Such Wicked Intent

by Kenneth Oppel

  “Did they make the drawings in the caves?” I asked.

  “Ah, Victor,” said my father, turning. “I’m glad you’re back. Professor Neumeyer has been kind enough to take a look at our recent discovery.”

  “All too briefly,” he said, shaking my hand in a grip that was almost painful. “And, no, young sir, the Celts did not make those paintings. I believe they are altogether older.”

  “How much older?” Elizabeth asked.

  The professor shrugged his powerful shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like them. They were made no doubt by an ancient hunting culture. Look here.” He pulled something from his pocket. “Their tools were primitive but ingenious as well. This stick of carved bone is stained with pigment at both ends—an early brush, I believe.”

  “There were strange geometric symbols,” I said. “Did you see them?”

  The professor’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Indeed I did.”

  “They had language,” I said.

  “Ah, now there’s a question. Those markings seem purposeful, so I say yes. But it’s a codex I’ve never encountered. I made a transcription and mean to send it to a colleague of mine in France who discovered something similar in caves near Lascaux. I’m hopeful he’ll be able to translate them for me.” He looked at my father. “Alphonse, you’ve got a true treasure here. There are surely chambers and galleries yet to be discovered. I’d like to bring some artists to make a record of the paintings, and some colleagues to help make a thorough examination of the site.”

  My father nodded. “I’d never hinder such an undertaking. The house is open to you.”

  * * *

  “I’d like to go to Mass,” Elizabeth said as we were finishing a late lunch after the professor had departed.

  I knew that she only ever asked to go to Mass during a weekday when she was distraught. The last time was when Konrad was very ill and she’d wanted to light a candle for him. I had a fair idea what was bothering her, but it irritated me she was drawing attention to it. I looked over at Father, wondering if he suspected anything.

  But all he said, somewhat distractedly, was, “Of course. Victor and Henry can take you.”

  Before Konrad’s death it had always been his job to take Elizabeth to and from Mass in the nearby village of Bellerive, and he’d used this time alone with her, I later learned, to woo her. And she’d also used the time to slowly and secretly start converting him to the Church of Rome.

  As I drove the horse and carriage down the lake road, I couldn’t resist asking her playfully, “So are we leaving you at the church permanently? Have you chosen your wimple yet?”

  She tried to give me a withering look, but I could see the mirth behind her eyes.

  Sitting between us, Henry turned to her in genuine alarm. “You’re not serious! That’s not happening today, is it?”

  Elizabeth and I laughed together.

  “No, Henry,” she said. “I won’t be joining the convent just yet.”

  “Thank God,” murmured Henry.

  “Any day now, though,” I said, and then a worrying thought halted my chuckling. I looked at Elizabeth sternly. “You don’t mean to confess anything, do you?”

  “That’s really none of your business,” she said. “And even if I did, the priest is sworn to secrecy.”

  “This is true,” Henry said.

  “Still,” I said through gritted teeth, “it would be best if you didn’t go whispering our secrets to anyone else.”

  “Well,” said Elizabeth, unable to restrain a smile, “why not come right into the church with me, to make sure I don’t go on a whispering spree.”

  “I think I will,” I said as I guided the horses into the churchyard.

  “Good. Henry, you’re most welcome to join us too.”

  “I’ll wait outside, thank you,” said Henry, who worshipped at the Calvinist church.

  “Better hurry, Victor,” she said tauntingly over her shoulder as she lifted her skirts and ran toward the entrance. “I’m feeling very contrite. Who knows what I might confess!”

  I ran after her. During the service I waited at the back, watching Elizabeth like a hawk, to make sure she didn’t try to duck into a confessional booth. But she seemed intent only on her own prayers, and after a while I wandered into a side chapel where, above the altar, there was an oil painting of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.

  The Bible was not a book I was terribly familiar with, but this story I did know.

  In the picture Jesus radiated light, his hand outstretched toward Lazarus, whose body was still partially wound in burial linens. Yet his eyes were open, one arm flexed to help push himself upright. All around, people were staring in amazement. Some swooned; others wept in joy, or perhaps terror.

  I stared so long that I didn’t notice that parishioners were leaving the church, and that Elizabeth was at my side.

  “I might’ve slipped into confession without you knowing,” she said mischievously.

  “Did you?” I asked sharply.

  “No. It’s very moving, isn’t it?” She nodded at the painting.

  “Do you really believe such a thing can be done?” I asked her.

  “Of course. By God.”

  “Then why not ask Him?”

  She said nothing.

  “Have you asked?” I persisted.

  “Please don’t be disrespectful, here of all places.”

  I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I was genuinely curious. “Surely you want Konrad back as much as the rest of us. More, maybe. So why wouldn’t you ask, if you believed in such astonishing power?”

  “Miracles were rare even when Jesus walked the earth. Lazarus was a friend of His, and people needed to believe, to know He was the son of God.”

  I stared back at the painting, at the power emanating from Jesus’s body like a corona.

  “Is it because you don’t really believe it can be done?” I asked.

  She sighed. “When Konrad died, I prayed for his soul to go straight to heaven. Death is part of life, Victor. I hate it, but I’ve accepted it.”

  “When he died,” I told her, “I made myself a promise at the crypt. I promised myself I would bring him back.”

  “That was not a good promise.”

  I pointed at the painting. “What if I can achieve the same thing?”

  She put her fingers to my lips to stop me.

  I grabbed her hand. “Please come and help me.”

  Slowly she shook her head.

  “Henry and I will go alone, then,” I said with a sigh, releasing her hand. I looked down, forlorn, but watched her from the corner of my eye. “Konrad will miss you. When I think of him in there alone… Well, he’s got Analiese, of course. She must be a great comfort to him.”

  “Can’t you see I’m at war with myself?” she whispered, her eyes wet. “I want him back! My memory of him is so intense, it mocks reality.”

  “Then help me make a new reality.”

  The church’s stained glass darkened briefly as a cloud passed over the sun.

  “God is the sovereign master of life, Victor, not us.”

  “Rules, and then more rules,” I muttered savagely. “They can all be broken. You love him too much to let this chance pass!”

  Her breath slipped out of her, and I sensed her resolve falter.

  “You don’t know what it cost me, going in just that once,” she said, and then with resignation added, “I may already have eternally damned myself.”

  I grinned. “In that case what do you have to lose?”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE STONE BOOK

  A DROP UPON THE TONGUE AND WE ARE HERE, ALL THREE.

  I sit up on my bed and turn to Henry, seated in the chair at my desk, hands in his lap, eyes just opening. Here is my oldest friend, and yet it takes me a moment to recognize him. His frame seems more substantial, the lines of his once slender face wider, his wispy hair more abundant, the jaw harder.

  “Why’re you staring at me?” he ask
s.

  Because you’re transformed, I think. But instead I say, “How do you feel?”

  His nostrils flare and he smiles. “Fine.”

  He opens his hand and regards his talisman—a bit of folded paper. An odd choice, I think, and a mysterious one, for he wouldn’t show us what was written on it. He slips it into his pocket, and when he stands, he stands taller.

  I look over at Elizabeth in my armchair, radiant with beauty. As she pulls her hair bracelet over her slender wrist, she looks at Henry, surprised and intrigued—and with a sting I know that she too has noticed his change. Her hazel eyes swing over to me, appraising, then slide away.

  The faint ticking in my hand draws my eye to the spirit watch, and I see the fetal sparrow limb jerk slightly to the right. Outside my window the eerie white mist coils and moans, and the glass shudders. Henry looks over sharply.

  “This is the evil spirit?” he asks.

  “Don’t be afraid. It can’t come in,” I say.

  “I’m not afraid,” he says, so calmly I believe him.

  “Good,” I say, but I’m not at all sure I’m happy with this new, more confident Henry.

  We leave my bedchamber, and as we walk down the hallway, I notice that Elizabeth lets Henry walk between us, as if she’s trying to keep me at a distance. Is she afraid we might touch and become overwhelmed once more? But any pleasure this thought gives me is tempered with jealous anger. I don’t want her to be able to control her attraction to me here. I smile to myself. We will see how long she can resist me.

  All around us the house seems to pulse, remembering itself. As we make our way down the hallway, we check for Konrad and finally find him in the library. Analiese is with him, and they sit side by side at a table, their heads practically touching as they look over a book. Her fingers stroke absently at her earlobe. I sneak a glance at Elizabeth and see an expression I’ve never before seen on her face—undisguised jealousy.

  And then Konrad squints and turns toward us, a hand shielding his eyes.

  “You’re back!” he calls out. “And, Henry? Is that you?”

  “It is,” our blond friend says.

  Konrad stands, takes an eager step toward us, forgetting for a moment our searing heat that keeps him at a distance of some five feet. “I’d clasp hands with you if I could,” he says. He gives a chuckle and adds, “I must say, Henry, I’m amazed that Victor bullied you into coming.”

  “I didn’t need so much bullying,” Henry replies amicably, but with an uncharacteristic firmness. “I wanted to see you, Konrad, and this place for myself.”

  “Hello, Konrad,” says Elizabeth.

  “Hello,” he returns, and then almost guiltily adds, “I’ve been teaching Analiese to read.”

  “How wonderful,” says Elizabeth with a smile so sincere, it’s almost frightening. “Is he a good teacher, Analiese?”

  “Very good, miss. No one ever taught me my letters, and he’s very patient with me.”

  “Nonsense, you’re learning splendidly,” Konrad says. “And it passes the time. It seems an age since you were last here.”

  Swiftly my eyes move about the room, and I see his saber resting atop a shelf of books.

  “You’ve been safe?” I ask him.

  He nods and adds quietly, “But the sounds are getting more frequent.”

  “Sounds?” asks Henry, looking at me. “You didn’t mention anything about strange sounds.” His expression is somewhat accusing, though nowhere near as alarmed as I’d expected.

  “Just a rather noisy houseguest,” I say lightly.

  “Where?” he asks.

  “No one knows, sir,” says Analiese.

  “Look, butterflies!” Elizabeth says, head tilted up.

  I turn and see three of them. They flit among us expectantly. Henry inhales sharply when one lands upon his arm, and watches, enthralled, as the creature’s wings begin to radiate color.

  “Incredible,” he murmurs as it flutters away.

  One grazes Elizabeth’s hair, glowing amber, and then moves on.

  The third one circles over me and then settles on my shoulder. At the exact moment of contact, I feel my mind sharpen.

  “Yours doesn’t fly away,” Henry says, with what I think is a hint of envy.

  “I’m naturally attractive,” I say, and then turn to my brother. “I was hoping I might enlist your help.”

  Konrad squints over at me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even separated by death, my twin knows me well. “What is it you’re planning, Victor?”

  I take a breath. The butterfly still sits on my shoulder, and somehow its mere presence speeds my mind, as though I can see deeper into the future. “I’m planning on bringing you back to us.”

  A small gasp comes from Analiese. Konrad sinks back down in his chair, head bent.

  “Victor, don’t—”

  “Please, just listen—”

  “Victor!” he shouts, looking up angrily. “This isn’t fair. I was resigned to my fate. And then, seeing you…” His gaze strays to Elizabeth and remains so long that he winces, a hand flying up to cover his eyes. “I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse. I see your lives, blazing from you like you’re gods! But I can’t share that light. I can’t even touch you!”

  “Soon,” I tell him.

  “No. This is like dangling a rope to a drowning man who can’t quite reach it. It’s too cruel. We’ve chased after mirages before, Victor. Don’t make me any more promises.”

  “I have nothing to promise,” I tell him. “But you have nothing to lose.”

  This silences him for a moment, and once more I see his eyes stray to Elizabeth, his heart’s desire.

  “So what exactly is this plan of yours?” he asks.

  “It begins,” I tell him, “in the Dark Library.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth, Henry, and I sit at the same table where we once pored over alchemical tomes, trying to find a miraculous cure for Konrad. Only, this time he is with us, at a far table where our heat and light will not blind and sear him.

  Analiese is not here. She said she’d be of no help to us, as she can’t read. But I sense she’s afraid, and perhaps disapproving. When I opened the secret panel to the staircase, she drew back and said she never knew such a place existed. She is even more pious than Elizabeth.

  Within the Dark Library the shelves sag under the weight of books. Every volume that ever resided here is now present, though not all are visible at first. The very oldest ones—those that weren’t here in my time, or perhaps even my father’s—are hidden at first. But stare long and hard at the shelves, and phantom tomes shimmer before your eyes. Touch them, and they gain substance. I show Elizabeth and Henry how to see through layers of time, and together we gather armloads of books and pile them high.

  “This will be a great deal of work,” says Henry, blowing air from his cheeks. “We can’t achieve it all in one visit.”

  “We’ll see,” I say, drawing the spirit clock from my pocket.

  As if anticipating my plan, the butterfly, which for some reason has refused to leave my shoulder, flutters down to my hand.

  “What are you doing?” Henry asks.

  With my finger I touch the glass above the fetal sparrow leg. I close my eyes, focusing my mind’s energy into a column of power, as dark and thick as ink.

  Slower…

  I lift the clock to my ear.

  Tick . . . tick . . . . . . tick.

  . . . and yet slower still . . .

  Tiiickkk . . . . . . . . . Tiiiiiickkkkkk . . . . . . . . .

  And then a long silence in which I count many beats of my own heart before the clock gives another languorous tick.

  “Hah!” I cry exultantly, holding it out to Elizabeth. “I’ve slowed it even more than last time. It scarcely moves now!”

  “How is this possible?” Henry demands, taking the clock from Elizabeth and listening.

  “It’s possible,” I tell him.

  I feel sudde
nly bereft as the butterfly lifts from my hand and circles about the room.

  “Is it safe, though?” Henry says. “Our bodies are waiting for us, and they need—”

  “Our bodies will be fine!” I say dismissively. “I did it last time. Elizabeth saw it.”

  “You were a second longer than the first,” Henry says. “I timed it exactly.”

  “A second!” I scoff. “What does it matter? Time is completely different here, and I have mastered it! As long as we stay only one full revolution, we’re safe!”

  Henry glances at Elizabeth.

  “If you’re worried, Henry Clerval,” I say, “you can always go back.”

  “No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s make use of all this time you’ve bought us.”

  “Excellent!” I say.

  Konrad catches the books I toss to him, and he sets to work as well, searching like us for any writings about raising the dead.

  “There are many accounts of revenants,” says Henry, paging through a volume, “but they aren’t promising stories.”

  “What’s a revenant?” Elizabeth asks.

  “A mindless corpse that rises from its grave, stalks about town, eats livestock and people, and then gets hacked to pieces by the townsfolk.”

  “Don’t waste your time on that,” I tell him. “That’s not what we want.”

  “No,” he replies, “but we’ll not find what we want unless we read everything carefully.”

  He’s right, and it irks me that he’s moving through the texts faster than I am, but this spirit world makes us more of what we are, and Henry has always been very clever with languages. I return to my own book, struggling with the Latin and the crude Gothic lettering.

  A butterfly—is it the same one as earlier, or different?—suddenly alights on my hand. I look at its rainbow-hued wings and then past them to the text beneath my fingertips, and—

  I feel a coursing of language through my head, the Latin translating itself with such speed that my breath catches and I cough, as though I’ve swallowed too much water.