by Rex Baron
As they passed the house, a slight man with a full moustache came out of the front door and crossed paths with them at the front gate. He nodded as he passed and gave Helen a strange little smile.
Helen felt a chill of recognition race up her spine, perhaps the instinct of which Claxton spoke.
“What an odd man,” she said, as she watched him cross to the corner and disappear. “He had the clearest, bluest eyes I've ever seen. They stared right through me, as if he were looking into some distant future.”
“Or maybe just into the secrets of your dark Soul,” Claxton replied, tapping the head of his cane with delight. “It's not surprising though, because our friend Eckart ran a school of sorts for mediums. He trained people to contact the unseen. That was most assuredly one of his pupils.”
“I'll never forget those eyes as long as I live,” Helen said.
CHAPTER TWO
Helen and Claxton’s apartment, Bayreuth
Helen sat in the drawing room of their apartment, stroking the back of a white rabbit. Its pink eyes were tight with pleasure as she caressed its soft fur again and again, causing a crackle of electricity to ripple down the length of its body. It was a small energy she summoned from the animal familiar, but enough to calm her nerves and give her added radiance. She had an hour before she needed to dress for the ball given by the Prince, and she sat in her dressing gown with her bare feet curled up under her.
Softly she whispered the progression of words “Ojala Ojal Oja Oj O.”
It was a simple chant to aid the unseen forces in creating an aura of romance and beauty around her.
Claxton had prepared the philter she would need to ensure their success with Prince Henry, but she had a sudden sense of foreboding, an uneasiness that she could not shake, regardless of how she tried to quiet her mind and call upon the lights in the center of her brain to focus her intent.
She placed the rabbit on the carpet and paced the room. She caught sight of a vase of roses nestled in a sheaf of ferns and without hesitation, plucked the bouquet from the vase. She tore the ferns loose from the arrangement and tossed them into the open blazing hearth. She watched with relief as the flames greedily consumed the tender plants.
The simple sacrifice of the ferns, practiced since ancient times, was meant to make her feel safe, protected from whatever plagued her subconscious. But as she slipped into her gown for the evening, she felt a nervous presence around her in the room, an invisible messenger, an Archangel of annunciation warning her of things to come. She caught sight of something moving in her peripheral vision, but soon realized it was only her own reflection in the wardrobe’s mirror. She studied her likeness for a long time as she waited for her anxious heart to calm itself.
She was still beautiful, she thought, even more than she had been when she first began her onslaught of Lucy and her career. She had worked hard and done well, but the invitation from the Prince had not come a moment too soon. David had fallen out of love with her in the last few months in New York, a fact she attributed to the disappearance of the amulet she had made for him. He had stopped wearing it about the time the arguments between them had begun, and she suspected that Celia had been somehow responsible.
Perhaps she had found the medallion and destroyed it. Maybe that accounted for the smug smile of righteous superiority on her face when she and David had come to see her off at the pier. Celia had stood amidst the confusion of news reporters and photographers, her arms threaded through David's, and she did not wave. No, Helen thought, Celia had made no secret of her contempt from the first day they met, and she would have made no pretense of coming to the ship unless it was merely to be certain, to see for herself, that the interloper would sail out of their lives forever.
Helen's vision, once again focused on the image of herself in the glass. It was all behind her now, like the rest of her past that had faded into uncertain memory. She had a new future to create, a new personal mythology to prepare and offer to the crowned heads of Europe. She raised herself up regally, appraising the reflection in the glass with satisfaction.
When she had finished dressing, she solemnly moved to the top drawer of the vanity and took out a small metal box. It contained the “thing” that Claxton had prepared to entice the Prince into her dominion. It was a philter, not an amulet like those made to charm Paulo and David, but a small pink sachet of dried lavender and roses, along with ingredients Claxton had argued were too dangerous for him to divulge.
It was harmless-looking, not unlike a dozen other pretty, feminine little things, potpourri, or niceties made of bits of silk and ribbon, meant as a touch of luxuriant excess to brighten a bathroom or endow a lingerie drawer with a scent of lavender. But this shining little pouch was different. It contained the enchantment spell Claxton had spoken of, which would cause whomever she touched to fall obsessively in love with her and do all that she asked. She needed the Prince to be enthralled with her, as he had been with Lucy, to do all that she requested in order to ensure her success in Germany and all of Europe.
She pinned the small sack to the inside bodice of her gown and nestled it against the side of her breast. It was undetectable, but well within the sound of her heartbeat, which was the triggering device necessary to infuse the mechanism with the regular pulsating affirmation of her intent.
Claxton entered the room as she was pulling on her gloves.
“Don't we look brilliant?” he said. “I admit it was clever of you to wear white. It brings out the bride in you, radiant and blushing.”
Helen shot him a glance of disdain.
“I'm a wreck,” she said. “What if something goes wrong?”
Claxton's laugh in response to her anxiety annoyed her. He was so sure of himself. There was something she mistrusted in that. She had always trafficked in the insecurities of others, leaned on their devotion to ideals or their simple trust in human nature, manipulating it to her own advantage. She was unaccustomed to being on the other side of that dangerous agreement. Perhaps there was something he had not told her about the ingredients of the philter, some effect other than captivating the Prince, some crippling command that would enslave her to him forever.
She caught herself in her panic and calmed her thoughts. Whatever he might think to do in order to possess her, she could counteract with her own power. He had recognized her as his match when first they met, and surely now, after all he had taught her and all the nurturing of her own skills, he could be no threat to her.
“There's nothing to be nervous about,” Claxton said. “Just be sure that you touch no one but the Prince. After the initial contact, the philter is rendered powerless. Just keep your wits about you, and don't allow anyone to help you out of the automobile or up the stairs.”
“I feel like a bomb wired to go off.”
Claxton's mouth turned up in a smile.
“In a way you are. At least, I'm glad to see you have the correct spirit of warfare about this little maneuver. I wouldn't want to think that you took the idea of romance with old Henry seriously.”
Helen pulled a great white fur cape around her shoulders. It was encrusted with colored glass and paste coaxed into the shape of real jewels.
“Amazing what an opera wardrobe department can come up with, isn't it,” he said dryly. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Helen Liluth, queen of the night. Unfortunately, you won’t have a full orchestra playing Mozart’s Die Zauberflote as you make your big entrance… but I’m sure the Prince and everyone else will get the idea.”
He extended his arm to escort her to the door. Helen raised her gloved hand and nearly placed it on his. She suddenly recoiled, remembering the love-charged sachet against her breast. Her heart pounded.
“Are you mad?” she shouted. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared with rage.
Claxton shrugged his shoulders and tugged a glove onto his hand, tapping it into place, finger by finger.
“It was worth a try,” he said. “Besides, it was just a little demonstr
ation of how absent-minded one is about these things. Now, keep your wits about you, or we'll both be lost.”
As Claxton went outside to call for a car to be sent around to take them to the ball, Helen, once again stroked the fur of the white rabbit that nibbled at the leaves of a vase of roses. She watched as her new maid, Ilse, entered silently and began tidying the mess left behind on the dressing table, closing jars of moisturizing crème and cosmetics and putting things in order. Helen noticed the girl watching her pet with an almost childlike smile of envy on her face.
“Elsie,” Helen said the girl’s name, and was surprised when the maid, not four feet away from her, refused to answer or even look up from her work.
“Are you hard of hearing?” Helen asked loudly.
The young woman stopped her purposeful business and raised her eyes toward Helen.
“No, Madame,” she answered, “… but my name is Ilse, not Elsie.”
Helen’s mouth turned up in a half grin.
“Well, well, I see you’ve got more spunk than I gave you credit for. I think we’ll get along just fine… Just don’t steal from me… or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The girl nodded in acquiescence.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Ilse…” Helen accentuated the pronunciation as she spoke, “I’m afraid I don’t know as much about Germany as I should. Here I am going to this grand ball tonight and I haven’t the slightest idea what the boundaries of political conversation might be. I’m being hosted by a Prince from a royal family and don’t even know all their names. What can you tell in a matter of two minutes that I might need to know… so as not to make a complete fool of myself?”
Ilse stopped in the middle of folding an under-slip that she had just picked up off the floor and placed it aside on the bed.
“It isn’t a royal family anymore… you might want to remember that for a start,” the young girl answered. “Of course, Prince Henry will be surrounded by all the nobles and what is left of the old guard… all the Duchesses and Barons from the old days. But his brother, Wilhelm, who was the Kaiser, went into exile in the Netherlands in 1918, after the War, when the aristocracy collapsed and the new government was formed.”
“I remember the newspapers talking about all of that, but I was too young to care,” Helen explained. “America had won the War, so I didn’t give two hoots.”
An expression of puzzlement played over her features as she put an important question to the young maid.
“So, the Prince doesn’t run the kingdom, or whatever you call it, anymore?”
“Oh no,” the girl shook her head. “The government is always changing, but the old aristocrats, like Prince Henry, are of little importance. They still have some power socially, because many of the factory owners and people with money would wish to have the Kaiser return and crush us all under his boots.”
“Well, well, looks like I struck a nerve,” Helen replied, as she took amusement from the young girls angry political passion.
“There are new and better leaders out there, who are more interested in helping the people and bringing the economy into order,” Ilse stated emphatically.
“And just who are these people?” Helen asked. “I think I’d better know, so that I don’t mention anyone who would rub the high and mighty muckety mucks the wrong way.”
The young maid considered for a moment before answering.
“Well, I suppose that I would not mention the leader of the NSDAP… the National Socialist German Workers Party. That would be one of our most controversial new leaders… Adolf Hitler. He was imprisoned a couple of years ago for spearheading a riot by marching against the Feldherrnhalle in Munich three years ago. He was shot in the skirmish and they had given him five years for treason, but let him go free after only nine months.”
“So, all of the old guard hates this guy for being a Socialist,” Helen applied her logic and waited for the young woman to confirm it.
“Oh, no,” the girl answered. “Some of them hate him for that reason, but many of the other nobles admire him, because when the new government wanted to sell off the houses and properties of the aristocrats that were deposed during the War, and give the money to the people, Herr Hitler championed the cause of the nobles and fought to have much of their properties returned to them.”
“This Hitler is no fool,” Helen noted to herself. “Very clever of him to confuse the issue by having enemies and allies in the same camp.”
At that moment, Helen heard the sound of a car horn down in the street, signaling that Claxton had arrived with the limousine.
“Just like him,” she muttered to her maid. “For all of his grand airs, he doesn’t even have the class to come up and escort me down to the car.”
As Helen gathered up her handbag and gloves, her young maid adjusted her cape around her shoulders.
“You’d better just hand that to me,” Helen advised the girl, “I wouldn’t want you bumping into me… things are complicated enough as it is.”
CHAPTER THREE
Bayreuth’s Opera House
The ball was to be held at the opera house, built in the last century by Richard Wagner, under the direction and with the money of his patron, King Ludwig. It echoed the Palladian splendor of the Renaissance, copied in brick and faced with slabs of white marble. Porticos of Corinthian columns repeated again and again, creating a labyrinth that entwined itself around the entire perimeter of this temple of Art.
Helen's stomach tightened as the limousine pulled up outside the building. She hesitated as a footman opened the door and offered his assistance. She was trapped in the narrow space of the automobile, pressed against the back of her seat, staring in horror at the innocent white gloved hand presented in the square of open space before her. Claxton calmly maneuvered himself between Helen and the courteous young man and allowed her to descend from the car unaided.
The receiving line was at the foot of the grand stairway, perhaps a hundred feet away, just inside the entrance. She need only get that far, without interference, to reach the welcoming handshake of the Prince. The spell would then be discharged and success would be hers.
Her heart pounded, charging the magical mechanism at her bosom, making it feel as if it would burst with the electrical energy generated.
She nodded graciously to elegant strangers, careful not to brush against them or allow herself to be funneled into the throng flowing into the mouth of the gilded and marble mammoth with a thousand window eyes. Claxton danced his way around her, weaving in an out, deflecting any possible collision.
Once inside the doors, Claxton presented their invitation to a footman wearing a periwig. In return, the liveried man leaned forward and in a low mechanical voice whispered the number thirty-three. Helen looked at Claxton in puzzlement.
“For one thing, it's the number of vertebrae in the spinal column,” he said, “... and of untold importance in the world of a mystic like Wagner. But in this case, I'd say it was the number of stairs down to the floor. If you know the number, you can count them out and don't have to look down at your feet... makes for a classier entrance. All right my dear, head up, back straight, tits and teeth. Remember, nobody makes a better entrance than two ambitious actors.”
As their names were announced, Helen drifted gracefully down the stairs. Slightly ahead of her companion, she carefully placed each foot, ever mindful of the great mass of fabric that made up the skirt of her gown. She carried herself as if in one of her operas, aware that all eyes were on her and that this might be the greatest and most important performance of her career.
At the foot of the stairs, the Prince awaited with a long line of diplomats and their wives, who, by all appearances, were celebrated for their position in society rather than their beauty.
“It looks as if they all brought their cleaning women with them,” Claxton whispered into her ear, as they got dangerously close. “You'll be, by far, the best looking woman here.”
Henry stood proud and erec
t, galvanized for the occasion by years of protocol and a steadfast belief in the responsibilities of his station. He was transformed by the military-like uniform he wore and the subtle placement of rouge at his temples and on his cheeks, giving him the robust appearance of a man much younger. His wife was more in the mould of what Claxton had described, a serene-looking woman, overweight and lost in middle age. Were it not for the jewels and the obvious care taken with her hygiene and maintenance, she could easily have been a placid little butcher’s wife, happily greeting her guests at the entrance of her comfortable abode.
Helen watched the guests file past, one by one, as a tiny alarm bell sounded in her head. The protocol of the evening was formal. There would be no shaking of hands, but instead, the perfunctory curtsey and heel-clicking bow that etiquette demanded.
“We're in trouble I'm afraid,” Claxton whispered, having assessed the flaw in their plan. “Just get through this part and drop to one knee like you’re taking a curtain call. We'll think of an alternate plan when we get through.”
As instructed, Helen lowered her head and curtseyed in a graceful theatrical gesture. She offered a discreet little smile to the Prince and fancied to herself that she saw the color of his face redden under the rouge.
“The guest of honor is here at last,” he said jovially. “What a treat for Bayreuth to have you here my dear.”
Once inside the door and past the line of antiquated nobility, they made for the isolated safety of a corner.
“I thought you had this all figured out,” Helen snapped. “You should have known the protocol for this kind of affair.”