Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  Then Mr. Cecil said a single word. It was not a word Beatrice recognized, but it snapped her to attention and she rose to her feet, without controlling her own actions. Raul dropped the hammer and was frozen in his pose beside her, blinking and clearly frightened.

  “Did you know there are words that speak directly to your cortex?”

  Mr. Cecil said another word, a different word that was both familiar and unfamiliar to Beatrice. She found herself moving, her limbs jerking her down to the front row and into a seat. Raul awkwardly fell into a seat beside her.

  “Words can be so very powerful,” Mr. Cecil said. “‘In the beginning was the word.’ And from that, all else sprang forth.”

  He stopped in front of her and looked down. “You’ve pursued me, Beatrice. You and the gardener’s son have mounted your offence. A very curious and improbable effort. And very brave, too. And yet it is of little matter and causes me neither joy nor aggravation. I am uncertain what you hoped to accomplish by coming here—perhaps to stop some imagined nefarious plan.”

  “I wahnt mah sssishter back,” she hissed, the words tumbling out. Her mouth was at least partially working.

  “Ah, you grow frightened when she isn’t leaning on you. Well, your sister is about to be revealed. In fact, I’ll join you for the show.” He sat down beside her. “It’s fitting that you’re here. For this story does deserve an audience.” He gestured at the screen. “I do find it curious that you exist though, Beatrice, for you were never meant to live.”

  What do you mean? she wanted to ask, but her lips wouldn’t move.

  “When your father was marked to die in a tragic but explainable accident, I’d given instructions to the Zebûb that only Isabelle should live. You would always be the twin who had burned to death. The tragic twist. But your father flouted me. You flouted me. And I decided to let you live.”

  You were there? She thought, Are you reading my mind?

  “I am not reading your mind,” he said. “So much as measuring the specificity of your thoughts. But yes, I was there. I observed it all through insect eyes. Perhaps I felt a moment of pity. No—I saw a different use for you. The pillar.” He glanced up at the screen. “But here . . . here she is. Isabelle returns. And she is bringing along a familiar friend.” He paused. “Or a friend familiar.”

  Two figures inside the screen were coming toward them along the mountain path. The first was Isabelle. She was in her pink nightgown, her hair unbound, the winds of that other place shifting it back and forth. As they drew closer it became clear she was talking animatedly to the person she was walking beside.

  That man had brown hair sprinkled with grey, his suit jacket was brown. He carried himself with ease.

  “It’s you,” she whispered. “Somehow it’s you.”

  “It’s one of me,” Mr. Cecil said. “We are drawn toward the warmth and life of this world. The ideas. We will build a thousand Theatre Eternals. Every human eye will watch this film. Then we will open more doorways. My projectors will bring others of my kind across the chasm between our worlds. Our realities. And finally, when the way has been properly prepared, Master will come.”

  “You are here and you are there,” Raul said. His voice wasn’t slurred.

  “Yes, Raul, never has a simple observation said so much,” Mr. Cecil said. “I am here and I am there. Now I am in two places at once. Soon I will be in four. Then eight. Then I will be legion.”

  Isabelle was walking closer and closer. She strode across the frail wooden bridge that traversed the chasm without even casting an eye into those depths. She was still talking non-stop, but Beatrice could not hear a word of what she was saying. The man was Mr. Cecil’s exact image, down to the nose and perfectly calm eyes. “Ishabelle!” Beatrice attempted to shout, but the words were garbled and hoarse. “Ishabelle. Run. Get out of there!”

  Mr. Cecil patted Beatrice’s shoulder. “Spare yourself the effort. She isn’t here. She is there. We’re watching it all on a film. Watch. Watch.”

  The two characters stopped at the edge of the screen. Isabelle looked directly at Beatrice, but didn’t seem to be able to see through the screen.

  “The space she exists in at this moment is imagination,” Mr. Cecil explained. “Imagination is the membrane between the multitude of realities. It’s both real and not real. A place of potential. All borders are like that. But borders can be very difficult to cross. Isabelle can cross because she has crossed so many times in her films. It’s natural for her.” He let out a breath. “I wish I could avert your eyes for you. This is where he devours her. You see, in order for my twin to cross into your realm something perfect must die on the other side. All those years ago when I crossed over, just one butterfly was enough. Today, Isabelle is the butterfly. Her death will open the doorway. That will give my doppelgänger the strength to stand on this side.”

  Mr. Cecil’s twin turned. Isabelle stopped talking. The other Mr. Cecil grabbed Isabelle by the shoulders. His face was elongating, his proboscis slithering out of his mouth. Isabelle began to go pale. It’s just like one of his movies, Beatrice thought. And now Isabelle was turning around and clearly screaming.

  “Shtop it!” Beatrice shouted. “Shtop hurthing her!”

  The other Mr. Cecil was attempting to feed on her head, but Isabelle pushed at him. She was not strong enough to break his hold. The other Mr. Cecil’s mouth moved and a moment later sounds came out in some guttural language.

  Mr. Cecil stood and walked up the steps on the side of the stage to stand near the screen. He was communicating with his brother, his twin. He didn’t say anything aloud.

  Then Beatrice remembered her own way of communicating with her sister. Her twin sister.

  She opened her mind to Isabelle.

  There was nothing. The screen was a wall between them. Nothing.

  Isabelle lost her hold on the other Mr. Cecil and he twisted her around and attached his proboscis to her head.

  No! Beatrice sent herself toward the screen, not her body but her thoughts. That connection between her and Isabelle flicked on like a switch and sudden dread came over her. A sense of powerlessness. Of surrender. She was feeling her sisters’ feelings. She was there with her and yet in the chair.

  You are stronger than this, she said.

  “Beatrice? Beatrice! Is that you?” Isabelle whispered.

  Yes. Don’t speak. Let him think you’re growing weak. Then I want you to strike at him, to fight.

  Fight?

  Yes. Like a tigress. Like Cleopatra.

  Isabelle relaxed and the other Mr. Cecil pushed himself closer.

  It was as if the proboscis was digging into Beatrice’s skull. Into her brain. A sharp pain.

  Now.

  Isabelle reached up and grabbed the proboscis, ripping it from her skull. Then she smashed his cheek with her elbow. Mr. Cecil’s twin was knocked back a few steps and his mouth opened in a silent roar, his proboscis whipping around. Beatrice heard the terrible sound through her sister’s ears. It was the scream of a maddened beast. Of approaching death.

  Now run for the way out, Beatrice thought.

  Which way? Which way?!

  Mr. Cecil turned and glared at Beatrice. “What are you doing? Stop your meddling.”

  “Raul,” Beatrice whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you move?”

  “A little.”

  “Go and smash the projector. Smash it to tiny pieces.”

  “Tiny little pieces,” he said. “I promise.”

  Turn to your right. Beatrice sent the thought to her sister.

  Isabelle turned. Now run, sister. Run straight in that direction.

  And Isabelle threw herself into the screen, but the world held her there, the screen stretching out. For a moment it looked as if she would be pulled right back, but she burst through and collapsed on the stage. The other Mr. Cecil was at the screen, pushing against it. His hands came through but he clearly couldn’t go any farther. He banged against the barrie
r between worlds. There were bloodstains on his face, his proboscis retreating into his mouth.

  “Get back in there!” Mr. Cecil shouted. He lifted Isabelle and pushed her toward the screen. “I command it!”

  Beatrice found that, bit by bit, she could stand. She leaned on the seat for a moment, wooziness fogging her brain. She picked up the hammer from the floor where Raul had dropped it.

  Play dead, Izzy, she thought. Pretend you weigh a thousand pounds. She didn’t know if her sister could hear her. But Raul was standing now, too, and stumbling up the aisle. “Go,” she whispered. “Find something heavy and break that machine.”

  Then she slouched toward Mr. Cecil, who was bent over her sister.

  “Keep your hands off her,” she shouted, surprised at how forceful and clear her voice was. She raised the hammer. Hadn’t her father shaken an axe at him? But as she pulled back her arm to swing, Mr. Cecil turned and caught her by the wrist.

  “Enough of your interruptions,” he said.

  At that same moment his twin was reaching through the screen and he grabbed Beatrice, too. Both were pulling on her. Mr. Cecil let go and she stumbled back but clutched his lapel and pulled him along in the direction of the screen.

  He struggled to stay out of the other world.

  BANG.

  The world shook. It was a noise that made the screen wobble, and Beatrice turned enough to see that a crack was spreading across the sky of that other world. Then another BANG and a BANG. It was as if a god were blotting out the sky. Hammer blow by hammer blow he was knocking out the sky.

  Raul was destroying the projector. Each blow broke another part of the world. She tightened her grip on Mr. Cecil. Her face was being pulled into the screen. His twin, confused and hungry, began to pull both of them in.

  Mr. Cecil grabbed Isabelle. “She’ll come with me. The process will not be stopped.”

  The chasm behind them on—in—the screen was real. Beatrice was certain of that. And if it was real, then the twin Cecils could be pushed down there. She would have to throw herself at them.

  Then Beatrice knew something in her heart: she was the only one who could do this, make this sacrifice. Raul obviously cared for her, but he would one day find another and he had his father to care for, oceans to cross. And Isabelle, as strong as she had been this evening, was not a girl of action. Things were done for her, or she followed lines in a script. And millions of people would miss her. No, it is me who has to go, Beatrice thought. To take them down into the chasm. All these thoughts rushed through her head like comets.

  She planted her feet. Grabbed hold of both her enemies. Prepared to throw herself into the abyss.

  I’m stronger than you think.

  The voice was in Beatrice’s head. She believed it was her own thought, but then she felt Isabelle’s hand pulling hers. “Stay here!” Beatrice said. “I have to do it!”

  “No, Beatrice!” Isabelle said. “I want to finally do something real. It’s my turn.”

  Isabelle pushed Beatrice so hard that she slipped out of the clutches of Mr. Cecil and his twin as both were about to come through the screen again, to get into this world.

  “No!” Beatrice shouted from the floor of the stage.

  I love you, Beets.

  Then Isabelle launched herself at their twin enemies and knocked them backward. One of them latched onto her. She fought for a second and he pulled her through the screen. They were on the bridge over the chasm that joined the two worlds. A place between worlds. Between words.

  BANG. The bridge began to collapse at the far end. BANG. BANG. BANG.

  38

  Isabelle fell.

  At first she was spinning, tangled up with the two versions of Mr. Cecil. All three of them smashed into the already disintegrating bridge, which tipped to one side. The ropes snapped and they continued downward. Isabelle clutched at the air, looking fearful, then her face grew still and calm.

  I love you, Beatrice.

  Then she was gone, over the edge of the abyss and down. There was no sound. She just vanished into whatever lay below.

  “Stop! Stop!” Raul shouted. He was running down the aisle, a fireman’s axe in his hand.

  Beatrice stood right at the edge of the screen. It flashed green. The image of the other world was like looking through a shattered pane of glass.

  “She’s gone,” Beatrice said. “Gone.”

  The picture was flickering with grey and black, and the landscape had disappeared.

  Raul said, “The projector is smashed, but the screen seems to have its own light source. We have to destroy it. Just in case they somehow use it again.”

  “She’ll never come back if we do,” Beatrice said. “She may still be alive down there.”

  “So could they. She wants us to keep them down there.”

  Beatrice nodded. Deep in her heart, in that place she shared only with her sister, it didn’t feel as though Isabelle had gone. She had never before considered what it would be like if her sister died. Had imagined them old and travelling together. Isabelle’s fans would have long moved on and she’d have Izzy all to herself. Just the slightest glimmering of light between them.

  Raul ran out of the room and came back with cans of paint and varnish. “These were in the projector room.” He splashed the solvent across the screen. Some of it went through to the other side in a few places, but portions hung between the two worlds.

  He raised a pack of matches.

  Beatrice took them but hesitated.

  “We have to,” he said.

  “I know. Let me do it.”

  She held the wooden matchstick so tightly it nearly broke. Then she struck it, watched the flame, caught a whiff of sulphur, and threw the match. The solvent burst into orange flames that ran along the screen, burning it quickly, the smoke rising to the ceiling. They watched the flames grow, and then they descended the steps and backed up the aisle as the fire got hungrier, eating the fabric, the other world becoming ashes. Then the heat was too much. The flames leapt onto the curtains and across the banisters and they both decided to run. Beatrice stole one final backward glance to see that the screen was mostly gone, fluttering down in pieces of ash. Behind it was only a wall of stone.

  Oh, Isabelle. Poor, brave Isabelle.

  They raced out to the truck, the flames following them as far as the door. There was a loud explosion inside the theatre. She knew the fire brigade would soon be there.

  Raul was able to easily start the truck. They backed off the sidewalk and went up the road. It was a long trip, and they took several wrong turns, but the sun was rising as they approached La Casa Grande. Under the light of a rising sun it seemed old and rundown.

  The guards were gone from the gate. She and Raul pulled up to the front door and parked.

  “Do you want me to go in with you?” Raul asked.

  “Yes. Yes. Please.”

  It was early and the servants were already preparing breakfast as if nothing had happened. Though Mrs. Madge did not appear. The smell of bacon made Beatrice salivate. She went to her uncle and aunt’s room. Betty was still sleeping in the bed. Beatrice felt no need to wake her.

  She walked to the India room. Uncle Wayne was sitting in a chair in his bathrobe, his pajamas on underneath. His eyes were wide with surprise.

  “He’s gone,” Beatrice said.

  “Did you . . . ? Is he dead?”

  “I believe so. As dead as he can get.”

  “And you killed him.”

  She shook her head. “Isabelle did.”

  “And where is she?”

  She faced our enemy. She was stronger than all of us. All of these things crossed her mind. “I don’t know. Gone. Maybe forever.”

  He let out a sigh. “Some father I am.”

  Beatrice nodded.

  “I hope you can be happy someday,” he said. “I never will be again.”

  “I don’t know that I’ll ever be happy. Not without Isabelle. But we stopped something truly horrible
from happening. Someday I might find comfort in that.”

  Uncle Wayne said nothing, instead turned his head and stared out the window.

  Beatrice and Raul walked through the French doors and out into the garden. They didn’t stop until they were near his cottage.

  “Thank you, Raul. I know . . . I know what will happen next.” She pointed around her. “All of this falls apart without Mr. Cecil. But whatever happens we’ll always be close.”

  “Yes, we will,” he said. He placed his palm against her cheek. “You were very brave.”

  “And so were you. An artist with a hammer.”

  He didn’t even smile at that. “I know sometimes you feel—I don’t know the right word—ugly. But you’re not. You don’t look the same as your sister. You look different. That’s all. A unique beauty.”

  She placed her hand against his. “Thank you. And Isabelle was even more different and beautiful than I understood.”

  He nodded. “I must see my father. Anything could’ve happened while we were gone. It was such a horrible night.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  She hugged him and felt his heart beating next to hers. Then she let him go.

  She went back up to her room, her sanctuary, the place she and Isabelle had shared for nearly thirteen years. Her sister’s clothes were still in the closet.

  “Oh, Isabelle,” she said. Then, finally, she sobbed.

  EPILOGUE

  1927–1939

  Aunt Betty and Uncle Wayne continued their wardship of Beatrice until she was sixteen.

  The mansion was soon lost to back taxes. Beatrice said goodbye to Raul and his father and promised to write.

  “I expect to see more of your drawings,” she said. “Every day, if possible.”

  “I’ll send you as many as I can,” he said. “I might even sign a few of them.” Then he and his father got into the truck and drove off.

  Uncle Wayne rented a small apartment near the HOLLYWOODLAND sign and played bit parts in a few movies to make ends meet. But sound films were soon the only ones being made and his voice was too ragged for audiences to enjoy. He became a bartender. Aunt Betty found employment, and perhaps some joy, sewing costumes.