My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  “Adieu, sweet Isabelle!” Mr. Godfell bowed with a flourish. “If the draft riots don’t swallow me into President Lincoln’s war, I shall come to collect my new piece of artwork. You will be paid, none the less.”

  Look too long at that smile and you’d blind yourself.

  The door thudded closed, leaving her alone in her studio with the tools of her trade.

  In her grasp was the amethyst.

  How did it get there? She hadn’t reached for it. It snugged secure in her palms on a bed of Demand Notes in ten and twenty denominations. Shouldn’t it be heavier? For its size, Isabelle expected a leaden burden, but it was light as a chicken egg.

  Swirling, purple mists dragged her deeper into the amethyst. Sizzling yellow flashes flickered within. Thunderheads rumbled over an ancient land, licking distant mountains with golden tongues of lighting. Ponds and streams trembled. Trees shivered, rustling their anxiety.

  He wants a landscape. It’ll be the most unusual of landscapes. Mother was right. My imagination is running like a high-strung horse.

  The next two weeks Isabelle didn’t leave her studio or apartment. Her days were spent alternating between sleeping, eating and painting. There was no plan, no sketch to follow, simply the undulating fog within the amethyst. It coiled through her mind. Isabelle could almost hear it encouraging her. Let go. Create.

  Her imagination took flight. For once there was freedom for her to do so, and it was liberating. After so many years doing exactly the “right thing” and painting only what mother said was “acceptable for a lady”, Isabelle was given unfettered freedom. The deeper she stared into the gem, the more she saw. The more she saw, the more she reveled in her release. A landscape formed.

  The mountains were rough, broken teeth with bared nerves. A building appeared, blocky with a domed roof, hunched against the ineffability of the coming storm. Trees leaned against the building like runners too tired to take another step. A small pond, linked to the mountains by a stream, quaked to the roar of thunder. Lightning flickered in pairs, unholy dancers whose feet tossed up stone and carved their steps into the peaks. Purples, blues, greens and gold spread across the amethyst’s surface. The smell of ozone, dry earth and the organic scent of rotting wood filled her nose. She could feel the grit of cracked soil grinding under foot. Stone crumbled under her fingers in a fine, chalky dust.

  Isabelle blinked. A prickling set into the skin. Her brush hovered over the amethyst sitting in a brass tripod perched on her workbench. She was daydreaming. It wasn’t possible to feel and smell all that from a painting. Her breath expanded against the bodice of her dress. Too tight, her dress was too tight. She needed to unlace the corset underneath, needed to breathe. Her brush fell. She scrabbled at her smock, throwing it off. Cloth ripped. Her hands flailed at her blouse buttons.

  Need to breath!

  Too slow! Her fingers shook. It felt like she’d lost control of all movement. Button by painful button her blouse opened, and ripped one off completely. With a pop it flew and fell with a clatter. She floundered with the corset’s strings, unable to find where the knot began or ended. Spots of color swam between her and her studio. The sound of her own breathing was far away, like she was listening to someone else pant through a wool blanket.

  Pallet knife, it would have to do. She snatched one and sawed at the lacings. They shredded, then snapped, but offered no relief. Unsteady fingers yanked at the strings until a great gush of blessed air filled her lungs. Isabelle panted. Doubled over, she braced her arms against her knees and waited for colors to stop using her eyes for swimming holes.

  Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to look at the amethyst. Not yet. Every limb was a telegraph wire set on fire. Instead, she stumbled up the stairs that lead to her apartment. Somehow she made it to the wash closet. A cool porcelain sink beneath her palms steadied her. Slowly, it helped her focus on a reality that was here and now, not a fictional world tearing itself asunder. In the tiny mirror over her sink she saw her face for the first time in days.

  “I’m a mess.”

  Hair escaped neatly ordered curls and hair pins. Skin had gone pale. Isabelle couldn’t tell the difference between the dark circles under her eyes and the paint smudges. A quick survey showed she’d need new lacings for the corset, and her blouse was ripped from neck to armpit. She’d have to change, but no corset. Breathing this deeply at the moment was far too valuable to sacrifice for fashion.

  Yet, Isabelle was exhilarated! To think she could create with such passion. Fresh life coursed in rivers through her veins. Her hair, wild as it was made her look like a free spirit ready to dance in the forest. Was this what it felt like to be unhindered? So many years of repression receded to the background.

  A hollow knocking from her studio door interrupted Isabelle’s musings.

  Night had fallen already. Isabelle hadn’t been aware of the passage of time. A glance at her clock showed both hands inching towards midnight.

  “Blazes! What coot is out this late?”

  Isabelle’s mother would have swooned to hear the vulgarity pouring from her lips. Tainted water from a boiling well, she’d call it. Mother wasn’t here. However, someone else was and Isabelle, too tired and confused to care about propriety, needed to shoo them away.

  Plucking a wool shawl from her bed, Isabelle swaddled her shoulders for extra modesty. No time to worry about making her hair presentable. The knocking persisted. Her footfalls pounded down the stairs.

  Thud, thud, thud…

  Whoever entreated was insistent. They rapped with measured beats against heavy oak. Isabelle glanced out the curtained window of her studio, hoping the riots had quieted for the night. Beyond, swathed in gloom, was a woman. The ominous outline hovered on Isabelle’s stoop, weighing it with an ill-omened presence.

  Thud, Thud……Thud….

  All Isabelle needed was to open the door a crack and see who was outside. The chain lock stayed latched. Quivering fingers clutched her shawl.

  Why am I shaking?

  As though magnetized, her eyes slid to the amethyst. It rested innocent as a babe in its bassinet, supported by its tripod.

  Foolish. It’s the riots. They’ve been brutal lately.

  Thud, Thud, Thud!

  Isabelle opened the door just enough to let a slice of light fall on the woman’s features. What struck her first were the eyes. Staring back were pools of green acid, a predator’s flat gaze freezing prey in place. A voice in her head screamed to close the door. She should run. Running was an excellent idea, but her legs had turned to tree roots and wouldn’t move.

  Isabelle forced her eyes to focus on the woman’s face. Angular features, cheek bones that seemed to stretch the skin, pale and lovely in an alien manner. Cascading in neat ringlets was a mane of spun gold. Her russet colored dress hissed over the cobbled front stoop as she adjusted her weight. A heavy, fur muff concealed her hands. The woman stood with a queenly aura. Her commanding stature loomed in Isabelle’s door silently, demanding entry.

  She was the kind of woman Isabelle’s mother would have delighted in entertaining. The woman was elegance incarnate. The impression of importance was everything her mother aspired for Isabelle. That alone was enough for Isabelle to mistrust her.

  “I’m closed, Ma’am. If you want a commission you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  Time yawned. The stranger in the doorway may have well been a statue.

  “Bold as brass, aren’t you,” the woman purred. “Smart enough to know fear when it touches you, but not smart enough to run from it. It’s a wonder your species has prospered.”

  “Excuse me?” Anger lent Isabelle courage. How dare this woman!

  “I don’t have time to prattle. Let me in.”

  “Bugger off!” Isabelle shut the door.

  Arrogant witch! Who did she think she was?

  Turning her back to the door, Isabelle clutched her shawl around her. An involuntary shiver took her. Instinct told Isabelle something was very wrong. A f
oreboding fist clenched onto her mind. What if that woman was a killer? Her eyes were frigid. At least there was solid lumber and stone between her and the woman.

  A dull boom walloped her in the back. It shoved Isabelle hard with invisible fists, sending her to her knees. Wood snapped, and cracked. Shrapnel in the form of tiny arrows swarmed in a cloud through her studio. Isabell ducked her head.

  “It wasn’t a question,” said an arctic voice. “Where’s the egg?”

  Hissing filled Isabelle’s ears. Dry rustling scrapped over the floor like parched leaves on sand.

  What egg? Did she mean the amethyst?

  When Isabelle lifted her head to reply, she viewed a brute out of a nightmare, mottled scales and venom. The woman was gone. Her dress still remained, but wearing it was a thing. A human face was replaced with reptilian angles. Spittle spattered and sizzled from lethal fangs on the floor, burning holes where the drops struck. Horns arched back from the golden curls. And the eyes! Horrible, corrosive orbs fixed Isabelle in place. Overlong arms supported the serpentine bulk. Two undulating tails ended in snapping python heads. When it sucked in to hiss at her, a ripping and popping could be heard as the bodice burst like a water main under too much pressure.

  RUN! A voice not her own shrilled in her head.

  She tried. One foot caught in her skirts and she was back to sprawling on the floor. Laughter surrounded her in a harsh wave. Some instinct demanded she move, and move now, propelling electricity through her. Isabelle rolled as far away from the creature as she could. A heavy object smashed into her arms, then hammered down on her back. Isabelle didn’t dare stop. She rolled until she hit an object that didn’t give.

  Following her was a path of destruction. The floor looked as though it were torn up from beneath, long spears of splintered timber sticking out like broken ribs. Her easel lay like a wounded animal in the chasm splitting her studio. That must have been what she crashed into while she rolled away. Chaos poured over what used to be a floor, paint, brushes, bottles and other debris carpeting the room. Following it was the monster.

  How could a creature that big move so fast? A heaving wave of serpentine power surged towards her. It blurred, then a vice clenched around her neck, supernaturally strong claws lifting her like a rag doll. Sickish sweet breath clogged her nose. The beast’s face filled her vision.

  “The egg,” It hissed. “Where is it?”

  “There…!” Isabelle croaked. She clutched a forearm as thick as her calf, trying to relieve the choke hold. Sandpaper scales scraped her palms. Isabelle’s right hand flapped feebly in the amethyst’s direction.

  “Take it….”

  “Miserable ape! You think me a fool? There’s nothing there!”

  “There….” Isabelle rasped, “It’s there! Take it!”

  Please, Isabelle prayed. Just take the damn thing and leave. God in Heaven! Please!

  “And I thought I had a flamboyant entrance,” intoned an amused voice.

  The thing twisted. In the doorway stood Mr. Godfell, cavalierly leaned on what was left of the frame, picking at the splinters.

  “YOU!” The demon raged. Her grip on Isabelle’s neck constricted.

  “Me.”

  “I know what you intend! Where is it? Tell me or your trollop dies!”

  Anger snarled inside Isabelle, a beast as terrible as the one holding her captive. Too much happened tonight. Reason snapped. She would not be terrorized. And she would not be insulted. Isabelle found a large, hard object. But the dreaded face was too far for her to reach. With everything she had, Isabelle slammed it down on the creature’s elbow.

  A flash, then a curdling yelp answered her blow. Air rushed into Isabelle’s lungs. Rage’s fire burned through every muscle, torched her vision. She slammed her new bludgeoning tool into the fell thing’s face repeatedly.

  “I am no one’s trollop!” Isabelle hit twice more.

  The monster shrieked and thrashed. Snake headed tails crashed into wall, ceiling and floor. In her hand, smeared in black ichor was the amethyst she painted.

  Someone grabbed her by the waist and, with impossible speed, rushed her through the ruins of her studio to the street. Wind rumbled in her ears. They stopped. Mr. Godfell grinned wide and proud, an imp all too pleased with his prank.

  “My dear woman, you were savage as a meat axe! Rather enjoyable to watch.”

  “What is that,” Isabelle gasped. Her fragmented doorway gaped like the empty socket of a skull. All around, the streets were deserted save a furtive movement in the ink of night. Not one neighbor stirred their curtains.

  But the noise…it has to have been heard!

  “At least you humans haven’t lost all your survival skills,” Mr. Godfell stated cheerfully. “Bully for them.”

  Just as Isabelle was about to ask what he meant, the night was shattered by an inhuman screech.

  “Time to go to hell across lots.”

  Isabelle was dragged down the street. Her feet couldn’t keep up, skipping and catching on every stone. The amethyst pressed against her skin, a weight dragging her to the ground. Clutching her other hand was a beautiful lunatic. At their back, raging in all its agony was a wrathful demon.

  “You’re corned!” Isabelle panted.

  “My dear, I haven’t touched a drop of spirits all week.”

  Mr. Godfell lifted her again. Off they flew with hell on their heels, splintering her studio’s wall. Her hair became an obscuring veil. Homes and businesses were indistinct smudges against a stygian sky. Curses trailed them. Cradled against her breast the amethyst was cold, smooth and pulsing with a faint heartbeat.

  This isn’t happening. It’s my heart I’m hearing, thudding so hard it’s making my fingers quake.

  They halted at a small chapel, hunched like a poor man against the elements.

  Mr. Godfell pivoted to face a street consumed by eerie silence. He held out a hand, bestowing a small vial glistening with red oil to the heavens. His nose gave a rabbit like twitch. The vial’s cork opened with a soft pop. Oil rolled out like molten glass to form a tiny planet floating above his palm. Mr. Godfell’s eyes glowed brilliant. A smirk touched his face. The ball exploded as though hit by a bullet, spraying in a fine, then finer mist until invisible.

  “Give her a snoot full of that. “ He laughed quietly. An eye winked at her. “Most concentrated chili oil a person can find. Saved that just for her. Once she sniffs hot sauce…Ha!”

  Stunned, Isabelle stared. That wasn’t possible. What she saw wasn’t real, but a figment of an overwrought imagination and working too late in the night on mystery paintings. It was a dream. She’d wake up any moment with her head on her work bench, smeared in paint.

  “In we go,”

  The iron enforced portals of the chapel creaked open without being touched.

  Not real. He must have unlocked it when I wasn’t looking, pushed it ajar… right?

  Inside, doors clicked shut on her sanity. The building wasn’t big enough for more than ten pews on either side. A small altar and cross slumped at the front. Windows donned dusty coats. Behind the altar were tattered chairs for the priest and altar boys. Mr. Godfell uttered a word. Candles were lit. The sallow glow from fat tallows made everything look like an influenza patient on their last days.

  “I must be corned as well,” Isabelle muttered.

  “You don’t look the type to indulge beyond a glass of wine once a month.”

  “This… none of this… that THING…” Once again the amethyst made its presence known. Glacial and heavy, filling her hands like a curse and vibrating with some old energy forgotten to men.

  She nearly ran to the man then, walking so fast that she tripped on a torn hem. When Mr. Godfell made to catch her she thrust the object into his chest. No more. She wanted none of this.

  “Take it! This madness you brought… Take it and leave me be!”

  Tears tracked hot, itchy trails down her cheeks. Without waiting to see if he would catch the amethyst she rushed on to th
e altar and fell before it.

  Our Father, who art in Heaven…

  A breath exhaled behind her.

  …Hallowed be thy name…

  “Isabelle,”

  “Thy Kingdome come. Thy will be done…”

  “My poor, dear Isabelle,” Mr. Godfell lamented. “I brought this to you, yes. And for that I am truly sorry. You must believe, I never thought Echidna would track you down. I thought my spells too clever. She’s as old as I, unfortunately, and knows about as many tricks.”

  “Echidna. That’s what its name is…” In spite of herself she turned to face him. Some perverse part of her was actually curious. Why would she want to know? After all that terror, why learn more? Survival?

  Handsome Mr. Godfell, that’s what he always was when he visited her studio for his portrait. His rakish grin charmed the universe. That hint of sin. Eyes that would make the sky seem dull on a bright day. His raven hair was now deep blue, richer and truer than any royal patron’s robes. Ears, long and delicately pointed arched back from his features.

  No. It’s not just survival. Part of her looked at Mr. Godfell and saw all her precious fantasies come to life. There had been freedom. A creative drive she hadn’t felt since she drew her first piece of art. With him Isabelle had dared, just a little bit, to day dream. Day dream turned real and the monster, Echidna, was the other side of the coin. For every dream there is a nightmare.

  “It is. The Grecian Mother of Monsters herself. Echidna. Oh, Isabelle. You have such a gift that I could never achieve. I was loathe to have anyone paint the egg, but I needed someone with your specific skills.” His voice turned passionate, “You have a rare talent for so much more than mere portraits! There’s actual magic in what you do. Real magic. Without your skill, it wouldn’t have become what it needed to be.

  Isabelle’s attention hadn’t traveled past his pointed ears.

  “You’re an elf. Grandmother told me about elves. Mother didn’t believe.”