ve had my fill. I need more, or I need nothing. Either will do. How about you?’

  The boy shook his head. He seemed terrified. If Vincent had been a different type of man he might have stooped and gripped his shoulder, or embraced him, or offered advice. But Vincent was what he was, and he had given all that he could give. The rest was up to Joe.

  ‘Here,’ he said, dropping the iron key into the boy’s hand. ‘In the old days, I’m told the Angel used to wander the woods. It used to stand sometimes by the pond and touch the water, and the old folk say it used to sing. Let it free. I cannot guarantee it, but I suspect that if you do, the pond will thaw and the creature within it will remain asleep – at least for so long as the Angel lives.’

  The boy closed his hand around the key but gave no sign that he would act. Once again, Vincent found he did not much care, and he turned away with no more words.

  Leaving the boy in the shadow of the ruins, Vincent took the path through the apple trees and down through the woods. Once he reached the lawns the whole world seemed to open up in frost and snow, a wide and careless, glittering expanse waiting but not caring either way if he came or went. Smiling, Vincent kept on walking, the house at his back, the world at his feet, not choosing a direction, just happy to be gone.

  The Persistent Woman

  Fargeal Manor, 1900

  THE GIRL DID NOT flinch as the door slammed open and the doctor ran out onto the porch. She had been expecting this violent exit. They had heard him within, running all the way from the top of the stairs, and the panic in his footsteps had been hard to miss.

  Cornelius, sitting on the top step on the opposite side of the porch from the girl, had to smile as the doctor passed between them. The terrified man was down the steps, out onto the gravel and halfway to the carriage before he could bring himself to a halt. Miss Kelly simply watched from the wrought-iron chair that Cornelius had had installed at the top of the steps for her, her expression resigned, as the doctor gathered his dignity, straightened his necktie, then rounded on her.

  ‘It is a poor thing, madam,’ he said, ‘to bring a professional man all this way, simply to play a practical joke upon him. Did you suppose I had nothing better to do with my time these past two days than to travel to the middle of nowhere for the amusement of you and your wealthy friends?’

  ‘You can do nothing for him, then?’ she asked.

  The doctor flung out his hands. ‘Do nothing for him?’ he cried. ‘There is nothing to be done! I do not know how you have managed it – I do not know why – but whatever your aims, young lady, whatever trick of confidence you hope to pull in order to separate the gullible from their money, I shall not be a party to it. That boy is as alive as I am,’ he yelled, pointing a shaking finger at the house. ‘He is as alive as I! I do not care what my eyes or ears or instruments tell me! I shall believe no other truth!’ He flung himself at the carriage and, in a storm of clumsiness, sealed himself inside with a slam.

  The girl sighed. ‘What is it he thought I was doing?’ she said.

  Cornelius shrugged. ‘That you were setting him up as witness to a phenomenon, perhaps, in order to cash in on the current trend for the supernatural?’ He looked gently at her. ‘It is for the best, Tina. What would you have done, had he actua
lly believed himself to be examining a dead man?’

  She winced and looked away. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  Examining her profile, Cornelius thought she looked much the same as the day he’d first met her. Except for her eyes, of course; her eyes were far older than those of the average twenty-seven-year-old.

  Not that I am one to talk about ancient eyes, he thought.

  ‘He won’t see me?’ she asked.

  ‘It has been ten years, Tina. He has never once come down to see you. When are you going to accept that he does not want you coming here?’

  ‘I really thought medicine would have caught up with him by now,’ she said. ‘I really did.’

  Cornelius did not bother to answer, and the two of them sat in silence a moment, looking out across the peaceful lawns and boating pond. The carriage horses huffed gently as the driver awaited his mistress’s orders. No doubt the big-city doctor was stewing away in there, anxious to be gone.

  Cornelius found himself smiling again. He never smiled so much as on these brief annual visits, sitting here with her on the porch. He would have liked for her to come inside, but he had long ago given up offering the courtesy. She would not enter the house until Joe himself invited her. Hence the wrought-iron seat.

  ‘I see Luke went ahead with his plans for the sheep.’ She indicated the lawn’s new fences and the flock of contented animals grazing there.

  Cornelius nodded without answering, his eyes travelling as a matter of course to Vincent’s beautiful horses grazing further down the land, closer to the pond. They had not aged at all in the last ten years, and neither had Cornelius’ dogs. Neither had Cornelius, for that matter. Neither had poor Joe.

  Tina was still talking about Luke and his precious sheep. ‘I’m glad he followed my advice,’ she said. ‘It’s a good flock to keep on this land: animals you can make cash from without having to kill. The villagers get an excellent crop of wool, I suspect?’

  He nodded again, thinking how much he had come to love this girl, and how close he had come to destroying her, and how she was wasting her life on all these long years of waiting.

  ‘Tina …’ he began.

  She spoke over him. ‘You’re looking well, Cornelius,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘I am an old man. That is all.’

  ‘You are a handsome and elegant man of about fifty or so,’ she said, smiling gently and looking at him from the corner of her eye. ‘You’d turn the head of any cat, dog or divil as looked at you.’

  This brought his eyes back to the horses again, and she followed his gaze. She seemed to hesitate, then she said, ‘He writes to Harry, you know.’

  She must have seen the shock in his face at that, the punched-in-the-belly hurt, because her mouth quirked up in sympathy.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never known if it would be the right thing, to tell you. But I always suspected you’d want to know.’

  ‘How … how is he?’

  ‘He is really well!’ she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows at the surprise of it. ‘Life on the yacht seems to be good for his condition. He doesn’t write often, but the last Harry heard he was docked in the Mediterranean, travelling Italy, I believe.’

  Cornelius did not know what to say. To his terrible shame, his eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘You never hear from him, Cornelius?’

  He shook his head. ‘Our men of business communicate. That is all.’

  Tina leaned across the wide space between them, squeezed his shoulder, and then sat back.

  ‘Have you …’ Cornelius cleared his throat. ‘Have you read his latest novel?’

  ‘I’ve read all his novels,’ she said. ‘But only in English. Saul tells me they’re much better read in their original French?’

  Cornelius couldn’t answer, and she looked away, giving him a moment.

  ‘It amuses me how everyone thinks he’s writing fiction. But I suppose the sea-going adventures of an immortal African pirate might be a little difficult for some to swallow as fact. He and Harry started corresponding after the first book was published. Harry was so surprised to hear he was still alive. They both realised the lake had changed them a little – changed their constitutions – and, well, you know what they’re like, them and their science. They began exchanging notes. I do think it’s become a friendship, though. Certainly Harry speaks fondly of him. “We Indestructible Men”, that’s how he refers to the two of them.’ She chuckled. ‘Harry and his titles. Everything must be a show.’

  ‘Tina,’ said Cornelius quietly, ‘you cannot keep returning here. It is not right.’

  She took a deep breath, as if gathering her patience, and tightened her hands on the head of her walking stick. The walking stick was very beautiful. One of his own, it was fashioned of silver-chased ebony, and hid a blade as sharp and light as a shaft of morning sunshine. Cornelius had given it to her when it became clear that she would never fully recover from the Angel’s damage. He had given it to her to steady her and to protect her – and because it reminded him of her.

  ‘I spent over two centuries trying to hold the people I love here, Tina – trying to make everything stand still, for myself. It poisoned everything. Joe doesn’t want that for you.’

  ‘Has he tried to leave again this year?’

  Cornelius nodded. ‘We got as far as the big town before I had to bring him back.’

  ‘So he’s getting better, then. Last year he couldn’t get half that far.’

  Cornelius spread his hands. ‘Tina, it’s been ten years. He will not see you. Are you going to keep doing this for the rest of your life?’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t. This is my last time. I told myself if he didn’t come out to me this year, I’d stop. I’ve had enough.’

  That was like a blow to him – the suddenness of it, the bluntness. Tina stood up, putting on her jacket, and nodded to her carriage driver that she was ready to go. Cornelius just sat there, looking up at her, unable to fathom the fact that she was leaving. That she was finally giving up. There would be no more.

  She stood with her hands on her cane, looking out over the grounds as if saying goodbye to them with her eyes. The sun showed a hint of her real age now: the lines that pain and long nights of hard work and a constant readiness to laugh had begun to etch around her eyes; the experience in those dark eyes; the depth of knowledge that those outside their little circle would never have.

  ‘It’s very peaceful here. Very calm.’ She said this every year. It was her way of letting him know that everything was well – that the creature which roamed the woods and which at night could be seen crouched above its reflection in the pond was still singing the monster to sleep.

  He almost reached for her then; almost said, Don’t go. But that was not what was needed here. That was not what was right. And so he remained silent while she pulled on her gloves, and said nothing when she lifted her bag.

  ‘Lord Wolcroft,’ she said, ‘I believe I have made good many times over on the investment you and Mr Vincent made in me. The factories that we own together and the cooperative workshops are all doing extremely well. My aunt’s grocery shops and her husband’s coal dealers are all ticking over nicely.’

  Thrown by the unexpectedly technical and business-oriented nature of her goodbye, Cornelius rose to his feet. ‘Uh, yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Very nicely.’

  ‘Very well. Then I suspect that you and Mr Vincent shall have no difficulty part-funding my latest enterprise?’ At his confused agreement, Tina nodded and began to make her way carefully down the steps.

  She was already on the gravel when he thought to ask, ‘What is the enterprise?’

  She turned to look back up at him. ‘I am moving to the country, Lord Wolcroft. I am setting up a wool mill, where I plan to produce quality tweeds and woollen cloths. I believe there is a village near to here where I might be successful in finding suitable properties.’

  ‘Tina!’

  ‘There are excellent sheep locall
y, and a good supply of clean water. The local landlord is kind to his tenants, so I hear, and much loved by them. I have a strong feeling that this particular village will survive whatever turmoil the future might bring us. In this turbulent country, that kind of stability is good for business, sir. I intend to exploit it.’

  ‘Tina, Joe would never allow you to move into the house.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of moving into the house. I’m moving to the village. I already have rooms booked in the guesthouse, and I have arranged with Luke to begin the construction of a home.’

  Cornelius was utterly lost for words, and in the face of his ongoing silence, Tina softened. She stepped forward and spoke gently, just for him.

  ‘It’s a perfectly sensible plan, Cornelius. He can’t go out into the world, and so, for as long as it’s necessary, I’ll bring the world to him.’

  ‘You cannot do this, Tina. He will not allow it.’

  She huffed, and turned to go. ‘And when was the last time, Cornelius Wolcroft, I let anyone tell me what to do?’

  She was at the carriage when the front doors opened. The boy stepped out, and they regarded each other in stillness across the shade and sunshine, ten years’ worth of silence falling down between them. Already he looked younger than her. But Cornelius thought that was all right: their eyes were very much the same.

  The girl lifted her chin, not smiling in the least. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You took your time.’

  The boy nodded. ‘Should have known it would be a wasted effort.’

  She continued to stare until he said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she nodded.

  He hesitated, not quite certain what to do. ‘Would … would you like to come in?’

  She looked from his face to the hall and back. ‘Actually, Joe, I think I’d prefer a walk.’