The Paradise Engine

by Rebecca Campbell

  “Anthea,” said the trees, the first and last part only ahhhh, and the consonants only a whisper, but she was sure, oh she was sure she’d heard her own name hidden in the ambient groan of arbutus trunks.

  She stood up. The sea before her still wrinkled in the moonlight, and the islands were like the backs of animals that might turn and see her at any moment, harbingers of a change now horribly imminent. And then the flood of panic gave her the stuttering, adrenalized run of a frightened lady in a silent film. The groaning was drowned by her own heartbeat as she knocked over the candles and fled the circle, up the bank tripping over foundation stones, the roots of trees, tangling in the curtains of ivy that hung around the old garden, cut by rose wands that dragged at her hands as she tore overland, ignoring her usual deer path for the straightest line to light, even when she stumbled into an uninhabited carp pond and slithered onto the bank. And then she was out, with Hazel’s porch lights burning in a lovely, steady incandescence.

  She stopped and looked down at the bloodlines drawn across her palms, up her arms, welts on her legs where she’d struggled through nettle and blackberries. There was a bruise and a deep scratch on her left shoulder where some branch had torn right through her red cotton blouse.

  Ten minutes later Jasmine picked her way up the path, not tearing through the woods like a maenad. She carried Anthea’s backpack, and had obviously taken the time to pack candles, myrrh, and silk. She smiled. She was very kind. She told Hazel she’d had a lovely time. Hazel wished her luck on the paper and asked for a copy of it when she was finished.

  Hazel drew Anthea aside before they left and held her hands. “I had a lovely time too,” she said. “I haven’t had such a good talk in a week!

  It’s so nice to talk to you girls about what’s really important!” She gave Anthea one of her short, tight hugs. Once in the car under cover of darkness, Anthea rubbed her hands again and again over her jeans, wiping them clean.

  During the drive, Anthea kept her eyes away from the hollow darkness under the trees and the patches of moonlight, instead watching the headlights flick over the road in front. She willed Jasmine to speak first.

  “Well, that was wild,” Jas said, finally.

  “Wild.”

  “What did you see, anyway?”

  Anthea hesitated. “I heard. I heard something. Did you hear anything?”

  “I mean, in your heart, did you see anything with your heart?”

  “No.”

  “No?” The car filled with the scent of Jasmine’s irritation, something like burning plastic. “You know Anthea, I don’t mean to be mean, but if you weren’t so resistant, it wouldn’t be so scary, you wouldn’t go all freaky. I’m open to it, so it’s just natural to me. That was just a really intense place, but intensity isn’t bad if you know how to handle it.”

  Anthea nodded but volunteered nothing. Jas hadn’t heard the arbutus groan.

  “Are you afraid of death?”

  “What?”

  “Death. Dying. Because it’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a doorway. You don’t have to be scared of it. I’m not scared. I’m not scared of anyone I know dying, because I know they’ll be okay. It’s just going through a door. It’s only if you’re all repressed that dying is scary.”

  Anthea thought, Yes I’m fucking well scared of death. It’s death, you stupid fuck.

  She couldn’t bring herself to say that or anything else, so they didn’t speak for a while, but then they did and it was okay. Except that Jasmine hassled her to go back and look around some more. She mentioned research, and archives and interviewing anyone who might remember. “There’s something there,” she said, “there’s something in that old house that needs to be put to rest.”

  Anthea nodded every time and said, “Oh yeah, definitely that was weird.”

  It was much more than just weird, and while Jasmine declared often that she would find out what, she never did, and Anthea did not volunteer her skills, though they would have been useful. Jasmine never asked for help, presuming that Anthea would read old books, and she would invoke absent gods, and they’d Watson-and-Holmes around the city until it was time for something else.

  AUGURIES

  What had come after their investigation into Simon Reid, Prophet? After that they tried ornithomancy, though they had preferred “auguries,” once Anthea got to that part of Intro to Classical Studies. Sometimes if they were out walking, they’d stop, close their eyes and ask a question, then watch for crows. Then one day in November of Anthea’s fourth year, they were walking across campus in the rain, and Jasmine stopped and shut her eyes and muttered something:

  One for sorrow, two for joy,

  Three for girls, four for boys,

  Five for silver, six for gold,

  Seven for a secret not to be told

  Eight for heaven, nine for hell,

  And ten for the devil’s own self.

  They didn’t see a crow until they were nearly at the SUB, where a shiny little black one ate spilled chips. Anthea saw it first and said so, but then Jasmine said “Hah!” and pointed to the second crow, that had dropped from the tree opposite them and was gunning for the first crow’s snack.

  “That’s two. Joy! He so wants to fuck me!”

  “But did you see one first? Doesn’t that mean it’s one?”

  “No, there’s two. That’s Joy! Joy is the eternal yes!”

  “But it took a second for the other one to get there, so maybe the answer is one.”

  “Seriously, Anthea! Two crows!”

  After that, Anthea had trouble counting crows. If you saw one crow and another joined it, was that two or one? How long was the time unit for each answer, anyway? And for that matter, how did one define “murder”? If, for instance, there were three murders each made up of two crows, did that mean six crows—gold—or three sets of two crows—joy joy joy? Or did one actually see two, one, and three crows—joy sorrow girls? Or sorrow restated six times? And what if you saw one crow twice? Or three crows in sequence? And how, really, did you ever know that the crow you saw was meant for you at all, and wasn’t someone else’s sorrow or joy you had only happened upon?

  At first Jasmine patiently explained that if you saw an omen, it was your own and that was all that mattered. But then, was every crow an omen? Was the act of seeing it what made it an omen, Anthea asked, or were crows out in the woods, unseen, still omens? And Jasmine rolled her eyes and said “fucking pedantic,” which was a conspicuous new word she had picked up that year.

  The line of argument opened unsettling possibilities regarding the relationship between the crows and the world, and whether it was not one of augury, but of influence. What if in saying, “the next crows I see will tell me if I will die young,” you were surrendering choice to the wild card arrival of black birds? In which case, three or seven or thirteen crows appearing did not predict your future, but determined it. She did not like that thought, but it followed too irresistibly on the belief that crows might predict the future, or that the association of objects and sensations might redirect the events of one’s life. She felt she could not reject the second if she accepted the first. After that, she stopped counting crows.

  A GENTLEMAN AND A PROPHET

  Three weeks after the Pink Rose Gala, Liam detrained in a small town three hours north of the city. It was a leisurely tour, with two recitals each week over the month, and a long rest at the Kilgour Hunting Lodge midway through. He travelled ahead of Mrs. Kilgour’s party, which had expanded to include her maid, her secretary Nora, youngest daughter Euphemia, Euphemia’s maid, a footman, a nurse and her manager, Goshawk. Mrs. Kilgour had organized a valet for Liam, but he declined to travel in the same coach. The valet—silent, austere, bowler-hatted— was intimidating, and Liam was disconcerted to find he did not know how to behave around a gentleman’s gentleman. Still, it was a fine thing to have his suits properly looked after, and for his own comfort, Mr. Hickey could remain with the footman who tended to the lu
ggage in second class.

  Liam travelled lightly, stepping out of the train at another of the familiar rust-red stations, this one with “Duncan’s Crossing” written on it in white paint. He enjoyed, as he never did before, the tidy little plot where flowers had bloomed the previous autumn. He had dreaded towns like this when he’d travelled on the small-time circuits. The dressing rooms were grotty and cold, and the boarding houses he could afford always smelled of congealed gravy. He was not prepared for the new charm of the place as seen from a first-class berth.

  He checked into the town’s best hotel and had his dinner there (mushroom soup, veal, winter vegetables, apple pie, cheese, coffee and he didn’t even look at the price). He was finishing his cheese and considering a walk to settle his stomach, when he noticed another man watching him. The man had finished his meal and was making coffee with a Turkish set. He wore a fine grey suit. He had long, thin fingers, and Liam admired how easily he managed the high-necked pot over the chafing light. He had a small, neatly clipped beard, grey-brown only a shade darker than his skin, which was yellowish, as though he had been ill. The bones of his skull stood out sharply under his close-cut hair, his crown was wide and well-shaped, his forehead high and finely domed. An ascetic aesthete, Liam thought, exercising his vocabulary.

  The man in the grey suit caught the waiter’s eye so adroitly that Liam was entranced. The waiter obviously attended to what he said, too, because in a minute he had approached Liam with Mr. Reid’s invitation to join him for coffee.

  As he paused a moment, Liam rehearsed in his head what he would say, then folded his napkin and dropped it beside his plate. That’s very kind, perhaps, or simply Thank you.

  He did not have a chance to say anything, because the gentleman stood up as he approached and spoke first: “My name is Reid.” The man inclined his head and shook Liam’s hand. The fingers were thin and dry and very strong. “You’re kind to join me.”

  “Well, Mr. Reid. My name is Manley.”

  The coffee in the little white cup was bitterly strong and black and sweet with an unpleasant sludge that lingered at the bottom, so Liam took the tablet of chocolate Mr. Reid also offered. “Delicious,” he said, then, “Well, Mr. Reid, what brings you to this town?”

  “I live not far from here, but I found myself fatigued after travelling from the city, and unprepared to meet the challenges of my estate, so I thought to break my journey here rather than pressing on. And it is one of my small indulgences to travel with this equipage.” He gestured at the little pot and the flame. “I am particular about my coffee.”

  “Yes,” Liam said, and forced himself to sip again from the sludgy little cup. “I am as well. You have a large home place then? Where is it located?”

  “To the south, some miles. It’s small, only three hundred acres at present. I hope to add more, though the negotiations are interminable. And you? What has brought you to this town? I ask because you don’t look quite rough-hewn enough to be a native.”

  “Well, no, I’m travelling through here on my own business—music. It is a pretty spot, though, I can see the appeal,” he said, generously. He meant it, too.

  Mr. Reid leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Music? I thought you were an artist, Mr. Manley. Are you part of the Kilgour party?”

  “Yes—and how did you know?”

  “Advertising, but I would have guessed anyway. You have the look of genius about you.”

  “That’s quite flattering, Mr. Reid.”

  “Only honest.”

  Liam sipped again. He caught the waiter’s eye and called for brandy in a low, effortless voice, quite impressing himself, for he sounded so natural, and the man listened so attentively. They talked about the weather and Mr. Reid referred again to his estate, to the redesign of the dock that had been on the larger of his beaches when he first arrived. He discussed his plans to extend the orchard and put in more cottages, once he had purchased a quarter section to the north.

  After another brandy, they retired to the lounge and sat by the fire. It was ten o’clock, and there was a cloud before Liam’s eyes as he sipped away at his glass and Mr. Reid went on about the importance of building for the future. Liam nodded occasionally, found himself agreeing—yes, one should think of the future, build foundations for one’s children, or improve on the foundations given one by one’s parents (if one’s parents had the wherewithal to give one anything). While Mr. Reid spoke, he could see his own children, their mother bright-faced but indistinct. His daughter would sing like Melba or Tetrazzini in family groups, but never venture onto the stage. His son would play Chopin like a master, but it would be a private passion. While Mr. Reid spoke, he imagined not only his children, but theirs. A kind of dynasty, built on his sacrifices to Mrs. Kilgour.

  “Do you ever think of why this is such an instinct for us—for men, I mean, particularly European, or if I may be direct, northern European men? We know instinctively to fight the modern curses of trade unionism and the perversion of race.”

  Liam found that his mouth hung open a little. He closed it. “Northern Europe?” he thought. Swedes?

  “In general, the European Man is superior to others because he shares his essence with the great races who passed this way before us—the Hyperboreans, as they have been known, the devotees of Apollo, but also the Beringians and Atlanteans and the ancient people of Carcosa. The Northern European Man more totally embodies that eternal substance than the southern races, which are a degraded offshoot, a failed experiment. The eastern races… well.” Simon smiled.

  Liam’s mind was still half occupied by the great house he would have, the estate, somewhere in the country. Horses, he had been thinking. One ought to learn to ride, and now here was Apollo. He thought Apollo had something to do with music, or perhaps only singers. Once he had read a pamphlet called Classical Mythology in Today’s World, but he had forgotten the details.

  “Yes, yes, I suppose that’s it,” he said quickly.

  “I knew you would agree, Mr. Manley. It’s why I chose to speak to you of it. When I saw you come in the room, I recognized you as a gentleman with great faculties of understanding.”

  “Thank you. Yes, of course,” he said. The brandy-fug had been pleasant before, but now it so obscured his understanding that he wanted to bat it from his eyes, to look back and see where the conversation had turned toward Hyperboreans and Apollo and trade unions. And then he realized that Reid was watching him, and Liam did not like it. For a moment Reid’s stillness did not seem to be natural, but a self-contained quiet that put Liam in mind of a yellow marble statue he had once seen in Italy, and how the guidebook said that they did not know the god’s name, but the statue was thousands of years old. Liam felt that he had been staring and looked at his glass again.

  “My estate is more than simply a bit of land, Mr. Manley, it is a bulwark.” Here Mr. Reid stood. “You will be in town another day?”

  Happy to have a simple question to answer, Liam nodded and said, “Another three days.” Mr. Reid seemed so affable, just a gentleman again, and he wondered if he had imagined the words “evil” and “Hy-perboreans.” He hoped he had. Mr. Reid looked exhausted with worry, certainly in ill health, but not so fantastical as to discuss these strange histories with a coffee companion he hardly knew. It must have been a moment’s lapse, and it would be better manners to behave as though Mr. Reid had done nothing out of the ordinary. Illness did strange things to men, he knew.

  “I would like it very much if you would visit me tomorrow and see the estate. I would benefit from the company, so you may think of it as a favour.”

  Recognizing an invitation even through his brandy haze, Liam stood and responded with something automatic and juvenile. “Of course, it sounds awfully fun,” he said.

  “Good. After breakfast my car will take us home. And tonight— Parach, Mr. Manley.”

  Mr. Reid held his hands in prayer and bowed. Liam nodded and stood until he had left the room. More doors swinging ope
n, Liam thought, and at speed. Of course Reid was a bit odd, but what else would he be, here at the end of the world? He ordered another brandy and crawled into his bed a little after midnight.

  The next day Liam woke with a sour taste in his mouth and clammy pyjamas. It was not until after his tea that he remembered that man Reid. He had said some peculiar things about being Northern, but Liam remembered Reid’s discussion of his estate quite clearly. He rolled out of bed to the bathroom, congratulating himself on being in a position to take a room with private facilities.

  Down in the hall, Mr. Reid waited with his newspaper. He wore pale grey flannel. With his hands behind his back, Liam surreptitiously caressed the cuffs of his dark blue tweed and slid the silk lining against his wrist.

  “I’m glad you have joined me, Mr. Manley. It will be a pleasure to show you around the estate.”

  The car outside was a new grey Lagonda, driven by a man in a black suit, not a uniform. It took them forty-five minutes to reach Reid’s gates. They were disappointingly simple, to Liam, who had expected wrought iron and brick, at least, though ideally stone. Reid nodded to the man who emerged from the little house beside the drive’s entrance. On either side, the property’s boundary was marked by barbed wire on high wooden fences, which Liam did not like. Such fences were ugly. The grounds on the other side were impenetrable bush. It all looked very raw.

  Reid seemed to read Liam’s mind. “It isn’t necessary to tell other people what one is working on, is it, Mr. Manley? Particularly when one isn’t impressed with one’s neighbours. I’ve planted lilacs and English ivy, though, to soften things a little. And periwinkle, which is sometimes called joy-of-the-ground.”

  Liam nodded. Of course, a man like Reid didn’t need to advertise, and suddenly the plain steel gate compared favourably to Mrs. Kilgour’s granite and rose gardens.