by Adam McOmber
“Make your own exploration,” he said. “See how far you get.” Nathan turned and left the bedroom.
“You said you wouldn’t leave me here alone,” I called after him.
He did not look back as he spoke to me again, saying, “I’ve realized you’re the sort of thing that wants to be alone, Jane Silverlake.” He abandoned me there—leaving for the war shortly after, still angry with me. Still feeling as though I would not let him in.
I fell to my knees that day in the witch’s house. I was alone and I longed for Maddy. I’d been foolish to go off without her. I began to weep so hard that I became confused. I experienced a waking dream in which an old woman in a red cloak came to my side and put her arms around me. She wore a filthy lace ruff around her neck, and her face was like that of the shriveled monkey that I now found in Father’s book. She told me they were all like that—those who came to take from me. “You mustn’t worry too much, child,” she whispered. “The young man will finish himself. Those like him always do.” And I allowed her to hold me, putting my face in her hair. She smelled of wildflowers and musk and had a drowsy warmth about her like summertime. She rocked me for what seemed like hours.
• • •
I didn’t realize how much I’d been affected by the events at the cottage until I tried to leave it and found I could not bear the sunlight outside. Dizzy, I lay down in the shade of an oak tree, far enough from the house that I could no longer hear the ebb and flow. And I remained there for an hour, unable to move, trying to let the silence of nature heal me. The vision in red had been Mother Damnable; I was quite sure of it. The witch loved me and wished to protect me, though I was not sure why.
• • •
Nathan was absent after the events at the cottage, preparing himself for the long journey to Malta. And despite my attempt to hide what we’d done, Maddy was all too aware of our trip to the Heath. She sat with me as I recovered, refusing to allow Miss Anne near me and instead keeping a cool towel pressed to my brow in an attempt to reduce the fever that invaded my body.
I was laid out on the couch in the Clock Parlor, as I didn’t like being in my bedroom when I was ill. The bed, with all its pillows and fluff, could feel too much like a coffin. Father appeared from time to time at the door, saying something disjointed about how I shouldn’t have gone out in the summer heat. “It’s far too easy to exhaust oneself out there, Jane. That scoundrel Nathan Ashe should have known better. Your mother, after all—your poor mother.”
“I’m fine, Father,” I said. “It’s only a spell. Nothing like what happened to Mother.”
Maddy read to me from a new translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses that her own mother had deemed “disturbing filth” and put on a high shelf. Maddy spent a great deal of time reading the rape of Daphne, in which a girl sprite was transformed into a tree by her father so that she might avoid defilement from the god Apollo. The scene of transformation was particularly hideous, even by Ovidian standards, telling of the bark crawling up the poor girl’s legs and thighs while Apollo tried to violate her. Bark encased her stomach and breasts until finally her upraised arms became leafy branches and her screams were nothing more than the creaking of the bowers. Even then the god did not relent. He tried to penetrate her still but found the girl to be entirely made of wood.
“You see, Jane,” she said, “a tree girl—just like your mother used to call you.”
“Is this supposed to be helpful?” I asked.
Maddy lowered the book. “Would you prefer something else, dear?”
“I’d think you might try reading something more peaceful. The state I’m in begs for that.”
Here she did look a bit apologetic. She assessed me with her violet-colored eyes and bit her lower lip. “Are you actually ill, Jane? Or are you acting this way because of something that happened on the Heath with Nathan? Between the two of you, I mean.”
I looked toward a pool of sunlight on the rug. “It wasn’t physical,” I said. “Or at least not in the way you’re thinking of it. He—Nathan—wanted to try another experiment. He was desperate for it.” I explained the events as clearly as I could remember them. It was wrong to have kept any of it from her. Maddy was like my shadow-self, and to hide information in such a manner was like walling off a part of my own consciousness. I even told her about the vision of the red woman that I’d taken to be Mother Damnable, making it clear I’d been hallucinating under duress (though I wasn’t entirely sure that was true).
“My mother actually met Mother Damnable when she was just a girl,” Maddy said. Her tone was light, as if the story mattered little, but my interest was quickly drawn. “The old witch apparently showed her something.”
“Showed her what?” I asked, feeling strong enough to actually sit up comfortably for the first time in three days.
“Oh,” she said, “I don’t know. Some kind of trick, I think. Mother never told exactly—or maybe she did, but I didn’t care enough to listen.”
I rested my head against the arm of the sofa and thought of the old woman’s arms around me and the lovely smell of her hair. I wondered if her tricks were anything like my own.
CHAPTER 17
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the library, and as I was putting Corydon Ulster’s letter in the fire, Miss Anne came to the door, fresh from shopping. She looked somewhat dissatisfied at the sight of me. “Would you like a cup of tea now, Jane?” she asked.
“No tea,” I said, “but come closer for a moment, Anne.” I was still feeling off balance from my memory of Mother Damnable’s cottage.
After my experience there that fateful day, I’d gone to Mother’s dressing room, opened the wardrobe, and knelt before the oval portrait of the Lady of Flowers. For the first time in my life, I prayed—not to the Christian God, but to the woman in the painting who looked so much like my mother. I asked her to never let me see the Empyrean again. It had marred my relationship with Nathan, perhaps even set him against me. And it would likely do the same to my relationship with Maddy. The Empyrean had been poisoning me since I was a child, I knew this now. It was the emptiness that Mother had left in me, the emptiness that infected everyone around me. I prayed harder still, knowing the worst thing about the Empyrean was that even though I could see it was a void—a terrible white blankness that could ruin all my carefully built relationships—I secretly wanted more of it. Seeing the white forest so close at hand in Mother Damnable’s cottage had been almost too much. I wanted to feel the Empyrean consume me, to erase my name and my sex, erase my very identity and leave me a magnificent and shining absence.
As I prayed before the wardrobe, the Lady of Flowers stared back at me, her dark eyes so superior. She seemed to condemn me for my weakness. She wanted me to grow strong, so I didn’t fail her. So I didn’t fail everyone. The way she looked at me, like she knew everything and I knew nothing, enraged me. I stood and pulled the portrait from the back of the wardrobe, letting it fall to the floor. I leaned over it and pushed my hand through the Lady’s chest. I tore at the flowers on the canvas until all of it was in ruins. And then I lay there next to the broken frame, holding handfuls of the Lady and feeling the Empyrean slip away.
After that day, I did not see the white forest again for a time. My talent once gained became a kind of low hum in the background of life. But when Nathan disappeared, I could sense the forest’s return. The Empyrean was coming back, calling to me. It was there, just under the surface of things, and I wondered if I could access it once again.
• • •
“Closer, Miss Anne,” I said, as she was still some five feet from the fireplace in the library. The request seemed to frighten her, but she did as I asked, coming to stand directly before me.
“Hold out your arm,” I said to her, “and pull back the sleeve of your blouse.”
“Oh no, Jane. I don’t want—”
“Do it now, Anne, or I’ll tell Father you’ve been stealing silverware.”
She did as s
he was told, as I had long ago established myself as dominant in our relationship. I placed my hand on her bare skin. The library rang out around us. Books produced a particularly agonized tone.
“What do you feel?” I asked her.
“The demons, Jane,” she said breathlessly. “You know I feel them when you touch me.”
“There are no demons. How many times do I need to tell you that for you to understand?” She tried to pull away, but I wouldn’t allow it. I focused all my attentions on the objects, letting the great moaning of the room fill her like water fills a basin. Miss Anne began to cough, and flecks of spit appeared on her lips.
“Now what do you feel?” I asked.
“I feel everything,” she said. “The whole room is inside me.”
“And do you see a pale forest,” I said, “with an unmoving stream?”
“It’s there,” she replied, nearly hypnotized by her own fear. “It’s there behind the objects. A white forest. And there are demons in the trees. White demons making awful sounds and watching.”
“Can you step into the forest?” I asked.
“It’s a painted picture,” she said. “Thank God and Christ it’s only a painted picture.”
I released her, and she nearly fell in her rush to get away from me. “What was it, Jane? Was it Hell that I saw?”
“Most certainly it was Hell, Anne, and it’s waiting for you, gates thrown wide,” I said. “Now get out of my sight.”
Because Miss Anne had treated me like I was a devil throughout my childhood, I felt little remorse for making my experiment with her. The result, at least, was clear. The Empyrean had returned, getting stronger and stronger, and this time, it would not be sent away so easily.
• • •
Carefully I unwound Maddy’s handkerchief from Nathan’s journal and used the silk to turn the pages. It pained me to see the low crawl of his script. Things were so conflicted between us near the end. Yet I cared for Nathan Ashe, and he’d helped me learn much about myself. I felt more than a little guilt at the idea I’d led him astray. With my heart pained, I read:
April 19, 18—Arrival at Malta
Closely following the Queen’s Dragoon Guard, we arrived at the island of Malta, 7:00 in the evening. Dark clouds hung above the high white rocks of the barren island. Never have I been so overjoyed to see so dismal a place. It was land, after all—a surface that did not shift and sway at the wind’s every whim. The ship we traveled on was a French steamer, the Golden Fleece, a name which I found increasingly ironic over the course of our travels. Unlike the mythological Jason and the original sailors of the ship which sought that fleece, Lord Wellington’s brigade was decidedly not a band of ready heroes. Rather, we were a frightened bunch of seasick English and Frenchmen who appeared to have no hope of winning any kind of war. As for the singing piece of timber contained in the prow of the mythic ship, we had no such fanciful thing. If only Jane were here to remedy that.
Stepping onto the rocky shore of Malta, my thoughts went to my secret purpose. It’s true that I became a soldier to serve my queen, but I’ve another motive too—something I won’t readily share with my fellows. I joined Lord Wellington’s brigade because I knew it would make camp on this island before moving on to Sevastopol in the Black Sea. My connection to this place is, of course, Theodore de Baras, the monk who wrote so prolifically about notions of the Empyrean. De Baras lived here on the island during the thirteenth century as a member of the Brotherhood of Saint John. He indicates in his writings that he was not the only member of the Brotherhood interested in the highest Heaven. It’s my hope that the monks on this island will retain the knowledge of their forbearers, and that because of my status as a member of the Queen’s Guard, they will help me find the answers I seek.
If I cannot help Jane understand who she is or what she is—I think we’ll all come to ruin soon enough. And so I am here for answers.
I paused in my reading, face burning. Nathan had gone to war to help me, and his experiences had torn him apart. I realized that if it hadn’t been for me, he might never have gone to war at all. I felt saddened by this. Even after all that had happened, I still cared for my old friend.
Bunking—I don’t have it in me to describe the wretched bunking houses, though suffice it to say that we are thankfully not camping out of doors, as some of the other posts are. We have, instead, a series of small overcrowded rooms complete with braziers that burn black coal and make the atmosphere quite unbreathable. I have taken up pen again to make a note about how it feels to be away from my people. Not my family, per se, for I grew used to being away from them when boarded at school in my early years, but rather being away from Jane and Madeline. When embarking on this journey, I thought the change might do me good, and certainly, the idea of investigating the Brotherhood excited me. But now living with the war so close, it makes one realize how fragile and brief our relationships are—how significant it is to keep hold of them. There is no room for separation when it comes to love. I wonder which of the two I’ll miss more. This is an experiment of the heart. Maddy would lose her scruples if she thought that it was not her, and it could very well be, but still—
Città Vecchia (the Old City) on Malta has a sun-blasted, timeworn look. The dirt and cobble streets seem often to lead nowhere, and icons of the various religious sects that have held sway over the island since the Phoenicians crouch and caper at every turn. I am fascinated by the idea that so many of our ancestors had monsters for gods. Touring the city with a few of the other soldiers, I made note of a statue of particular interest. It was repeated frequently on the island; I counted nearly twenty some statues, effigies of a tall veiled woman holding a stalk of lilies in the crook of her arm. Her face was downcast, and she had such a countenance of melancholy. A local man told me in broken English that she is called the Lady of Flowers. He said she was a mystic who lived on Malta during the time of Christ. Her spirit apparently still watches over the island. I recognized the name from the writings of Theodore de Baras. Jane had reacted strongly to a drawing of this figure when I showed it to her back home, so I knew she must be significant.
I squinted up at her stone face, washed in sunlight, and tipped the good man. The English money seemed to please him, and I was on my way, catching up with the rest of the boys who were busy attempting to charm a young female fortune-teller.
22nd—We’ve been driven from our bunking houses in the night by vermin. Some of the men awoke, friends of mine whose sanity I can attest to, saying that there were creatures in the room, crawling things. Rats maybe. Enough to make the entire floor a writhing mat of fur.
Because of the infestation, our brigade was split up and moved to new quarters. The captain made the assignments, and as luck would have it, I was to bunk at the ancient auberge on Malta. The auberge is the place where Frankish and Saxon knights once lived together and that currently belongs to the convent of Carmelite friars known as the Brotherhood of Saint John, the very men I’ve come here to meet. I wonder if this is not simple luck. Perhaps the Lady of Flowers is smiling down on me?
23rd—The friars are a good and cheerful lot—not the traditional grim beasts one expects from monks. At dinner last night, they proved to be as hearty as any Englishman. We dined on boar, an animal which apparently roams wild on the island. The brothers make Christian sport of hunting the creature with bows and arrows. These good men offered to take me on a tour of their vaults after dinner, and this tour afforded me the opportunity to confess that I am quite interested in their order. My interest seemed to please them greatly.
I was not prepared for the fantastic sights I would see beneath the auberge. Apparently, the monks bury their dead in the subterranean vaults in a most uncommon way. It appears that they are first dried in great heat. One could even say they are baked. Once dried, the corpses are put into niches in the walls in a standing position with their arms crossed, and they are left exposed for all to see.
The dried skin of the corpses is reddish br
own in color, pulled tightly across the bone of the skull. As the joints have disintegrated, the bodies have dropped into all sorts of positions. Thankfully there’s no smell, aside from a faint sweetness that reminds me absurdly of black licorice. It’s not the sort of grotesque display I want to be living in proximity of. But the gregarious brothers seem to have no trouble with the dead in their basement. Theirs is not a Gothic existence of mystery and horror. They lead simple lives, and I think one day I should like to live like them, alone on a beautiful island with nothing but old myth surrounding and supporting me.
While in the subterranean chamber, I spotted a stone hallway leading to a circular room that contained a Byzantine-looking gold cabinet. “What’s down there?” I asked my guide out of curiosity.
“A reliquary,” he said. “It’s not to be disturbed.”
I made note of the reliquary. Jane says it is my singular goal in life to disturb that which should not be. She might be right about that.
Aside from the crypt, the auberge is a pleasure. Walls covered in arabesque silk in nearly perfect condition showing verdant ferns and exotic animals—a veritable Eden within the old hotel. Carvings have been done on coral. Filigrees of silver line doorways.
We were served pale brandy at night by the laughing friars who want to know of England, as it seems to them another world. They ask us to describe again and again St. Dunstan’s Day, Bartholomew’s Fair, Buckingham and the Tower.
After the evening of storytelling, I took up conversation with one of the friars, a fellow who seems to be in charge, called Romegas. He was a wizened man with a trim white beard and the most astonishingly clear eyes. I asked him about the macabre display in the lower regions of the auberge, and at first he tried to evade my questions with humor, but as I pressed him, he become more circumspect. “Have you an interest in the soul, Signore Ashe?”