by Martha Faë
We hurry away. I look back now and then, still convinced that someone is following us.
14
When we reach Sherlock’s house he’s nowhere to be found.
“Where could that man be?” Morgan exclaims. I’m surprised by how upset she is.
I hurry after her; she’s walking so quickly that it seems like she could take flight at any moment. As we walk past the Criterion pub we hear shouts and the sound of punches landing. There must be a real brawl going on inside.
“Something really odd is going on here,” says Morgan.
The Sphereans gathered around the door move out of the way just in time. A chair comes flying out, and right behind it a whirlwind of arms and feet and hands. The strange mass falls to the ground and begins rolling around, propelled by the punches and kicks coming from its center.
“It’s Heathcliff!” cries one of the people watching.
Beatrice comes running out of the Criterion with a rather disheveled Sherlock trying to hold her back.
“At least now we know Frankenstein hasn’t disappeared,” says Morgan.
So the ball rolling around in front of me is Heathcliff and Frankenstein fighting. They’re just as savage as Morgan said, she didn’t exaggerate a bit. I can see the crude stitches she described on one of them. I can hardly believe that the other one, the one foaming at the mouth, is the sensitive, love-deprived soul that Beatrice sees. They’re tearing splinters of wood out of one another’s arms and chest, trying to destroy each other, but no one makes a move to stop them. Something slightly blue flickers in my peripheral vision, and when I turn I see that it’s Beatrice’s dress. The fabric is still gray, but now I can see a hint of blue in it. I take off running toward her like it’s some kind of signal. I know I have to get to her, to try and stop whatever is about to happen. Then the strangeness of what’s happening to me makes me pause: I can feel Beatrice’s thoughts. I feel like I can guess what she’ll do next, as if I’ve spent enough time in the Sphere to know just how she’ll react. I reach for her hand, but it’s too late. Her wooden fingers slip free from my fingers of flesh and blood.
“Bice!” I shout.
Beatrice’s only thought is to protect Heathcliff. She tries to pull Frankenstein away. The monster stops, paralyzed, and stares at her in astonishment, which gives Heathcliff just enough time to stand up and knock her out of the way with a fist to the face. Then he grabs Frankenstein by the shreds of his shirt and goes on fighting.
Beatrice tumbles to the ground, her head bounces against the cobblestones, and she falls unconscious. A deafening silence follows. Everyone stares in horror. Sherlock runs to Beatrice and gathers up her limp body while Morgan shouts for the crowd to make way. The air is charged with the Sphereans’ fear, and I know they’re just as afraid for themselves as for Beatrice. Little by little I start to hear the muttering about imbalance, darkness, the breakdown of roles. I debate whether I should go with Sherlock and Morgan or take advantage of the confusion. The sun is starting to go down and I probably won’t get another chance like this. This isn’t my world. I feel it now more strongly than ever. It isn’t my world, and these aren’t my people. But there is someone in that monk’s cell who needs my help. Someone like me.
As I walk away I expect Morgan to show up and stop me at any moment. It’s happened before. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is following me, watching me. Fortunately I manage to reach Madras College, or rather, the monastery where Ambrosio lives. I hide behind some shrubs and wait until I hear the monks singing vespers. When their voices ring out, my heart speeds up. I look up at the sky. The clouds are skimming quickly along on the wind, and there’s not a soul in the streets.
I sneak out from behind the shrubs and go inside the building, trying to make my footsteps as quiet as a cat’s. My breathing is heavy, from the adrenaline and from the way I’m flaring my nostrils to try and detect a trace of blood. There’s nothing; not even the smell of a single drop. My hands shake as I open the door to Ambrosio’s cell. The symbols on the floor have vanished. The light is fading quickly, just like when I was here with Sherlock, so I have only a few moments to see what there is inside the cell. The little stub of candle isn’t there anymore; in its place is something that glitters dully.
I walk toward the back of the cell. I need to get to the trunk before the light is gone, but darkness falls all at once and suddenly my hands are the only guide I have. I touch the trunk, feeling my way over its metal rivets and the rough wood, swollen from the humidity. I try to concentrate, but the slight glitter of the object sitting on the little table keeps drawing my eye, and I can’t focus. The thing is irresistibly magnetic. I can feel it calling to me. I shake my head hard. My hands move back to the trunk and search for the padlock, but it isn’t there. The latch opens easily. When I push open the lid the noise of the rusty hinges echoes in the monastic silence. I prick my ears up to see if the sound has given me away, but the only sound is the distant chanting of the monks in the chapel.
It’s impossible to see whether there is anything inside the trunk. I search slowly, cautiously at first, just at the very top. Then, little by little, I go farther in. My fingers move forward and back and then to the right, drawn by the glittering object. I can’t control them. Finally I lunge for the tiny sparkle, quickly, desperately, anxious to touch the light. When my hands finds the thing I’m longing for I see that it’s a branch divided into narrower branches, fine as threads, with incredibly thin leaves. My hand has its own will now: I tuck the treasure into the pocket of my jacket. Once the glitter disappears, hidden beneath the cloth of my jacket, I seem to regain control of my body and mind. I go back to the trunk. This time I search with more determination and get all the way to the bottom. There is absolutely nothing. My hands tell me that there’s nothing. What’s wrong with my instincts today? I lower my head to sniff at the wood, but I can’t smell anything at all. I’m so frustrated.
Someone shoves me forward into the trunk.
The lid slams shut and I flail around inside, struggling to push it open again. My shouts are lost in the noise of loudly beating wings from whatever it is that is lifting me, swinging me up, carrying me out of the cell. The racket as we run through the gallery interrupts mass, and in the blink of an eye the drumming of a great many sandals joins the chase after my kidnappers. I fall silent and try to listen. The monks are shouting at the kidnappers, but between the noise of my body thumping against the trunk and all the different languages they’re yelling in, I can’t understand a word. In the street there’s a little more light; I can see it through the tiny cracks in the wood. I bring my face close to one of them and get a violent blow to the cheek, which brings silent tears to my eyes. I can see black gloves. We’re running down the street. The sound of flapping wings is so loud that I have to cover my ears against the thunderous noise. The cries of the monks grow more distant, and finally fade away, but the rattling continues. We go up, then down, my body slamming against the old planks of the trunk. Finally the movement stops. My heart beats faster. A few seconds pass, and it feels like an eternity. They drop me. I haven’t fallen from very high, but the impact is so brutal that it almost destroys the trunk. I can hear shrieks and metallic sounds, followed by a siren that sounds like a car alarm.
“What have you brought me? Imbeciles! Good-for-nothings!” says a ridiculous canned voice. “Get rid of that at once.”
The movement starts again, though now it’s much slower. The noise of the beatings wings is dejected and sad. We stop and they swing the trunk and send it flying through the air. I fall, bouncing here and there against rocks. They must have tossed me off a cliff. I cover my head with my arms as some of the planks are knocked off, leaving long, pointed slivers of wood. Luckily when the trunk finally stops, it’s on the sand.
A few seconds pass. Once the rocks knocked loose by my fall stop tumbling down the cliff, I can hear the sound of the sea. I open my eyes on a familiar sight: the ruins of the old castle of St Andrews. Or rather,
the Sphere’s perfectly intact castle. It’s nearly the same as the one in St Andrews, except that time doesn’t seem to leave any mark here. I’m in the little cove of Castle Sands. I’m lying face-up on the beach, and I don’t even consider trying to move. The clouds are sliding gently across the full moon, and inside the castle windows you can just see the glow of candles, and perhaps a fireplace. It’s odd; I’m not frightened. I’m almost enjoying how peaceful it is here.
A stabbing pain forces me to sit up. A sharp piece of wood is lodged in my side, the point piercing my clothing. Slowly I move my hand toward my jacket to find the place where the sliver of wood goes in. I expect to find my own wet blood, but everything is dry. I move the fabric aside carefully. Apart from the wound made where the foreign object enters my flesh, my skin is intact. I can tell something is sticking into me, but I don’t really feel any pain. I take hold of the bit of wood with both hands, take a deep breath, and pull. I can feel it slipping out, but it doesn’t hurt. Not even a scratch—just like the day of the car accident with Carl.
I am dead. It’s the only explanation.
Tears spring to my eyes and gush out in an unstoppable flood. I feel so angry with myself. I dry my eyes, rubbing the backs of my hands furiously against my cheeks, but I can’t stop crying. Even though I keep telling myself that this is not the time for tears, that it’s time to accept the situation. Even though crying has never been my style.
I’ll never go back to St Andrews, or to Edinburgh, or to anywhere else I know. The dead don’t come back... So this is what happens. Dying is sort of like dreaming. That explains why everything is so bizarre. I try to calm down, but sobs convulse my body. I can’t think. Images of the twins, of Axel, of that stupid vision of my parents being devoured by carnivorous books. The past fills up what little space my crying has left in my mind. Fighting, twins. Arguing, parents. Arguing, Axel. Laura’s laughter, Marion’s laughter, my serious face. Twins, parents, Axel, Laura, Marion. All their faces look down at me from above, their eyes surround me, full of worry, trying to stop my crying. Wasted life. Useless life. Carnivorous books. The eyes of all my loved ones looking at me, accusing: “you have hurt us.” Axel, the car rolling across the highway at dizzying speed. A sharp, interminable whistling. Shouts, running, confusion.
“Enough!”
My wrenching cry rises up to the clouds, passes over the rocks, and is lost in the vastness of the sea. Absolute silence. Slowly my lungs recover their normal rhythm. I toss myself down on the ground, looking up. I’ve finally stopped crying. I feel strangely fine. The clouds dance. I stare up at the sky until the moon begins to disappear. When dawn comes the temperature drops suddenly, and I bundle myself up in my jacket. The places that were ripped during my fall are gone; the cloth has mended itself. The thing I took from the monk’s cell is still in my pocket. I take it out to look at it by the first rays of the sun. When I open my hand, a small, blindingly white branch forces me to squeeze my eyes shut. I have to show the others what I’ve found. I stand up.
I feel a little dizzy.
Just a little.
Everything goes black.
I collapse onto the sand.
“Morgan, did you wrap the branch up like I told you to?”
“Yes.”
“Good. No one move her. She should come to any moment.”
I think I hear Sherlock’s voice. I open my eyes and see the faces of the people who are going to be my companions for all eternity.
“Are you all right?” asks Beatrice, clearly worried.
“Yes. I’m just a little dizzy.”
“Do you think you can get up?” asks Sherlock gently. I move my eyes to answer that I can.
Morgan and Sherlock help me up, and we start walking back to Beatrice’s house. I walk by myself, per Sherlock’s instructions, to keep from looking suspicious, but my companions are on the alert in case they need to rescue me. Apparently ever since Heathcliff hit Beatrice and knocked her out, the whole Sphere has been talking about it. Beatrice doesn’t lose consciousness in her role; no one had ever seen anything outside their roles; it had never happened before. The Sphereans are convinced something really strange is going on. Sherlock and Morgan have had to concoct all kinds of preposterous explanations for everything out of the ordinary. As we walk my companions watch our surroundings carefully. When they are sure there aren’t any other Sphereans around, they fill me on the details, little by little. I try to engrave the information in my memory. They’ve invented a role for me so that if anyone speaks to me, nothing will seem out of place. I’m supposed to say that I’ve been recently published. Judging by my companions’ faces, everything in the Sphere has been turned upside-down, but luckily no one suspects the disappearances—yet.
When we reach Beatrice’s house they make me lie down on the hard bed.
“You could even do that thing you like so much, if you want,” Beatrice says, smiling sweetly at me.
“Sleep? Really, I’m fine.”
I try to sit up. It would be absurd to go to sleep now that I know my situation won’t change no matter what I do. I have all of eternity to rest.
“Stay in bed!” Sherlock orders. His authority is impossible to contradict.
My heads sinks obediently back into the pillow that Beatrice brought me. The dizziness hasn’t actually gone away entirely, which I can’t understand. Morgan takes one look at me and lays her hand on my forehead. I feel instantaneous relief.
“Don’t get up yet, even if you do feel better,” she says brusquely. It seems like she’s just being practical, and it’s nothing personal.
Sherlock and Morgan leave the room and Beatrice sits down beside the bed. The murmur of voices in the hall is barely audible; it sounds like something fluid, like the rise and fall of the ocean. After a few minutes I think I hear the door to the street.
I don’t have any idea how long I’ve been asleep. When I open my eyes it feels like a lot of time has passed. Beatrice is sitting next to the window in front of a crude mirror made of thick glass. She’s using a long razor to shave the edge of hair, just above her forehead. Her skill is surprising, especially given that the mirror, like all the others in this eerie world, doesn’t reflect anything at all. I watch, hypnotized by her movements. I admire the perfect half-moon that frames her face. Once she’s finished, she wraps up the razor and the mirror with great care.
“You’re awake!” she says in her silky voice, and comes over to me. I admire the way she slips over to the bed, like she’s walking on a cushion made of clouds. I think that’s one of the things I like most about Beatrice, that ethereal feeling she has.
“What are you doing?”
“Maintenance work on this vehicle the Creator has given me,” she answers, with an airy giggle.
“You were shaving your head...”
“My forehead,” she points out.
“Well, really the front part of your head.”
“Or the back part of my forehead,” Beatrice’s elegant hand covers a mischievous smile. I realize that I’ve never seen her smile openly.
“Sure, whichever. But why? Morgan doesn’t do that.”
“She belongs to another culture. We have different standards of beauty.”
I try to sit up but have to lie back down right away.
“I feel like all the blood has been drained right out of me!”
“That is because your senses are still deadened. That myrtle is very powerful. You should never have touched that little branch. It is a very dangerous instrument. You don’t know how worried Mr. Holmes was—how worried we all were. Last night he did nothing but ask after you. He was convinced that something had happened to you; he was afraid that you had gone back to the monastery on your own. He was uneasy, and more serious than usual. I have to confess that he was the one who organized the search for you, and not the other two of us. Forgive us!”
“It’s no big deal...” I’m surprised that Sherlock was worried about me. “But tell me—what was it you said bef
ore about the branch? It’s powerful?”
“Yes. Right. The little branch from Ambrosio’s cell is part of his dark role.” I stretch out my neck like a turtle, waiting for an explanation that, as usual, Beatrice holds back. “What do you know about Ambrosio?” she asks me carefully.
“Practically nothing.”
“Do you know Matilda?” I shake my head no. “All right, I shall tell you,” says Beatrice with resignation. “But only so you may be aware of the danger that you put yourself in, sneaking into the cell of that... that monk. Matilda is a young woman, who at the beginning of her role passes as a male novice in order to be close to Ambrosio. Then she confesses her love for him. He spurns her every time she confesses her love.”
“Because he prefers other women, I suppose.”
“Just so. But Matilda never gives up. Every time, in the intermediate part of her role, she gives the little myrtle branch to Ambrosio... you could say it’s so he can get everything he desires. It’s a sign that she is willing to do anything for him. That woman is sent from the dark one, do you understand?”
“What dark one?”
“The evil...”
“Lucifer?”
With one finger Beatrice traces a quill and inkwell on her chest.
“I never said it. But yes, there are some who say that Matilda is the very... Him, the evil one, in the form of a woman.”
“What does the branch do exactly?”
“Numbs one’s senses, and opens all doors.”
“I understand. That’s what Ambrosio uses for his mischief,” I say, choosing my words carefully so that I don’t wound Beatrice’s sensibilities any further. I watch as a nasty smile spreads across her face. “What is it? What are you so happy about?”
“It is what Ambrosio used. He can’t any longer, because you...”
Beatrice can’t find the word.
“Because I stole it.”
“Yes, because you took it,” she says, blushing slightly.