by Sara Faring
I choke a bit on my own spit; how would the servant who is Marguerite Morency explain sending me to my room without dinner?
An opportunity to explore the house while the Others are occupied.
And the fact I was never punished for wandering—reprimanded, instead, for crimes I’d never committed?
To encourage the exploration.
To be accused of spreading gossip that the plague of sixty years ago was returning?
To consider the plague of sixty years ago, and how that might be affecting our present situation.
It takes me more than a moment to collect myself—Morency watches without even a hint of a smug smile. Watching her haunted expression, I feel a conclusion rush toward me all at once.
Her knowledge couldn’t have come from word of mouth alone. That wouldn’t have been enough to spur Carmela to return. Morency’s been here before. But if the school was closed sixty years ago, that would mean she would’ve been a child.
Could it be that…?
The servant who is Marguerite Morency.
Marguerite of the Bible in my room, dated 1918.
Zapuche blood.
“You’ve lived here before,” I say, veins throbbing.
Her eyes glitter black. “Yes. How bright you can be. I was only a girl of twelve the last time I was here. That was sixty years ago.”
I wouldn’t have believed she was seventy-two before this meeting. But now I can see the crepe-like texture of her skin, the white threads winding through the thicket of black hair. Carmela is older than I imagined, too—why shouldn’t Morency be? “My parents were part of the household staff—my grandmother nursed Madame De Vaccaro’s mother, as she mentioned, and when she passed, my mother and father continued working with the family. I myself was raised here in these once-vibrant halls. When the staff and students fell ill in my twelfth year, when they changed, the local staff said it was on account of territorial spirits … Others, they called them. Helping them to drive the colonizers mad and reclaim their land.” She stops to sip her tea. “That mattered little to me then. My father had a bad liver—worrying for him took up much of my time—and my fair-haired mother bore a rare hatred for me since I was a young girl, for a reason I could never determine. My best guess was that she resented me for looking darker, tying her more firmly to her Indigenous Zapuche past. In any case, those two relationships did not—could not—occupy all my time. I had a lover here,” she admits without the slightest trip in her words. When my eyes widen, she fixes a harsh gaze on me. “Yes, I was very young. And he was someone my mixed-blood parents would never have approved of, a native Zapuche who worked as … as a handyman, of sorts. A terribly handsome, cruel, and narcissistic man who never should have entertained let alone touched a child like myself. But I worshipped him, treated his every word and far-fetched idea like the word of God, and in the way of impressionable twelve-year-old girls, he became my entire world. He was charismatic, as the worst of them are, and his head was filled with strange ideas about the Others who occupied the house—they were part of the reason he was drawn here, besides money, of course. He believed he might bring back the dead. He thought the Others were representatives of the underworld that could be reasoned with, bargained with on a personal level … If only you communicated with them in the old way, with a vigil. With a sacrifice—but I did not know that then. He held many of these, giving in to strange paroxysms before me, bottle of wine in hand, claiming he was communing with los Otros. It was during one of these vigils that he claimed the underworld had brought us together, luring us each here to this rock. Of course, he was an unforgivable rapscallion, the least of his crimes being his encouragement of a young girl to drink great quantities of wine. I became pregnant after one of those nights, and my parents inevitably found out, of course. Foolish girl that I was, I imagined my father would be pleased I was to bear a child of my own—I imagined he would view the child as a guarantee against future loneliness, for he spoke frequently about his concern about life for me after his passing. A child’s fantasy, of course. He was horrified that his little daughter had been sullied. My mother beat me while my father hid his tears in another room, and she locked me away in a secluded part of this house for most of my days.” She pauses to sip her tea, her right hand trembling. “As this was occurring, I picked up hints in the whispers of my parents and the groans that rose through the house that the others were in grave condition. I tried to contact my lover, who disappeared, and to communicate with los Otros—demons I had never witnessed—to no avail. I was mostly immune to the Others, much like you seem to be. But the residents of the house were not, and they were sent away in groups to recover before the seasonal storms became too severe. Most of them considered it to be an odd sort of influenza at the time—no cause for alarm. But many of them perished on the journey home, I later learned. Eventually, only my parents and I remained. I no longer risked embarrassing my family with my swollen belly, so my mother let me out. I was shocked to see how much had changed. My father, once a relatively solid and stable man, had grown weak from his illness, and he had succumbed to paranoia and panic as the storms outside worsened. He turned to the drink again—a suicidal effort, with his condition—to console himself, convinced we would die here. He locked himself away. My mother strategized ways for us to reach the boat at the docks and escape, but she was unable to do so, because the Others targeted her, and she grew ill herself. And I, well, I was with child. I was quite desperate, heartbroken, alone. I held a vigil, much as my lover had. I remained awake through the night and called to the Others and promised them anything they needed, anything they wanted, in exchange for freeing my family from certain death. Of course I received no reply from the sky above. But as I was about to give up, the body of my father tramped up the staff stairs from the bowels of the building. He staggered toward me, so dead in the eyes I wondered if he was still with me, and told me that if I were to give up the girl, he would let us go free. As if he had the power. I understood then that an Other had possessed him to speak with me. Foolish as I was, I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with my unborn child at first. The child felt like a part of me and this world already—it would have been immoral to grant her to these demons. I couldn’t understand why they wanted her. I begged and pleaded with him to allow me to give up myself—that if I could arrange for this child to be born, and if my parents could be spared, that I would return here myself. This did not seem to please him. He shook the house in rage; my father’s body gurgled blood and bile before collapsing to the ground. So I made the sacrifice: I agreed, aloud, to have them take the child. I cannot tell you what I expected: for a Rumpelstiltskin character to retrieve my baby at birth in a few months? For the fetus to be spirited out of the womb at that moment? But nothing happened then in my body. My father’s eyes, on the other hand, they did blink open. He confirmed our transaction in a monotone. I have to admit, just as I was chilled to the bone to have this interaction with my possessed father, so was I relieved on some level. My father was alive. And I was far too young for a child—giving birth, the cleaving of my young body, had filled me with a strange sort of terror. I thought in that moment that I, the clever twelve-year-old, had outfoxed the Others. The storm cleared sufficiently the next day, and my shocked father and I carried my mother down to the docks. She improved with each passing hour. We boarded the boat, which seemed to float on pearlescent waters, and easily made our way away from here. It wasn’t until later that I knew I had sacrificed more than I had bargained for in my exchange.”
She pauses, and I look up at her, dazed.
“What do you mean?”
She looks into the dancing flames. “I suppose I always believed I had left a piece of myself behind. There was this hollow in my chest, at first. I felt only fear and trepidation. My father passed away shortly thereafter. And I miscarried, as I expected to do. I became a religious woman after that—I hoped to never again live in a land God had forsaken. But I also grew. Grew, and grew, and grew,
until no one from my childhood could have recognized me. My mother called it puberty, but I knew that all good parts of myself had been left behind at this house. What happens to crystallized good, left in isolation? I cannot know, myself. But I do know that what remains is utterly irresistible to the Others.”
When she finishes speaking this time, I wake as if from a dream. I think of what Mole once said about Morency—jilted as a delicate young girl, she overgrew, marinated in that potent disappointment.
“I left a piece of myself behind at this house for their pleasure,” she adds. “Though I’ve never managed to find that piece again. I’m afraid it is lost to this house. A los Otros.”
My mind overheats with wild possibilities. I had doubted that Marie was the tenth girl—as wise and thoughtful as Carmela made her seem, I had the impression the girl was of more ancient stock; it seemed clear she had been spirited here much longer ago than a couple of short years. Angel mentioned the tenth girl cradled her stomach in his presence. Could this piece of Morency, the pregnant youth, about to be robbed of her innocence, be the tenth girl instead? Could such a creature—a faded memory, a slip of white—have survived six decades here alone? Is such a mad concept possible on this rock?
“Have you seen her since?” I whisper. “Have you seen that old piece of yourself in this house?”
Morency raises a brow. “I do not think that possible. But who am I to understand the infernal magic of this place?”
If this piece of Morency was the tenth girl, then she would surely seek reconnection with Morency. Wouldn’t she? So why has she not sought out Morency? Why come to me and not to her? Perhaps she mistrusts the grown Morency, as I did. Perhaps she resents her choice. But I do believe the girl cares about the human occupants of this house—otherwise, she would not have come to me at all. She would not have encouraged me to leave.
But to say that the Others, as an entity, would accept this poor girl in exchange for Morency’s family’s safe passage outside? The greedy, life-sucking Others, not even contented by the pack of young girls at the house? What would be so great about one person’s youth, if it could be crystallized and captured in the diaphanous shadow image of a young girl?
And the worst thought of all: What would the terms of this exchange of Morency’s translate into when it comes to ensuring the safe passage of so many more souls now?
“The only certainty I have is that I shall not escape this rock twice,” she says.
“But you did escape once,” I croak.
She nods.
I thumb my eye. “So how do we … how do we re-create your sacrifice, Morency, so that some of us can escape now?”
Her lips set into a thin line. She holds the silence well.
“We do not escape now,” she says at last. “It’s far too late to help everyone.”
I keep myself from registering the gut punch on my face. “That—that isn’t an answer I can accept.”
She watches me with the faintest touch of glumness. “We should have sent away the girls and your peers long ago. I tried, when I saw the first signs, but Madame De Vaccaro would not permit it. That was before I understood how … imbalanced she is due to her grief.” She pauses. “And when you tried to leave; well, I held out hope the supply boat might come anyway, but I suspected it was already too late. What with the storm … you would’ve likely drowned on the dock had you not experienced your change of heart. Miss Quercia, I am sorry to say that it would be impossible to arrange safe passage out at this time. Beyond that, the Others have changed. They are greedier creatures. Impossible to bargain with, to control, at least as a whole. And there are too many of us vulnerable here. Too many already afflicted, their spirits loosened from their earthly homes. It’s too late, Miss Quercia.” She sets down her teacup. “I am sorry. My life has long been over, but yours had only begun.”
I feel tears budding in my eyes; I mash them back into my sockets. “I can’t accept that.”
“You should try.”
I rise to my feet. “You mentioned bargaining,” I say, pacing the room, acutely aware, even as I speak the word bargaining, that it is a stage of grief. “We have Angel on our side now. Surely that’s valuable.”
She picks up her teacup and observes me over its fragile rim. “Angel? You mean to say the Other you brought to my doorstep?”
“Yes, my friend. Angel. He lives in Domenico for now, but he’s a friend, a good friend. He’ll help us, he’ll do whatever he can—”
She sets down the cup and folds her clawed hands on her lap with a delicacy that belies their size. “The Others cannot be trusted. They can only be plied. You do understand the manner in which your friend controls Domenico’s flesh?”
I try not to shiver. “You don’t know him like I do.”
“I understand the nature of the Others very well, thank you.” She rises and turns to face the blackened fireplace, dying now from lack of wood. “Perhaps you should go.”
“So that’s it?” I spit, shaking with indignation. “After explaining your story in full, you won’t even make an effort to help? I know that you consider yourself a godly person, but it is not so much godliness as a learned passivity. You expect fate or God to deliver you from misery. And in the process, you allow cycles to repeat themselves and you give yourself up to their inevitability. I will remind you that you were the one to provoke Carmela into coming here. You planted the seed in her mind and allowed it to grow. You are in part responsible for what is happening now. So you cannot be such a passive woman at your core. You are feigning helplessness.” I unclench my fists and shake my head at her. “Some part of you must be ashamed of what you’ve become.”
The fire spits a few final flames at us in desperation; the room feels full of ash and dust. It is a place for the dying, the dead. Morency does not turn to face me, but her right hand trembles; if I’d blinked, I wouldn’t have caught it.
“You have to understand that Madame De Vaccaro is like a daughter to me,” she says quietly. “When she was born, not long after I miscarried, she was like a gift. We lived with the De Vaccaros in the city then. My mother always claimed to have nursed her, but I did, in secret. My mother could no longer lactate, but no one questioned us. They never question the servants.” She lifts the fire poker to poke at the remains of the fire. At that moment, I think that she won’t be saying anything more—she’s lost to memory. The dying embers spatter. “We can attempt to re-create the sacrifice,” she adds after a long pause.
I open my mouth to speak, and she holds up a hand to stop me.
“I remember bits of the Zapuche ritual. And I can offer everything left of myself,” she says, hanging the poker from its iron rack. “For whatever she is worth. But if they should require a young woman again … I advise you to be prepared, Miss Quercia.”
She’s right, of course.
Am I prepared to sacrifice myself for the others in this house?
My mother never once hesitated to give herself up for her ideals—at least she never seemed to. But could I have been born with that kind of noble dedication? Because everything good and noble that I might feel now is overshadowed by pure fear.
Before leaving, I glimpse her crossing herself slowly, deliberately, watching the smoldering wood.
I have a choice, now. I can wait ad infinitum for a magical tenth girl to appear, when it is clear she may not do so in time, whoever she may be. Or gather my strength and plunge into the unknown dark, the light beyond as faint as I’ve ever seen it.
Closing the door to her room, I whiff a hideous stench. A canvas lump rests against Mole’s door. It’s that bag from earlier, abandoned. I don’t want to peek inside, but I can’t stop myself. I press open the bag and gag: Inside I glimpse what appears to be the blackish residue of human waste, intermingled with seeds, cores, and pulpy matter that looks like rotten flesh. I shrink back. It’s as if Mole is decomposing, sloughing off spoiled bits of herself and dumping them outside.
It’s time now. This sacrifice ritual
is our only hope, and I must shake my fear by the hand and prepare. I must be the warrior my mother always dreamed I would be.
30
ANGEL: 2020–3600
“Morency knows the sacrifice ritual,” Mav whispers to me, pale-cheeked and weaving together her trembling fingers as we sit on her bed. “Parts of it, at least. She knew enough to make one of them come forward in 1918. An Other, in her father’s body. To discuss terms of release.” She hesitates. “They stole the girl out of Morency in exchange for letting her family go free.” As if that’s a procedure as simple as a surgeon severing a leg. What is Morency now if part of her has been lost? Is she another irreparably damaged creature, like so many of us Others?
“We’re going to repeat it,” she tells me. “Tonight.”
It sounds like a joke. “Who exactly are you planning on sacrificing?”
She straightens, swallows, a steely glint in her eyes. I already know the answer.
She thinks she’ll be following in the footsteps of her own mother. Become a sacrifice for her ideals. For the greater good.
When it’s not like that at all.
“You can’t,” I say, the peach-vomit walls closing in on me.
There isn’t a foreseeable happy ending to this. Can’t she feel what should happen next? Can’t she remember? Every soul is trapped in its hellish cycle, but for her it’s worst of all, because she’s so close to understanding her own. “It’s never going to work,” I tell her, my hands shaking hard.
“You say that as if I have the option of doubting it will work.” She crosses her arms to stop their convulsing. She’s blue-lipped now. “Angel, I know it sounds absurd—”