"Stop and rest," she whispered to the sun. "You can't escape the final blackness. Don't move. Let night lie down on you and infuse itself into you. Receive it like a sacrament, so that it can be passed on and given back again."
Another cackle scratched her throat. The sound had shaved off an infinitesimal number of cells, and she had none to spare for frivolous mirth. She had to learn how to control the wizened woman growing inside of her. Had Carl impregnated her with that hag, or had the witch grown out of Beverly's wasted cells? Ovum, sperm combined to wreak the havoc she must preside over. Yet how could she give birth when she had nothing with which to suckle?
A hideous, muffled wail issued forth between rotting teeth, a cry that only she could hear.
A name formed upon her lips, and she tried to pronounce it aloud. Her purplish tongue slipped, each time losing its proper position. However, Beverly kept trying. Her eyes opened wide. Was the girl's scent on him? Everything was so vague now; she could barely touch reality. Yet she knew that he had brought the girl with him, on his clothes, in his hair, lingering on his skin. The girl was there. Beverly's nails splintered on the mattress as she dug into the feathered stuffing. He brought the girl to torment her. As he grunted out his convulsive movements, he had panted out her own name, not the girl's, but he knew he stank of adolescence. A harridan's laugh seized her thoughts; a blankness enveloped the few moments until the shrew was contained.
She must be there with him. Did he stop at the river to wash the death from his cock, or did he bring it back to the youth? Could the girl smell the virago scent? she wondered. Essence of death, my dear, given to me by . . . Here her mind faltered. The name she tried to say, tried to call.
"Carl," the old woman within her cried out. "Carl, Carl, Carl. And he will share the gift with you, little girl, when old Beverly is done with it."
A shiver on the surface of the mattress took Beverly back to the tormenting darkness of her bedroom. The sun had given up with the call of his name. Another shiver, closer to her now. Only a slight quiver through the ticking, but still it was closer than before.
The rat froze as Beverly raised her head, the outline of its body haloed by the moon. Its bright, round eyes stared back into Beverly's sunken orbs.
"So you want a bite, my dear. Here, try some," she shrieked as she struck the rat hard with the decaying side of her right leg.
The rat fell backward, landing on its feet; it scurried across the floor and through the French doors, which Carl had left open. The rodent ran fast from the gurgled laughter behind it.
19 - Seduction
Carl gave her flowers and aggressive stares. The seduction had begun. Should she? Shouldn't she? Megan had decided that she wouldn't make love with Carl again. She had made the decision that morning when she had also decided to stay a week or two longer with him. She knew that she should keep to that spoken determination if she wanted to be able to leave without looking back or perhaps lingering for much longer than she should. Of course, Carl might tire of her first and encourage her to move on. Still, she couldn't rely upon that, and, besides, if that happened, she would be heartbroken. No, she had to keep her distance, perhaps find other ways to entertain him. The book would be perfect. They could spend hours talking about his journey.
Carl's hand slipped around her waist, and she felt him pulling her closer to his side as they walked.
"I've managed to read several chapters of your journal, and I've got tons of questions to ask. Do you have any of the Tupi earthenware that you wrote about in the book?"
Megan scrambled through a multitude of questions, and Carl listened in silence. He didn't appear annoyed at her blabbering. Whatever he had accomplished had put him in a super mood, she thought as she confidently continued her avalanche of words.
Once inside the house, Carl found a vase for the hyacinths and gave it to her. He headed for the kitchen with Megan straggling along behind, lips moving constantly and arms loaded with flowers, vase, and book.
"At first, I had some difficulty deciphering your handwriting, but then I got used to it."
"Used to it?" he asked.
"Now I can read it without too much scratching of the head," she said, giggling.
Carl, who had been so happy before, suddenly turned around and faced Megan.
"My handwriting is easy to read."
A statement that demanded that she agree. Megan promptly nodded, amazed by the quick change in Carl.
He smiled. "Want to help me make dinner again?"
Another swift flip-flop, she noted.
''I should make dinner. Here I am intruding and"
"No. No, it's fun to work together in the kitchen. Maybe we could even take turns talking. You might even get a few answers to all the questions you posed."
Megan laughed, embarrassed by her presumption that once inside the house he would want to bed her immediately.
"Sorry, I guess I was so excited to have you back that I overdid it a little."
"A lot."
He was honest, she thought.
Carl assisted her by relieving her of the book, which he tossed onto the kitchen counter. Megan laid the flowers on the table and then went to the faucet to fill the vase.
"It was nice of you to bring the flowers back," she said as she arranged the hyacinths in the vase. "Considering that you didn't seem to care . . ." Megan hesitated. By way of a side glance, Megan was able to see that Carl's mood had not done a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree jump on her. "They're very pretty," she safely concluded.
The couple shared the kitchen chores as they had the previous evening. Conversation was a bit different in that it seemed to center on Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, even though he admitted that the cities didn't interest him very much.
"The cities seemed contaminated by Italian, German, and Japanese influences. I wanted to be in the heart of the rain forest."
"Had you been to Europe or the Far East?"
"Never got to the Far East, though I'd like to someday. I grew up in Europe."
"Really!" Megan turned to Carl and dropped the head of lettuce she had been pulling apart. She saw Carl's face freeze. He looked at the lettuce, then at her. Come on, Carl, it's only lettuce, she silently protested. He must have seen the silent plea on her face, because he started to laugh.
"Doesn't take much to impress you."
Megan chuckled, too. She bent and scooped the lettuce from the floor. "My father was in the armed services, so we moved around a lot, but for some reason he never was stationed outside the States." There was a pause. She waited for him to explain why he grew up in Europe.
"You were asking about Tupi earthenware before."
Her eyes fluttered. Tupi earthenware? "Oh, yes, when we were coming up the path."
Carl nodded. "I have one in the study on top of the bookcase."
"I hadn't noticed it before. May I go get it?"
Carl nodded with a smile.
Megan again dropped the lettuce, but this time into a bowl; then she rushed from the kitchen to the study. As she entered the room, she spotted an earthenware pot centered on the top ledge of the bookcase.
When she tried to reach for it, she discovered she was a tad too short. She positioned a straight-backed chair in front of the bookcase. The chair's seat consisted of old caning, and Megan was not sure it would support her weight. Not wanting to call Carl, she climbed up anyway. For once she was lucky; it held through her mission. While carrying the pot the short distance to the kitchen, Megan noted the red and black tracery edged on the outer white coating.
"Careful, Megan."
One would have assumed she took the warning as a challenge, because she immediately stumbled over her own feet, righting herself at the last minute. She grinned apologetically before placing the earthenware on the table.
"What a pretty trim," she said, fingering the red and black trail circling the pot.
"The tracery is meant to be a maze. It's supposed to confuse the evil spirits searching for the hu
man remains inside the earthenware."
Megan peeked inside the pot.
"At least that's what the folklore is. There's nothing inside of it right now."
She was relieved; after all, she had touched it, carried it close to her body. Of course, it was still kind of creepy to think that someone's remains were once inside it. She wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans.
"The food's almost ready. Why don't you clear the table?"
Clear the table. His voice echoed inside her head. Knowing that she didn't want to touch the pot again, Megan suggested that she should finish the salad first. If she was slow enough, Carl would set the table himself.
Megan was partly right. Carl lifted the pot, but only to hand it to Megan.
"Please return it."
Megan gulped. "Why don't I set the table? You know exactly where you want that placed."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of this pot."
Her nose wrinkled as she worried her bottom lip. "I hadn't realized that people's remains were put into the earthenware. I guess I hadn't gotten far enough into the journal to learn that piece of information."
"Actually, I don't remember writing about that. It was just a fact that I stored away inside my head." Carl looked at the earthenware with admiration. "A pretty place to spend eternity, don't you think?"
"I'm claustrophobic, so it has no appeal for me."
"There's no more room inside a coffin, you know. Here at least you don't have the earth pressing down on you. The pot can be left open to the sky, unlike a coffin, which is fastened shut."
"Didn't you say dinner was done?"
Carl smiled and presented the earthenware to her.
"It's difficult for me to reach the top of the bookcase. I had to use the cane chair to get up there, and I'm not sure I could do it again without disastrous results."
"You should make peace with death, Megan."
"Have you?"
"I believe I've come to a compromise with it today."
"In what way?"
Carl looked sharply at Megan. "I'll return the earthenware to the study. Set the table."
Megan took a deep breath, then released a soft sigh. In many ways, Carl was an enigma; yet she felt drawn to him even during his dark moods.
By the time Carl returned to the kitchen, the table had been set and Megan was dividing up the food.
"What took you so long?"
"Did you miss me?" he asked, resting his hands upon her small hips and leaning into the hollow between her shoulder blades.
The seductive Carl was back. Maybe he had multiple personalities, she thought.
"Careful, or we'll both get burned," she said while resting a pot down on an iron trivet.
Carl pulled back. "Bring the journal to the table, and I'll discuss some of the passages with you," he said, moving across the room to take his place at the dinner table.
20 - The Last Journal
The chit was charming at dinner with all her questions and oohing and aahing. Carl was getting used to her tendency to snoop. Her awkwardness was becoming almost alluring, but then, his contact with Beverly that day had made everything seem a bit more bearable. No longer did Carl believe that Beverly would somehow foil the incantation he had worked over her, although for some reason she did appear to be decaying at a faster rate than her predecessors. Still, his body was gaining strength from hers; that was what was important.
He remembered seeing Beverly's frame against the soiled mattress, the scrawny limbs and bloated trunk. Carl made note that he would have to bring in a new mattress, since her body had spilled its fluids on various portions of the current one. She may not be dying neatly, but she was amenable. He had turned to thank her before passing through the French doors, but when he spoke she had not responded, choosing to lie quietly with eyes shut. Had she heard?
With a call of "Good night," Megan brought Carl out of his reverie.
Megan was using the bed and he the bumpy couch, but he hadn't wanted to push her. She was skittish every time he was close to her, and she practically stopped breathing if he touched her. He knew with time she would come around, and now he was confident that he had that. His former paramour was cooperating. Hadn't Beverly seduced him that afternoon? There was a minor, weak protest from her in the midst of their lovemaking, but she succumbed once he was settled inside her.
Carl removed the key from his pocket and opened the bottom desk drawer. He pulled out the sketch pad, flipped through the pages until he came upon Megan's profile. What could he add or subtract? He tried to visualize Megan; then he quickly sketched out a frontal view, but it wasn't Megan. It was Beverly, with the hollowed-out eyes, the flattened cartilage across the bridge of her nose, and the bloated cheeks, which were now slowly sinking into her cheekbones. Carl scratched out the face, shut the pad, and threw it back into the drawer. After kicking the drawer closed with his foot, Carl locked it.
There was time. He would finish Megan's drawing before she left. Carl was sure of it.
Megan had played the Grand Inquisitor that night, trying to find out why he had traveled to the Amazon. Carl had told her the truth: He had wanted to do this before he died. What he hadn't told her was that he had been about to die. Except for luck and a very wise headman, by now he would have been buried as deep as the drawings in his yard.
He stood, exited the study, and went to the hall closet, where his Nikon sat on the top shelf. Tomorrow I should take a photograph of Megan for my album, he thought as he took the camera down. Suddenly he remembered another chore he had set for himself.
Leaving the camera on the kitchen table as he passed through, he headed for the back door. Not wanting to disturb Megan, he softly stepped down the back steps of the porch, hating each creak. He glanced to the side of the house to make sure no light came from the bedroom; then he checked the back door, which was open. All there was to see was the brown tile floor and a hint of illumination shining into the kitchen from the bulb in the hallway.
Four steps to his left, he squatted down to pull out a block of wood, behind which was the last journal. The back cover was smeared with dirt, and the front seemed to have been stuck into some giant spider's web. He brushed the silken threads off, then blew across the back cover. For such an important book, it was badly damaged. Pages were loose, ink stains abounded on the edges, and the binding was starting to come apart. It didn't matter, because Carl had the significant sections of the journal memorized. Hadn't he used the spell at least two dozen times?
Carl walked over to the old shed, placed the book on the ground, and removed the door from its hinges. Once he retrieved the book, Carl entered the shed. By moonglow he hid the journal behind a shovel and between two boxes full of film negatives. He threw an old rag casually on top of the pile.
After covering his tracks, Carl returned to the kitchen, switching the light on as he entered. He checked the film and battery in the camera. He had been a photojournalist, and he still had all the equipment to process and develop his own work. No one would have to know of the girl's visit.
If it hadn't been for the rare fungus disease he had contracted in the Caribbean, he would still be working professionally. However, he did not dare expose himself to any publicity, because there were people who probably assumed he was dead by now, and he couldn't explain to them why he wasn't. Instead, he satisfied himself with capturing the environs on film, as banal as they were.
Carl smiled, thinking about how excited Megan would probably be when he suggested the photo shoot. Maybe he could get her to disrobe; that always made his task easier, although he had been able to achieve that with only a handful of the women. However, Megan was younger and apt to be less uptight than the rest.
He left the camera on the table and clicked off the kitchen light. In the bathroom, Carl undressed; as he did, he checked muscle tone, hair growth, nails, color and elasticity of skin. No deterioration was noticeable; indeed, his body seemed to be firming up more each day as Beverly wilted away. This wa
s the strongest reaction his body had ever had to the strange power that he had acquired.
While dreading to sleep on the uncomfortable couch, Carl promised himself that it would be for only one or two more nights; then he would be back in his own bed next to the youthful, budding woman with full breasts, a tiny waist that spread into tightly molded hips, above slinky, long legs. However, that night he dreamed of Beverly.
21 - I Never Want to Hurt You
Summer's breath swept across Carl's body. He turned his head to the open French doors and watched as the sun spun shadows through the doorway. The reflection of a tree branch sagged as a bird landed, flicking its wings to steady itself. Leaves spiraled into sharp-edged designs against the simple white wall. The ceiling fan was still, allowing nature the freedom to warble, chirp, and rustle.
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