On the Verge

by Garen Glazier

  She crossed over East Prospect and felt the leaves crunch under her feet as she entered the grassy fields of Volunteer Park. Following the curve of the hill she soon ran onto the road that circled the park’s reservoir and skirted its greenish-blue depths until she found the pathway that led up through a small stand of pines to the wide platform where Isamu Noguchi’s Black Hole Sun sculpture presided over the park like a dark omen.

  Freya always liked to pause here for a moment, especially on days like today when she was alone, to glimpse the iconic Space Needle through the sculpture’s wide aperture. Framed within Noguchi’s monolithic ring, the Needle looked tiny and distant, ready to be swallowed by the slow, centripetal force of the Sun’s archaic form.

  She continued on, headed north on the sidewalk that ran past the Seattle Asian Art Museum towards the prismatic glow of the Conservatory’s many glass-paned windows, a relic of the grand greenhouses from another time. It’s delicate beauty and Victorian roots always put her in a nostalgic mood, a bittersweet frame of mind that seemed appropriate for a temperament like hers that swung between pensively optimistic and gloomily saturnine, sometimes on a daily basis.

  Freya trotted past the sparkling conservatory and its smaller back building into the dense bushes and trees that bordered the park. There was a short, unofficial path there that Freya and others, she was sure, used as a short cut from the intriguing grounds of the park to the equally evocative space of Lake View Cemetery.

  Freya was fascinated by graveyards and this was one of the oldest and best in the Pacific Northwest. For an area that was relatively new compared to the East Coast and positively juvenile by European standards, Lake View was Seattle’s best example of the historically interesting and morbidly appealing cemetery. The simple setting and beautiful view held a certain tranquil appeal for Freya.

  She slowed her pace to a more respectful stroll. The tombstones, laid out in even measure, matched the rhythm of her silent footfalls, until her regular paces became like a funeral march, a memento mori that she paced out to the time of her own rapidly beating heart. She was enjoying this deathly promenade when a movement caught her eye and she stopped short, her skin prickling with the sudden feeling of imminent threat.

  She ducked behind a large monument, a granite obelisk, and caught her breath. She pressed her back into the stone, feeling its solidity, and tilted her head toward the grey-glowing sky, drinking in the air like a tonic, but her nerves still jangled inexplicably. Gathering her courage, Freya turned her body toward the denseness of the stone and peered around its sharply cut edge.

  Just below her at the base of a slight rise was a dark figure crouched with its head resting against a modest memorial. From her vantage point she couldn’t quite tell if it was a man or a woman, only that it radiated a kind of heavy foreboding that activated the more primitive parts of Freya’s brain, the parts that urged her to run, fast and far. She dug her fingers into the stone, willing herself to stay, to find out who this person was, but she had already begun to back away toward the crest of the hill and the welcoming space of the park not far behind her.

  She was just about to turn when almost imperceptibly the figure began to raise its head. Freya, her advanced and primitive nervous systems now in agreement, willed herself to flee, but her body gave no response. She stood stock still like a deer hoping its camouflage will keep it safe from the advancing wolf. Her breaths came in shallow irregular bursts and a cold sweat trickled down her back.

  Finally, after several agonizing moments, the figure held Freya in its full regard. A pair of phosphorescent eyes took her in greedily, the pupils a deep russet red. They were the only thing that Freya could register for the first few seconds until finally she recognized the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose, and the close-cropped hair of Professor Dakryma. By the time she had finally made the association he was already halfway up the hill, striding toward her with intent.

  Freya ran. With all the strength she had in her, she sprinted back toward the narrow band of trees that stood between her and the park. She didn’t try to find the trail but simply pushed through the sharp branches and thorns of the shrubby undergrowth until she burst out the other side. Without looking back she ran down the tree-lined road that led from the conservatory toward the museum, her feet pounding on the pavement and her heart pounding in her ears.

  She reached the last of the trees and veered onto the terrace where the bleak majesty of Black Hole Sun loomed over the concrete and then stopped short. There, seated in the sculpture’s round chasm, legs casually crossed, was Dakryma, looking smug.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

  Freya, glad to see that the professor’s eyes had returned to their normal icy blue, realized that there was obviously nowhere to run and put her hands on her knees, panting to catch her breath. She regarded the professor fearfully but there was also a touch of curiosity in her apprehensive stare.

  “Who the hell are you?” Freya folded her arms across her chest, defensive and ready to run at a moment’s notice. She really wished the park had more visitors but no one seemed to be around. The grounds were deserted.

  Dakryma’s eyes sparkled malevolently. “Come now, that’s no way to address your professor, especially since you were the one who interrupted me. Do you often take strolls through cemeteries for your own amusement?”

  “I seriously doubt I will be doing it from now on.” Freya’s breathing had returned to near normal but her heart was still beating rapidly, giving her a disconcerting feeling of lightheadedness.

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  Dakryma uncrossed his legs and stood. He sauntered down the terrace, closing the distance between them.

  “You’ve put us in a most unfortunate situation, Freya, haven’t you? You’ve seen things that you weren’t really meant to see and that I’m not prepared to explain.”

  Freya regarded him with suspicion, but remained silent.

  As Dakryma approached, he didn’t take his eyes off her. Their otherworldly glow from only moments before flashed through Freya’s mind and she shuddered.

  He came close to her and inhaled.

  “You smell like a succubus,” he said, disdain dripping from his voice.

  “What?” Freya asked, confused.

  “Her scent is all over you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freya said, with more than a hint of irritation hardening the edges of her voice. “And you never answered my question. Who are you?”

  He was already uncomfortably close, but he leaned nearer, his body pressing up against hers. Freya was unnerved, but with him this close it was hard to deny his magnetism. A longing stirred below the tense apprehension that molded her exterior into an impassive shell. When he spoke it was in a rough susurrate, quiet but powerful.

  “A nightmare,” and there was a smile in his voice when he said it.

  Freya felt his cool breath on her neck and shivered. Her eyes were locked on his and it wasn’t until he turned away to return to his seat in the sculpture that she seemed to regain some sense of composure.

  “You know,” Dakryma continued smugly, proud of the reaction he’d elicited from her, “I was annoyed to be disrupted in the middle of my repast, but this actually works out quite well. I’m after the succubus. You may know her as Ophidia. I wasn’t having any luck tracking the ghastly creature down until you, my intractable assistant, show up positively reeking of her. You’re definitely not one of her hapless snacks, so what does she want with you?”

  “You’re saying the woman I met yesterday, Ophidia, she’s a succubus?” Freya stammered, laughing nervously. “I think you’ve been looking at one too many Symbolist paintings, professor.”

  Dakryma peered at her, his face set in a hard mask.

  “You would do well to take this matter more seriously, Freya. Ophidia is dangerous, ruthless. She will stop at nothing to get what she wants.”

  “But a succubus? Really, professor. That’s t
he stuff of legends.”

  “You saw for yourself just now that things are not always what they seem. In all legends there is a bit of truth, my dear. Now tell me, what does she want with you?”

  “A job,” Freya said, unsure whether she should reveal more.

  “It wouldn’t have something to do with the exhibition at the Frye, would it?” he asked.

  “It does.”

  “Look, I know you are hesitant to divulge the details of your little deal with me,” Dakryma said, “but it is of the utmost importance that you tell me what you know, particularly if it’s anything to do with this Imogen Beldame who’s staging the exhibition. She’s the one pulling the strings. That much I could glean from a phone call to the Frye. But I need to know what she wants from you.”

  With this last sentence Freya noticed a chink in Dakryma’s armor. The way in which he regarded her with a mixture of pride and entreaty hinted at an underlying vulnerability. Since he had arrived at the university a few months before, he had remained distant and supercilious, but in that moment she understood he wasn’t invincible even if he was himself some kind of demon.

  “I don’t know what she wants,” Freya lied.

  She’d never thought of herself as especially skillful at the art of deception. She had found that the truth was sometimes hard but always real, but Freya was willing to cultivate the dubious skill if it meant keeping probable demons at a distance.

  “So you agreed to a job without knowing what it entails?” Dakryma asked in a tone that seemed almost to contain real concern. “Surely this was not one of your finer moments in the realm of good judgment.”

  “I’ll know more this afternoon,” Freya said, “after I meet with Beldame. I can tell you what I find out.”

  The professor looked at her suspiciously. From his perch on the Noguchi sculpture, he looked like a rogue king presiding over a court of one. He held her gaze for a moment longer and then suddenly his expression lightened.

  “Fine,” the professor said. “I’ll be most interested to hear what you learn.”

  “Right,” Freya sighed, anxious to leave this odd wonderland of a morning far behind her, and relieved that at least for now she had evaded further questioning from the imposing professor.

  “Oh, and Freya?” Dakryma drawled.

  Freya paused. “Yes?”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  He laughed then, a strangely sad sound that jangled in Freya’s ears like giggling at a funeral, and he was gone. No puff of smoke or shimmering after-image, just gone from one instant to the next. But his laughter lingered, echoing along the terrace, through the Black Sun’s somber mouth and out onto the wind, blowing through the city like the dolorous breath of Old Man Winter.

  Freya stood before the massive door of Imogen Beldame’s Madrona mansion. She smoothed the front of her dark jeans and then pulled absentmindedly at her black funnel neck sweater, holding the soft folds of the collar close to her cheeks to keep out the late October chill.

  She stuck out a hand, its finger extended, to ring the doorbell, but she hesitated before pushing the softly glowing button. There was still time to turn away, to forget this whole thing had ever happened. After all, she knew now that her premonitions about Ophidia were right. She was dangerous. More than that she was an actual demon according to her professor who also, it seems, was more than met the eye. His little vanishing act in the park was testimony to that.

  She waited a moment longer, then quickly jabbed at the bell. She could hear the muffled chime as it rolled through the no doubt richly appointed corridors of Beldame’s mansion. She should have left and never looked back, but her current circumstances seemed so strange, exciting even. A glamorous succubus, Seattle’s well-known, yet enigmatic, art collector, and her handsome, and apparently otherworldly, professor asking for her help; everything spoke directly to her penchant for the dark and mysterious. It felt like she was getting involved in some kind of devilish adventure. For a bookish girl with artistic sensibilities and a naiveté born from spending too much time alone with her daydreams, she actually felt a bit excited about what might be in store for her.

  Shivering from the cold and not a little bit from the thrill of it all, she punched a finger at the doorbell once more, anxious as much to get inside and see the interior of Beldame’s famed mansion as for a chance to get warm.

  Suddenly the door swung open on its noiseless hinges, and there before her, a look of derision on her extraordinary face, was Ophidia.

  “You know it’s rather impolite to ring twice, my dear,” the Dionysian beauty purred.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Freya said. “It just seemed like some time had passed since I rang the first time and I thought maybe no one had heard the bell.”

  “Rest assured we knew you were here the moment you stepped foot on the property. There are security cameras everywhere. You don’t amass a museum-worthy collection of art and artifacts without making a few enemies, and we’ve taken every precaution to protect Beldame and her property from those hoping to divest her of a treasure or two.”

  She stood back and beckoned Freya inside.

  “Just something to keep in mind,” Ophidia continued. “Ms. Beldame is from a different generation when etiquette actually mattered.”

  “Right, okay,” said Freya, smiling weakly, but feeling slightly annoyed. She didn’t like to be corrected unless it was for a legitimate reason. An idiosyncratic focus on manners didn’t strike her as a particularly valid reason for a reprimand.

  Freya stepped inside the impressive foyer where a massive chandelier composed of blown glass discs floated like a confection of light above the solidity of the wood floors and paneled walls.

  “Follow me,” Ophidia said.

  Freya dutifully trailed behind her as they passed through the foyer. Ophidia’s footfalls resonated against the polished mahogany floorboards. The sound, rich and deep, soothed her finely-tuned aesthetic sensibilities and provided a welcome respite from the cheap tiles of the School of Art. It was a tragedy in her mind that a school devoted to the study of things visually stimulating would forsake the very environment where its pupils were taught. She found the school to be spiritually oppressive; the exterior might have some promise, but the insides were a wasteland of institutional utilitarianism.

  They continued on, skirting a massive staircase. Freya noticed that, rather drolly, the stair’s banisters were anchored on either side by caryatids. On the right the figure was a classic Greco-Roman beauty with bountiful exposed breasts and thick hips wrapped in artfully folded drapery. On the left was what appeared to be her cruel caricature, evil and malice carved into the still-sensual curves. Turning the figure from an ingénue to a seductress with only a few subtle changes took obvious woodworking skill, and indeed the details of each were so fine they seemed to originate from some classical temple rather than a modern staircase in Seattle.

  “Remarkable, aren’t they,” Ophidia said, following Freya’s gaze to the unusual figures at the base of the banisters. “Just a few deft strokes and the same figure can embody a whole new personality.”

  Freya nodded but remained silent, unnerved by the strange little figures.

  “Ms. Beldame is fascinated by contrasts and comparisons,” Ophidia continued. “She is a great observer of the world and has devoted her life to the collection of objects that exhibit the diversity of human experience. Hers is a passion driven by a life lived as a spectator. Objects of pageantry and drama always find their way into her home.”

  Visual confirmation of Ophidia’s characterization of the mysterious Beldame lay just beyond the narrow hallway they were currently traversing. The antechamber beyond was a room the likes of which Freya had never seen.

  The square space was lined entirely with glass-fronted cabinets containing a mind-boggling array of curiosities artfully arranged in a display meant to dazzle the beholder not only with the aesthetic wonder of the collection but with the sheer number of oddities and artifacts the
cases contained.

  Freya’s own inner collector was filled with rapturous delight at the spectacle. She could have tarried in front of the display for the better part of an afternoon. As it was, she was only able to take in a few of the most striking elements of the collection, including a perfectly preserved albino peacock, its fan of diaphanous feathers fabulously unfurled, and a fantastic crystalline structure reminiscent of the delicate veins of the nervous system that Freya recognized as petrified lightning, a rare structure made from the glass that results from lightning strikes on silica-rich desert sands.

  There were dazzling hunks of multicolored gemstones, skulls with the exaggerated features of humanity’s primordial ancestors, an ornate box of gold and silver that might contain some holy relic, glass canisters of sparkling powders and dried leaves of uncertain origin, along with whole Greek pots, deadly medieval weapons, twisted pearlescent horns, enormous tortoise shells, and a whole trove of other artifacts that merged together into a cabinet of curiosities that would have been at home in some esoteric alchemist’s workshop from centuries gone by.

  Ophidia walked swiftly through the space without giving the wonders around her a second glance, the heels of her stilettos making tiny craters in the sumptuous Persian carpet. She stopped in front of an arched door that Freya had failed to notice among the visual cornucopia of the glass cabinets and knocked three times in quick succession.

  A delicate voice that barely penetrated the thick wooden portal granted them permission to enter. Ophidia opened the door to Imogen Beldame’s office, ushered Freya inside, and then stepped out. She closed the door behind her, leaving the girl alone with Seattle’s most elusive and controversial figure.

  Freya noted that the mysterious recluse’s office was large and comfortable, with intriguing objects arranged artfully here and there. A parson’s-style desk built of simple gray wood stood in one corner. An armless, red leather chair was pushed up against it. Bookshelves lined the walls, tidy rows of texts side by side like little soldiers ready to march off into intellectual battle. But the centerpiece of the room was a large fireplace framed by a massive mantel. It was currently in use, filling the space with warmth and making the ornate divan in front of it look especially welcoming.