by Lara Parker
He looked up, showing a quizzical mask. Elizabeth was still a beauty. This morning her lustrous black hair was pulled away from her face, and she wore the pearl necklace of which he was so fond. Her voice was husky with privilege, her speech rolling and long-voweled, with the slightly nasal intonation of upper-class Americans.
“What is it?” Barnabas asked ingenuously.
“You will be devastated, I’m afraid,” she said. She still resembled the debutante who at seventeen had graced her father’s arm at the ball. Her skin was, he thought to himself, very much like the cup he held in his hand, the purest Irish porcelain, snow-white, tissue-thin, and translucent. At this moment heavy lashes shadowed her ebony eyes, and a small wrinkle of concern centered itself on her brow.
“Why, whatever has happened? Tell me, Elizabeth, please.”
“Last night … the Old House caught fire and burned to the ground.”
“You’re not serious!” Barnabas lifted his napkin to his mouth. He could feel a blood vessel throbbing in his temple.
“I’m surprised you weren’t awakened.”
“Why, no. I heard nothing. Nothing at all. How distressing!” His lips touched the smooth surface of the linen, and he was struck by his immediate tendency toward mendacity. Lies came easily, as though they were the very substance of his thoughts.
“Willie saw it first,” Elizabeth continued. “He was up before dawn, saw the smoke, and roused Mrs. Johnson, who came to me with the news. We called the fire brigade, but by the time they arrived, the house was very nearly gone.”
“Was … anything saved?” Barnabas asked.
“The skeleton, the columns. But the interior is gutted I’m afraid. Oh, Barnabas, I am so very sorry.”
“Shocking … really…”
“My God! What’s all the fuss?” came a contemptuous voice from the end of the table. “We’re well rid of that old cadaver.” Roger—the patriarch of the family, silver-blond and aristocratic—spoke with the glacial disdain and the cultivated speech patterns of a Shakespearean actor. His heavy blond brows curved in the center to hold a permanent frown in place, the only disturbing feature of a perfectly chiseled face. “I thought you said, my dear man, that it was to be demolished today?”
“Yes. It was,” answered Barnabas. “The crew is scheduled to arrive sometime this morning. This only makes it easier for them, I suppose.” He was amazed at the congeniality of his tone. It was as though someone else were speaking. “Now they can push it all away with a bulldozer.”
“Perfectly serendipitous then,” Roger observed.
At that moment, a young boy of about fifteen years of age, sandy-haired and robust, bounded into the dining room and slipped into his seat.
“I want to go to the Old House! When can I go and see it, Aunt Elizabeth?” he cried, reaching for the sugared cinnamon rolls.
“Not until we are certain the fire is all out, David,” said Elizabeth.
“But I want to look through the ashes for souvenirs!”
“And I insist that you first study your lessons,” she said sternly, and David groaned, slumping in his chair.
Elizabeth turned to Barnabas. “How do you think the fire could have started? There was no lightning last night. The moon was full, and the sky clear.”
“Maybe the Old House chose its own way to go,” mused Carolyn. She was a restless girl and often bored, spoiled by privilege and wanting more of life. What set her apart from other girls—other than pale blue eyes and a sharp tongue—and gave her an aching prettiness, was her hair, long and golden, cascading like a shimmering waterfall below her shoulders.
“The sooner we sell the property, the better,” Roger continued, “to some upwardly mobile young couple, I suppose, who will build a modern monstrosity dedicated to conspicuous consumption and give exquisitely boring parties.” The frown on his forehead deepened and his ice-blue eyes narrowed. “It goes without saying that we will all be invited, and they will feel the necessity of playing that atrocious music. I can’t for the life of me imagine what people appreciate in that toneless drivel.”
“Well, Uncle Roger, you won’t have to go,” Carolyn said. Nothing would have suited her more than a party with atrocious music. She turned to Barnabas. “So, Cousin Barnabas, how do you think it happened?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What started the fire?”
“Why, I have no idea.” His starched collar had begun to bind, and he regretted his morning attempts at sartorial splendor.
“Are you sure you didn’t sneak down there and do the dirty deed yourself, just to save the price of the demolition?”
Barnabas was startled at how close she came to the truth. He could see the humor glinting in her eyes and the sly smile on her face. He hesitated. Perhaps the truth was better. What did it matter? But he could not make himself be honest.
“I think the wrecking crew will be needed nevertheless, to carry the carcass away,” he found himself saying.
“Do they have one of those cool cranes with a huge, swinging ball?” asked David. Elizabeth frowned at him for interrupting.
“You must go over there immediately, Barnabas, and ascertain the cause of the fire,” Roger said.
Julia looked up at him in alarm. “Why does Barnabas need to go?”
“Why? Because the last thing we want are rumors of an arsonist at large, sheriff involved, that sort of thing.”
“But Willie has already told Elizabeth, there’s hardly anything left. Surely he doesn’t need to bother…”
“It’s clearly Barnabas’s responsibility to take an interest in estate matters. We have had several inquiries since the property went on the market. Anything which would affect the selling price should be of concern to you as well, Julia, if”—Roger spoke dryly, with irritation—“you are indeed to become a member of the family.” He had been waiting with ill-disguised impatience for Barnabas to become involved in the business, ever since his appearance—a long-lost cousin from England, with some claim to the family fortune. And now, the proposed marriage gave Roger even greater cause for concern.
Barnabas felt uncomfortable under Roger’s keen focus. His throat tightened, and his collar constrained his breathing as though it were a noose. The necessities of his cure had entailed constant excuses and compromises and, naturally, absence during the entire day, which had only served to annoy Roger and cause him to question both Barnabas’s integrity and his sense of purpose.
“I must insist that you investigate, then bring yourself into town this afternoon. We’ll have a meeting in my office. There are many things we need to discuss, not merely the fire at the Old House, but other matters more pressing.”
“But Roger, Barnabas has been very ill,” Elizabeth said softly to her brother. “He needs time to recuperate. Isn’t that true, Julia?”
“Yes. Yes that’s entirely right,” agreed Julia, attempting to keep her voice calm and professional. “The last thing we want is a relapse. Time. And rest. And the love and support of his family.” She glanced at Roger and smiled genuinely in response to his irritable glare. But Roger ignored her, threw down his napkin, and rose from the table. He turned to Barnabas.
“You arranged for the demolition, against my better judgment, if you recall. I thought the Old House was better sold as an historical monument. Now it has become an eyesore. I assume the trucks are still coming. At the very least, I would be grateful to you if you would deal with these difficulties today. Providing it’s not too much of a strain.” He turned and left the room.
* * *
A nervous Julia drove Barnabas around by the road, and they turned in at the long colonnade of plane trees, newly leafed in green, their painted trunks lifted in strong and graceful arches over the avenue. He dreaded what was to come, and he tried to clear his mind of all thought until they at last reached the smoking hulk.
They parked the Bentley and got out. It was a warm spring morning, and the air was sweet with the fragrance of bloom. Throughout th
e grounds, thousands of jonquils nodded in clumps of butter yellow; dogwood floated like filmy clouds, so delicate his heart ached. Barnabas longed to enjoy the daylight, with all its joyous gifts, but he could not escape the melancholy that seemed to reside within him. He sighed, and Julia took his hand.
“So you heard nothing? You slept soundly?” she said.
“Of course, I always sleep soundly,” he said indifferently.
She knew the reverse was true, and he could sense her concern. As they drew nearer, Barnabas could feel the ache in his shoulders tighten and his head begin to throb.
Smoke was rising from the charred remains, but there were still pieces of iron balustrade lacing the roof, and he could see the massive columns yet standing, their fleshy trunks and classic crowns, like a long line of sentinels, circling the house—thirty-two graceful pillars lifting the yawning roof out over the porticos.
“Barnabas, you must try not to let it upset you.”
“But, Julia, I am not in the least disturbed,” he said, still remaining dispassionate, though his chest felt in the grip of a vise and the air seemed too scorched to breathe. The coolness of his demeanor was amazing even to him; the memory of the night, its visions and demons, was becoming a dimly remembered dream.
A bird sang in a tree beside the lawn, a fluting sound, followed by a trill and a quick rattle. It could have been three different birds, but Barnabas remembered the song.
“Listen,” he said, “a mockingbird, practicing his repertoire.” Julia smiled at him and took his arm as they approached the house. Embers still smoked, and a sickly odor rose from the ashes. Barnabas stepped gingerly through the debris, recognizing an odd piece of furniture, but he was relieved to see that almost everything was destroyed. It was difficult to find traces of the walls, and the huge brick fireplace was a blackened pile. All the while, the mockingbird whistled and chucked. Barnabas caught sight of him sitting on the highest point of the ruined chimney, flicking his tail.
A quarter hour’s search revealed nothing significant, and their hands were grimy with ash and soot, when Barnabas finally said to Julia, “As you heard at breakfast, I’m bound to stop in at Roger’s office this afternoon. Is there anything you might do in town? If so, you could accompany me.”
“Nothing pressing, but I’ll be happy to go with you,” she called, wandering a little away. “What about the crew?”
“They don’t seem to be coming, do they? Let’s be off.” Thinking that perhaps he need never return to this site, he started for the car.
That was when Julia called out and stooped over something on the ground. Reluctantly, Barnabas came back to her side and looked down at her feet. He was shocked to see a small book, dusted with grime but intact, lying there. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands.
Julia was incredulous. “Impossible for that to survive when so much has burned.”
“Still, here it is.” He pulled open the burned pages, which crackled in complaint, and began to glance through it. “It’s nothing but a lesson book, written by a schoolchild,” he said softly.
“Whose was it? Can you tell?” Julia looked over his shoulder. The first few pages were scrawled in an immature script, very much like handwriting exercises. They could barely make out the words.
The sea is endless. Endless is the sea. Islands a long way off. It begins with the tide. Curled inside me, with no rhythm, only a push and a flow. Islands a long way off. Another and another. Some tall with their mountains in the clouds. Some rounded like a woman’s body. Some flat with trees all bowed one way, their branches reaching like fingers, stretching away from the wind.
The nuns are teaching us to write, but the lesson must be in English. Sister Lucianna says I am wasting my paper.
The island where I was born is called Madinina. It means Isle of Flowers. But my mother calls it Pays des Revenants. In Creole that means Land of Returnings, or Land of Ghosts.
The French came to this island in 1684. Saint-Pierre was the first town in Martinique. The schooners come for the sugar.
Glory be to God the Father Almighty maker of heaven and earth.
Julia gasped. “Why, I don’t believe it! It must have belonged to Angelique!”
“What…?” Barnabas said vaguely. A cold shudder passed through his frame.
“She was born there, in the Caribbean. In Martinique. She was Josette’s servant before they came to America.”
“But how could a childhood memoir have found its way to the Old House. Even if it was Angelique’s?” Barnabas murmured, feigning indifference. A keepsake, he decided, feeling a numbness in his fingers, as he read a bit more.
I cannot see the wind, but it is there. What plays with the wind? Windmills, kites, parasols, sails, pages in a book, banners, skirts, pareus on the line, hats, flowers, hair, clouds, fog, mist, frigate birds, trees, the branches of trees.
The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. What is a shepherd? A sheep-herd? Here there are only goats and pigs.
“It’s a journal,” acknowledged Barnabas, thumbing through the parched pages. “Look how thick it is.”
“Barnabas, throw it away,” said Julia. “I don’t think you should read it. The memories are too painful for you. The burning of the Old House is a shock to your constitution, and this is a vulnerable time for you.” The mockingbird trilled again, and Barnabas, whose whole being agreed with Julia, found himself arguing with her.
“But, Julia, it’s rather remarkable, you have to admit.”
“I think it is utterly lonely and sad.”
“But impressionable … precocious … listen.” Drawn to the book, he read again, out loud.
The sea has no rhythm. My mother made a sea window, a bucket with a glass bottom, and placed it on the surface of the water. When I looked through it I could see the other world. I could hear the clicking of the coral-eaters, and feel the swaying surge. The wind of the sea is invisible, pulling, jerking, tugging.
“It’s extraordinary, isn’t it? How could something so lyrical be written by a child?” Barnabas asked.
“Barnabas, throw it back. You really should not read something, anything, written by Angelique, if it is hers. Her presence is too powerful, and—”
“Wait. Listen…”
The drums are like the sky sound. They are thunder. The drums speak to one another. They speak of wind and rain. Of the storms of Africa. The rhythm is in the drums. The heartbeat. The Negroes play music from the time of thunder.
“Not like the Angelique we knew, is it?” Barnabas folded the book and placed it in his coat.
“Leave it here.”
“I want to keep it,” he said, “for a while. I want to look it over more thoroughly. Come. Let’s go back. What do you think could have happened to the wreckers?”
“Throw the diary away, Barnabas. Or give it to me!”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“It’s … I have a feeling that it’s dangerous.”
“That’s absurd. I’m curious, that’s all. If it has any effect on me at all, I will. I’ll throw it in the trash. Besides, we are finished with doom and gloom, Julia. The spells are ended. Now don’t argue with me. See … the sun is shining!” And he gave her a gentle hug.
As they drove down the road in the black sedan, the muscles in his chest and neck began to relax, and Barnabas lay back against the leather headrest. The strain of keeping his emotions in check, keeping himself distant from his crime the night before, had left him drained.
He opened his eyes and looked over at Julia, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and he allowed his mind to flood with sincere feelings of affection. She wore a camel hair suit, the color rather becoming to her auburn hair. Her face was older, that was true, but then so was his. The angular line of her cheek and jaw gave severity to her countenance, but he thought of the eager sympathy always in her eyes, which offered him great comfort. Yes, that was what it was: comfort … and ease. She was his old confidant, and she had never stopped loving
him.
His life spilled out before him like a long road, and he could see all the way to the end: marriage to Julia, respectability and security, dabbling in the Collins family business—someone needed to take it in hand long ago—finding financial success. She would be an excellent partner; she was so sensible and selfless. Children were out of the question, but he was not particularly troubled. David was still young and needed mentoring if he was to handle the estate when he came of age. The years would roll by. Julia and he would grow old together. After suffering the crimes of pleasure, after tasting immortality, and finding the price too high, Barnabas was satisfied that this kindly, humble existence was all he could desire.
Julia felt his gaze, turned, and smiled at him. He reached for one of her hands—the other still gripping the wheel—and kissed the fingertips. At that moment a cloud passed over the sun, and the treetops, which had been bathed in brightness, fell dark. But it was only a fleeting moment, and in an instant, the day was cheerful once more.
* * *
Once alone in his room, Barnabas removed the book from his jacket. He had kept it to burn it, but he was surprised by a strong sense of anticipation when he opened the cover. French was Angelique’s mother tongue. He could see that a great many pages were in French, which he read easily. But there were many entries in a hesitant English as well. Perhaps the nuns had taught her in both. He remembered Angelique’s accent as a grown woman, rather clipped and British, the result of learning another language.
He sat in the chair by the window and began to read. Was there something he could learn from this child’s epistle? Something to reveal the true nature of his tormentor?
I was a mermaid, brown as the sails of a ship, brown as magnolia petals fallen under the leaves, brown as seeds, as gull’s wings in the sunset. It was only later that I became white. After they shut me up in the room. Stone against the hurricanes. The wind at my window lifted the brown off me. My skin became the color of rice. That was because they wrapped me, and fed me sweets. My feet became soft. I could no longer walk on the coral.
My mother held my hand in the foam. This is the salty cradle, the invisible under-wind that pulls and tugs, then flows back. I love the world beneath the sea. My mother said, “This time you were born of water.”