“Welcome back, Mr. Beck,” she said with a smile.
“Thanks, Judith. I hope you've been well.”
“Yes, thank you. And you? Did you enjoy being dead?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that Blake might not think being dead was all that funny. Fortunately for her, Blake's sense of irony and humor hadn't died with him, and despite the fact that Blake was in a rotten mood, he managed to not take it out on Judith.
“As much as the next man, I guess. What was it your British boys said? Always look on the bright side of death,” he said as he got out of the capsule.
“Something like that, sir,” Judith said with a discrete sigh of relief.
“Is everything on track?” Blake asked.
“Yes, sir. It's just past six o'clock and we're parked on Bishop's Square next the cathedral. This should give you a good two hours and change to get ready and check out the scene.”
“Perfect,” Blake said, taking a look around, dressed only in his hospital gown. “Where's our Mr. Thompson then?” he asked, hoping that the answer would be along the lines of “far away.”
“He's in London, sir. It's a medical condition,” Judith said, refraining from going into further detail. “I let the rest of the crew go out for dinner since we finished the reanimation setup in good time.”
“Ah, you just wanted me all to yourself,” Blake jested as he headed to the small changing room, trying his best to lighten up both the situation and his own mood.
“Indeed, sir,” Judith replied with a smile in her voice.
“Have you got my ticket for the concert?” Blake called from the stall.
“No, sir. It’s a free concert, but I've put 50 kroner in your wallet in case you want some cash for the collection tin.”
“So you did. Thanks,” Blake said with the slightly strained voice of a grown man sitting down and bending over to tie his shoes. Blake stepped out from the changing room wearing a perfectly fitted, dark grey pinstriped suit and black leather shoes.
“Looking good, sir.”
“Thanks, Judith. I think I'll go and have a look around. By the way, where's my sword?”
“I've taken the liberty of hiding it inside the cathedral, sir. It's taped underneath the bench just to your immediate right when you enter the cathedral – hilt towards the aisle. I thought this was the easiest way to make sure you had it with you.”
“Perfect,” Blake said before exiting the trailer of the truck that had made the trip from London to Aarhus while Blake had been in Shades having a lousy time. He gave Judith a wink as he closed the trailer door and headed across the square to the cathedral. He walked up to the heavy wooden double doors and pulled one of them half open just as a young woman walked up to him. She quickly swallowed her last mouthful of food before she addressed him.
“Undskyld mig, men kirken er altså lukket lige nu, for vi er ved at gøre klar til koncerten i aften,” Astrid said.
“Sorry!?” Blake replied with a bewildered look on his face.
“Altså kirken er lukket lige nu, så du bliver desværre nødt til at komme tilbage senere,” she continued, mistaking Blake for one of the many Anglophile Danes who would often use the word “sorry” as their chosen word of apology.
“I'm sorry, I don't understand, miss,” Blake said.
“Oh . . . I . . . I'm sorry! I didn't . . . I thought you were Danish. I just said that the church is closed to the public right now as we're getting ready for tonight’s concert,” Astrid said, feeling suddenly shy.
“Oh, so you work here?” Blake asked, still holding the door slightly open, allowing the sounds of the organ playing to escape.
“No. Well, sort of. I'm just a volunteer and I'm helping out at the concert tonight.”
“Well, I'm Blake,” he started, letting the door close. “I arrived early, hoping to see the cathedral and grab a bite to eat.” He extended his hand to her, betting himself that this polite young woman would not turn him away once they were properly introduced. He hoped she might even be of some assistance to his endeavor.
“I'm Astrid,” she replied, her mind wandering into a possible future where she would not have to wait until Saturday to begin her hunt for a man: a future in which Louise would become envious of her new, rather hot, older and sophisticated American boyfriend who seemed to have an affinity for the works of Johann Sebastian Bach which were featured in the evening’s concert. Blake could see his ploy working and moved in for the kill.
“I know that you're probably busy, but here goes. I'm from out of town and only here for a few days,” Blake said. A bubble burst in Astrid's mind. “Only a few days,” she thought and decided that she had better make the most of it. “I was wondering, in exchange for me accompanying you inside the cathedral while you finish what you're doing, would you want to have dinner with me? I imagine that you'd know where to go for a nice dinner,” Blake added. Astrid's heart jumped and she immediately discarded any notion of making an in-depth investigation into Bernt Notke's portrayal of the Gregor's Mass, deciding that the peacock and gilded sky would still be there in the morning.
“Well actually, I'm starving,” she lied, feeling the weight of three sausage rolls and half a liter of iced tea in her stomach, “and I wasn't really doing anything important. I was just going to check that everything is in order, which I'm sure it is, and then I was going to do some research for my master's thesis, but that can wait.”
“So?” Blake waited for Astrid to continue, still following his gut instinct that she might be of assistance.
“Well, why don't we eat first and then there's no rush and we will make it back to the church in good time. And I mean, if you want to see the church after the concert, you can stay behind for half an hour while I tidy things up.”
“Sure, you lead the way then,” Blake said, satisfied that he had found his way in. Astrid led Blake to a charming brasserie located by the nearby stream that runs through Aarhus. The stream offered appealing scenery for a dozen or so of the city's most posh cafés, making for a lively setting and a convivial atmosphere, not to mention $8.00 cups of cappuccino. Blake opened the door for Astrid and followed her into the stylish, French brasserie where they were greeted by the maître d' who sat them at a small table by the window. The maître d', whom Blake believed to actually be French, took his leave to get them their menus. “This is really nice,” Blake said, feeling his mood lift from rotten to beyond ripe.
“I think so, too,” Astrid replied, feeling great that she was on a date. “At least, sort of a date,” she thought to herself as they took turns staring out of the window for their own reasons. Blake was still working his way up to being in a mood for chitchat, and Astrid simply didn't know what to say. They sat there for a minute or two until the maître d' returned with the menus and handed one to each of them.
“I will bring you a basket of bread and some water. Meanwhile, I hope that you will find something to your taste on the menu, and I would just mention that our à la carte dishes are made to starter size. So, for a full meal I would recommend at least two courses or perhaps tonight’s four course menu,” he said with a French accent that, unfortunately, reminded Blake of Marie.
“Thank you,” Blake said. The maître d' walked off with a courteous smile. Blake and Astrid sat there for a few minutes studying the menus, barely noticing when their bread and water arrived.
“What are you having?” Astrid asked, and before Blake could reply, she continued, “I think I'll have sashimi tuna to start and then the fried foie gras.” She smiled at him.
“I'm not really that hungry,” Blake started, mindful of the fact that the Hunters ought to refrain from eating in life because their reanimated bodies cannot digest food and thus require cleaning following any consumption. Yet he felt it rather hard to explain that he wasn’t eating anything – after all, he did invite this young woman to dinner. “I think I will have the . . . autumn salad,” he finally said after deciding that a salad would probably be easier to re
move than fois gras or steak. Astrid began feeling bad that she had already told him that she wanted two courses. She thought it would look strange if she took it back, but she also thought it would look unladylike if she ate more than Blake. “Thank God he doesn't know about the sausage rolls,” she thought to herself before realizing that she had still been swallowing when she addressed him by the church. She could have kicked herself, but didn't get the chance as the maître d´ arrived to inquire about the mountains of food she was about to order.
“So, did you find anything on our menu that you would like?” he inquired with a smile.
“Yes, thank you,” Blake said. He allowed Astrid to order first, like a true modern gentleman.
“I'd like the sashimi tuna and the fois gras, please,” Astrid said.
“Very well, madam. And for you, sir?”
“Well, I think I'll stick to the autumn salad.”
“And what would you like to drink?”
“Hmmm,” Blake replied, looking to Astrid. “Would you like a glass of wine, perhaps?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Astrid replied.
“A glass of white wine for the lady – whichever you recommend,” Blake said after a quick scan down the wine list, eyeing Astrid to see if she had any objections. “And I'll just stick with the water.”
“Very well, sir,” the maître d´ replied before heading off into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Astrid said. She was enjoying the experience of dining out with a gentleman – the Danish men that she was acquainted with were rarely so courteous.
“You're welcome,” he replied and decided to strike up a conversation. “So, Astrid. You said you were doing research for your thesis at the cathedral. What are you writing about?”
“Well, I'm finishing my master's degree in history, and I'm doing my thesis on medieval art with a particular focus on the works of the Lübeckian sculptor Bernt Notke,” she replied, expecting a sigh of boredom and a complete lack of understanding from Blake, as this was the response she usually got.
“So you were going to see the altar, I gather?” Blake said as he buttered a piece of perfectly crisp baguette and watched Astrid's jaw almost hit the table.
“You know Bernt Notke?” she asked.
“Well, not personally, but I know a little about him and his work, presumably infinitely less than you do.” Astrid felt invigorated. She was on a date, or at least sort of a date, with a real gentleman who also just revealed that he understood and cared about her work. They sat there and ate and talked for about an hour before walking back to the cathedral at a leisurely pace. Astrid did most of the talking, giving Blake an in-depth lesson on European medieval art and the life of Bernt Notke. She started feeling slightly uncomfortable as she wondered if it would be better if she wasn’t such an endless stream of words. It reminded her of several first dates in the past, each of which had resulted in a preemptive break-up before they had even gotten together. The message had been delivered with sentences much akin to “I like you a lot, but as a friend” or “It's so nice – I feel like I can talk to you about anything,” with the “anything” being one of her friends whom the young man had wanted to hook up with. Little did Astrid know that this evening would come to no such end.
II
Marie was wearing a tight-fitting, black Victorian-style riding habit, a white shirt, black leather boots and a matching black ladies’ top hat as she pulled her white mare, Amandine, from the mansion stables. Since moving to the mansion as Dæth's wife, she had taken to dressing in the appropriate Victorian style of the household rather than the style of her own time. It seemed to somehow mend some of the cracks that undeniably existed in the marriage – a marriage that she felt certain was mostly for show and practicality. However, she still hoped that this would change over time. Unfortunately, the arrival of Blake Beck so soon after their wedding had rocked its already shaky foundation, or at least Marie's outlook on it. Yet, it was clear to her that Dæth would not tolerate disloyalty, least of all from those closest to him, and no one was closer to him than Marie. While he still trusted and involved McCoy more in matters of business, it was Marie who shared his bed and his time, after all. Outside the stables, the skies darkened, threatening to envelop the lands in darkness and wash everything away, but the clouds held. Marie got on the horse and she slowly trotted off, riding sidesaddle in her long riding habit. She usually rode down the cobbled road until she was well away from the mansion, but on this day she rode straight across the lawn towards the reddened skies and the setting sun. She coaxed Amandine into a gallop, sending patches of well-groomed grass flying as the horse sped across the lawns and through the row of trees that outlined the mansion grounds where the groomed lawns gave way to the fields and wilderness. For a short while, she nearly forgot about her troubles, focusing on staying in the saddle. A few minutes later, the sun had crept beneath the horizon and Marie had reached the woods that had become her favorite place of escape. She allowed the mare to relax and once again move into a gentle trot. The small path into the woods left her just enough room to ride without having to duck and dodge the branches of the trees, and as the shadowy realm of the woodlands embraced her, her dark thoughts returned.
She still felt horrible after the visit to Blake's, and she shuddered at the thought of walking in on him at the mansion. She knew she had hurt him like never before, and she wished in the deepest parts of her heart that she hadn't been forced to. Secretly, she hoped that it had not destroyed the last hope for them, despite the fact that this was exactly what she had sought to do. She knew in her mind that she had to let Blake go, but in her heart she couldn't. As the autumn winds shook the withering leaves, causing them to fall lightly around her, she felt cold tears running down her cheeks as the wind caressed her skin. She prayed that time would heal the wounds, but knew very well that it wouldn't – not in Shades. Eternity merely meant time to regret and repent. For a good half hour, she rode on with her own dark thoughts and Amandine as her only companions until she reached the small lake where she usually stopped to let Amandine rest and to allow herself to find peace. But on this day there was no peace to be found. She jumped off the horse and led it by the reins for the last few paces down to the water. She patted the horse and stroked its sides, as if to relax the horse now that she could not relax herself. “Don't wander off now,” she said, and the horse seemed to give a nod before lowering its head to drink from the lake. Marie began walking around the lake and stopped underneath a weeping willow. Its dreary branches nearly reached the water, enclosing her in a cave of yellowing leaves. She sat down and rested her back against the trunk. The lake was quiet and only slight ripples disturbed her reflection staring back at her from the murky waters. It was as if a stranger was peering back at her, she thought, and she could not for the life or death of her recognize the figure in the lake. This was not the Marie she used to be or know, weeping beneath the willow, wearing this ridiculous costume. In a frenzied movement, she tore off the top hat and chucked it away into the undergrowth before letting her hair down and shaking her head wildly. Then she looked into the lake once again, but still it was as if something was missing. The winds subsided and the ripples died out, leaving the water dead calm and the image of her as clear as in any mirror. In a moment of clarity, she suddenly realized what was missing. Unfortunately, it wasn't her heart, her love for Blake or anything like that. What she was missing was her own delusion. She realized that in death she saw herself more clearly than she ever did in life, and it was not the image in the lake that was faulty, rather it was the image in her mind. She saw how she was the one to blame for her own misery and that she had been the one telling herself lies in life. She had convinced herself that what mattered most in life was, in fact, that which mattered the least. She was the one who had chosen to be too far away, too busy and too important to care, and in the end, she was the one who had willingly, even gladly, accepted Dæth's proposal as if it was some sort of final promotion. In the dark water
s, she saw a pitiful whore who had stayed true to others rather than to herself. She saw what she had become – a creature of her own creation that she despised and pitied at the same time. She looked at her own reflection, feeling as small and helpless as ever, and she drew her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. In her imagination, she dreamt of Blake walking up to her, sitting down beside her and putting his arms around her while telling her that everything would be alright. Of course he didn't and it wouldn't. Redemption was for the living; repentance is for the dead.
III
Blake and Astrid left the brasserie and walked along the posh café waterfront, finding themselves in the company of those café patrons who had chosen to defy the autumn winds by sitting outside, aided in their defiant ways by fleece blankets and outdoor gas heaters.
“I'm really looking forward to the concert,” Astrid said.
“Yeah,” Blake replied, absentmindedly wondering whether or not he would be alone in the church tonight or if one of Mr. Ferre's children would make an appearance, as well. If so, he hoped that it wouldn't be Bahij Khaleel. Not yet.
“It's a brilliant Dutch organist who is playing tonight. I think it is Bach's Fantasia or something,” Astrid continued as they walked up the stairs to Clement's Bridge, named – like the cathedral – after the city's patron saint, St. Clement.
“I'm very much looking forward to it. Should I save you a seat?” Blake asked out of customary courtesy.
“That would be lovely,” Astrid replied, knowing full well that there would be hundreds of vacant seats. These concerts rarely drew in more than a hundred people to a cathedral able to hold ten times that, however, she thought it was nice of him to ask. As they reached the cathedral, Blake opened the heavy door and held it open for Astrid to enter before walking in behind her. “I'll go check if there's anything I need to do before the concert. You just head on in and I'll come sit with you in a couple of minutes,” Astrid said with a smile. While Astrid went to talk to an elderly lady who was one of the other organizers, Blake entered the cathedral. He started down the walkway of the nave, and as he walked by the first row of benches, he knelt down, pretending that his shoelace had come untied and checking to see if his sword was in place. It was. He continued down the nave, eyeing Notke's altar on the far end of the church dominating the choir. When he passed the pulpit, he found that most of the other concertgoers had seated themselves on the benches looking back towards the pulpit and the entrance rather than towards the altar. Blake turned around and gazed upwards to the balcony that held the majestic 18th century organ, the pipes of which seemed to reach for the sky far beyond the Gothic arches of the ceiling. He saw Astrid close the doors of the cathedral below the balcony, which caused most of the resounding chatter to die out as the other guests directed their attention to the balcony. As Blake sat down on an unoccupied bench where he expected to be joined by Astrid just moments later, he saw the stocky, well-dressed organist walk in to take his place at the keys of the huge instrument. He was so dwarfed by the organ that he looked like Thumbelina about to attempt to play a grand piano. The man started to play, and despite being dead and freed from any natural physical reactions, Blake still felt a chill run down his spine as his soul shivered. He briefly closed his eyes and listened to the pipes sing of a profound sadness that, at the same time, offered the promise of hope – an eternal promise from a different time. The pipes spoke to him and reminded him why Mr. Ferre had not swayed him. It was because of this hope floating on top of the sadness and despair. The hope of good in the hearts of man relieved him from being a jailer to the damned. Instead he became a protector of that which was worth protecting. As the last tones rang out, Blake imagined that the pipes would no longer sing to his enemies of hope, but only of despair.
Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Page 15