Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  Words.

  Hundreds of them have been scratched into the crumbling stone with this strip of iron. I trace the curves and the straight lines of the letters, as I did with my alphabet stencils at home. Of sound mind, one inmate wrote, never insane. In another place, I find Hungry, God Sees, and Died Alone.

  I scrape the iron against rock. Over and over, until each letter is formed, perfect and smooth. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I blow the dust away from my masterpiece, my call to arms.

  LEX TALIONIS

  YOUR DAY OF RECKONING AWAITS, FAUST

  1

  Arrectis Auribus.

  With ears pricked up—Virgil

  Three months earlier

  A killing is certain tonight.

  I don’t know when or by whom, but it’s a given. This is mad, bad Stonehenge, Colorado, and every other person in residence has a skeleton in their closet, or at least buried by the shed out back. Death’s just a way of life here, and it is All Hallows Eve to boot. Quite the busiest season for a Visionary like me.

  Waiting for the next victim to make contact—dreading the shock and unpleasantness sure to follow—I sit in a gazebo near the city park, where the wilderness begins to encroach upon Stonehenge. The air feels cool upon my face, smelling of pine needles and chimney smoke, and the ancient trees creak in the wind like bark-encrusted giants. Properly outfitted under my cloak with scads of ruffles and pleats, not to mention a bustle, a petticoat, and a damnable corset, my body doesn’t feel the chill, just my soul.

  I’m not alone this evening. Miss Cordelia Collins and I sip mugs of warmish cider with a shared plate of biscuits between us. People fill the enormous gazebo, celebrating All Hallows as though their lives depend upon it. They talk and drink, throw confetti, eat pie. I ignore most of these collateral sounds by subduing my ability to hear them. Not with ear plugs or cotton wool but through magic.

  Until I grow careless and let my guard down. Then a hideous, unexpected noise crashes into my head, and I wince and rub my temples. The piano keys at The Red Rooster Pub are being brutally assaulted. The instrument is at least two hundred yards away but seems so much closer. Next there’s a bit of playful gun fire, followed by singing. It’s a felony against music, completely off-key.

  Supernatural hearing can be such a pain in the tympanum.

  Cordelia knows nothing of my enhanced senses—auricular range, olfaction and touch. Nor that I am a demigoddess of sorts, cursed with visions and ghost-sight, etcetera. She is decidedly un-supernatural, as oblivious to magical gifts as one can get. And I’m glad of it. I love Cordie for being a level-headed, no-frills human.

  A credit to paid companions everywhere, she puts her mug down on the biscuit plate and begins to hover. “Are you warm enough, Miss Hester? We could have snow by tomorrow.”

  I nod that I am snug, but Cordie yanks my scarf up around my neck as though I am incapable, at twenty-two years, of discerning my own body temperature. Before I can pull the scratchy cloth away, she stiffens and sucks in her breath. She’s finally noticed that people are moving to the other side of the gazebo, as though I am carrying the bubonic plague instead of being blind and mute.

  The wind gusts around my companion and I, causing confetti to swirl against my cheek. I brush it away, and nudge my spectacles into place. Round, opaque lenses, they serve no real purpose other than to conceal my eyes from the superstitious townsfolk.

  “We shouldn’t have come,” Cordie says. “They’re so unkind.”

  She has a point. I might have remained with my parents tonight. But an evening out with neighbors who consider me a freakish anomaly of nature is preferable to staying at home. Either place, the sentiment is the same. It just feels less personal in town.

  “Shall we leave, miss?”

  I shake my head—not yet—and turn my face west toward Langtree’s Music Hall. The jewel of High Street, it sits across from the park like a marble monarch on her throne. Cordelia does not share my interest in Langtree’s. She sighs wistfully and taps her foot. Then she cracks her knuckles, drawing out the popping noise, and the whole process begins again. Sigh-tap-pop. Sigh-tap-pop. I cannot bear it! Something must be done about Cordelia’s boredom if I am to concentrate on finding my ghost.

  Fortunately, we are joined by Isaac Baker before I give in to the urge to strangle my companion and silence her forever. They make small talk for a few moments in the way of shy, young lovers, and it is almost worse than the sigh-tap-pop routine. Then, as Shakespeare would say, Isaac finally screws his courage to the sticking place and invites her to dance.

  “A waltz, my dear?” he asks.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Liar-liar. I’ve seen you do it. Quite well, as I remember.”

  I hear Isaac pull her up from the bench. There’s sudden movement—twirling perhaps?—and Cordelia laughs brightly. Now the swish of long skirts, rhythmic stepping back and forth.

  Dancing.

  And then the motion stops. “You’re being fool-headed, Isaac. I said that I can’t.”

  Her voice is sorrowful—as though Cordie wants more than anything to waltz properly but knows she should stay. Young women deserve a little fun, though. I gently push her shoulder, encouraging her to accept.

  Isaac squats down by my side. “She has nothing to worry about, does she? We have your promise. You’ll stay right here.”

  Crossing my heart, I am the very definition of solemnity.

  Cordelia sighs, nearly giving in. “But what if Mr. Grayson finds out? I’ll lose my position.”

  I turn an imaginary key at my lips and push her again.

  “Oh, all right. Who can resist the two of you?”

  Cordie puts an arm around me. Her breath tickles my ear as she whispers, “Leave this bench, and I’ll make your life miserable. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Oh, believe me, she would indeed. Has, in fact, on many occasions.

  “Thank you,” Isaac calls. He sounds so delighted that I can’t help grinning in return.

  As they walk toward the music hall, I remove two, button-sized pebbles from the pocket of my cloak. I shake them like dice, calculating actual waltz time with travel distance between Langtree’s and the gazebo. I should have the next twenty-five minutes at my disposal. Fortunatas mea! Clutching the lucky pebbles against my palm, I unwind the scarf with my other hand, grasp my cane, and stand up. I thrust the end of the cane two feet ahead of me, and step toward the balustrade, savoring the aroma of dry corn stalks and candle wax.

  Why was I drawn here? Where is that pesky ghost? It’s out there somewhere, I can feel it.

  As the minutes tick by, people leave the gazebo and filter into the night—for dance, for drink, for home—until only two of us remain. A gentleman and myself. I breathe in quietly, hoping to learn more of his character through the gift of supernatural olfaction. My sense of smell is as acute as my hearing, and most emotions have a distinct odor. Hatred is metallic, blood-like, and romantic love is a rich cocoa powder with hints of chili-pepper. Happiness is floral, fleeting.

  Shaking the pebble-dice again, I read the most obvious scent first and then work my way inside this stranger. He smokes an imported cigar, the same brand my father uses. And I pick up the rich man’s holy trinity: bay rum cologne, French pomade, and boot polish. He’s also been sipping from a hipflask. Spilled a little on his coat, perhaps? Is that bourbon? A rather fine brand, I think.

  Above all, however, this man is rank with feelings of inadequacy. It’s a sour, curdled-milk scent. In addition I find more bitterness with the fear of failure, hard-pressed ambition, and an unfulfilled yearning to provide. These emotions permeate the atmosphere around him.

  “Does the cigar bother you?” the fellow suddenly asks. “Would you prefer that I leave?”

  I smile, startled by his polished American accent. No doubt my family would sound Welsh to him. Most Stonehengians do not talk like Americans at all and have roots outside the United States. Hoping to strike it rich in the mines of Colorad
o, they come from Canada, England, Scotland, and France. Predominantly European, but there are some from as far away as China and Russia. Regarding architecture, language and sensibilities, our city is an authentic international metropolis nestled within the Rocky Mountains.

  Who are you then, mystery man?

  The object of my speculation turns away and continues puffing on his cigar. Caught up in thought, I forget that I am holding my scarf. It slips from my fingers and drops to the floor. Drat. Cordelia’s certain to scold if I lose the hellacious rag. I return the lucky pebbles to my pocket and squat down, patting the area around me, trying to find the scarf. A floorboard creaks, and the smell of tobacco grows stronger.

  Mystery Man speaks again. “Where are my manners? Let me help you.”

  He gives me the scarf and pulls me up by the elbow. His hand brushes against the small patch of skin between my glove and sleeve.

  Hells-bells!

  A vibrating sensation begins in my bones, followed by an uncomfortable tightening of the cranium. Light shatters my peaceful blindness and a scene forms in my mind. In this psychic realm, I can see and speak, as I do not in ordinary life. Images slice through my head. Colors. Textures. Brilliance everywhere.

  Just as I predicted. I knew a killing was certain tonight.

  2

  Deo dignus vindice nodus.

  A knot worthy of God to untie.

  The revelation drags at me, pulling me deeper, until I am lost in it. A part of the episode now, I hurry to keep pace with two people walking along a mountain trail. Tall and well-dressed, the man would be pleasant looking were his face not mottled with fury. His female counterpart has a smattering of gold freckles on her nose and wears a sly expression.

  “You dare to threaten me?” he asks the woman, spittle flying from his mouth. “No one will believe the words of a lying cheat!”

  “Don’t worry, ’ee bleddy dobeck,” she answers. “Folks’ll know what’s true.”

  The Mystery Man from the gazebo and a Cornishwoman? I hear it in the rhythm and intonation of her speech. And she’s obviously lived a hand-to-mouth existence with little formal education.

  I always warn the victim, though it does little good. “Leave,” I beg her. “Go home.”

  We reach a rocky plateau and stop. Despite our beautiful surroundings, a figure waits silently, winding His watch in the shadows of the evergreens. I do not actually see Sir Death, but I sense the Reaper is there.

  Mystery Man rubs his head, as though his temples ache. “This will kill my wife.”

  The Cornish woman is a redhead who seems to speak first and think later. “Your missus’ll be fine. If ’ee pay, that is.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have the money yet.”

  His blackmailer frowns. “Then dead she be.”

  The words are barely out of her mouth before he strikes the woman. She loses her balance, falls headfirst onto a slab of stone. Quiet, no movement. Mystery Man kneels down and checks if she is still breathing. He looks thoughtful and then winces and rubs his head as he did a few moments ago. “I must,” he murmurs. “There’s no other choice.”

  Watching him lift the unconscious body from the ground, I smell his desperation and fear. It’s rotten, like a decaying carcass.

  “Stop,” I say. “Whatever trouble you’re in isn’t worth your soul.”

  He brushes past me and carries the woman to the edge of a deep ravine. I follow after and nearly lose my footing, mesmerized by the jagged rocks at least fifty feet below. The woman’s eyelids flicker open just before he throws her over the side. She falls forever, or so it seems, and my scream entwines with hers, echoing through the forest.

  Until there is a thud and a terrible silence.

  “Murder,” I declare, my voice breaking on the word.

  Mystery Man looks in my direction, as though he actually heard me. In all my years as a Visionary, this has only happened a handful of times. I think of the things I’d like to ask him, but the vision fades. Everything grows dark, and I return to my senses, back in the gazebo at Stonehenge, blind and mute once more.

  The vision was lengthy in the psychic realm but occupied mere seconds of earth time. I cannot tell where the murder happened or when, but one thing is certain. The killer is standing beside me.

  “Are you unwell?” he asks.

  Trembling, I shake my head in response, the woman’s scream still ringing in my ears. Remove your gloves, I tell myself. Steady now. Put them in your pocket and do it. Don’t be a coward, you must touch him. I take a deep breath and grab the lapels of the killer’s overcoat, my hands swiftly climbing up the heavy material to his face. His intake of breath tells me that I have surprised him. He doesn’t know what to make of my behavior.

  I feel his forehead and work downward, learning all I can. There’s a scar by his right brow, and his cheeks are thin, more so than in the vision. Clean-shaven too, no beard like before.

  “What are you doing?” the man cries, pulling away. “This is mad.”

  He shoves me aside, grinds out the end of his cigar on the handrail and pushes it into his pocket. “You’re a menace to the public,” Mr. Murder says. “Someone should put you away.”

  The killer leaves the gazebo quickly, and turns north. On impulse, I follow the sound of his footsteps, hands outstretched, but I stumble on the stairs.

  No time to find my cane! He’s moving too fast.

  I draw myself up and go after him as music hall celebrants flood into the street. I grow disoriented amid the noise—lose my sense of the murderer’s whereabouts.

  Thunderation! He’s gone. Escaped.

  I don’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk, surrounded by pressing bodies, bumping against me as they make their way past. The earth tilts crazily from side to side, and I grow nauseous.

  “Miss Hester?” Cordelia gasps. “Is that you?”

  She grips my arm, muttering her disapproval—each word a lecture in and of itself. “What a state you’re in! Hands bleeding, dress torn. I knew I shouldn’t have left you.”

  Now she’s glaring at Isaac. I don’t need seeing eyes to verify this. I feel him flinch under her scrutiny, poor lad.

  Cordie gathers my cane, scarf, and reticule from where I dropped them at the gazebo. Teeth chattering, I shake uncontrollably, so she wraps me like a mummy in the scarf and buttons my coat as high as it will go. Cordie bids Isaac a crisp farewell and leads me back toward High Street. I do not wish to face my parents after the evening’s debacle, so I drag my feet a bit. This elicits even more criticism from my companion.

  After walking several blocks, Cordelia and I meet Willard Little Hawk, the family handyman, at the livery near city hall. “What in blazes happened to you, White Hair?” he cries over the All Hallows hubbub.

  Impatient, geriatric, and possessing an arthritic hip, Willard has known me most of my life. I cringe at the volume of his voice, and the nickname he gave me long ago. It's Willard-talk for the color platinum. He sometimes adds Silver Eyes or Pale Skin to his repertoire.

  Willard helps us into the buggy, and we ride for home as the clock tower chimes midnight. Usually the witching-hour is an ill omen, but perhaps not in this case. Instead, it feels fortuitous. My mother hears Cordelia’s account of the Halloween party without interrupting once. Quite out of character for Mama. In addition, my companion does not embellish upon the tale. Rather, she edits things out with a vengeance, saying that I merely dropped my cane and fell, thus incurring the injuries to my hands and the rip in my gown. I don’t know which my mother feels worse about—my scrapes or the ruined ensemble from Paris.

  No, that’s incorrect. I do. It’s the dress.

  “Carry Miss Hester upstairs, Willard,” Mama says. “She’s ill.”

  I wave my hands, but Willard scoops me up and follows orders. Traitor. Turncoat. He knows I hate being fussed over. Cordelia shoves aside the ridiculous mound of porcelain dolls that decorate my bed. Mama collects them for me, and no matter how often I hide the frilly ladie
s, they are returned without fail. Willard sets me on the mattress, and my mother closes the door after he leaves. Feeling stiff and sore, I let Mama remove my clothing until I am left with only a chemise and drawers.

  She rustles through the armoire and chooses a nightgown. I know the exact one by its unfriendly, stiff-taffeta sound. The skirt is heavily embroidered, the neckline a volcano of erupting lace. It’s utterly absurd to anyone with a lick of common sense and impossible to sleep in.

  “Ready yourself,” Cordie murmurs, and I feel awkward stretching my arms out into the air.

  The nightgown is a fitting costume for Halloween, I suppose. Instead of resembling a real female, I am dressed like one of those porcelain dolls Mama values so much—perfectly groomed, impossibly stylish. Yet surface finery does not compensate for what I lack, or transform me into the daughter she longs for.

  Mama makes a familiar, rattling sound—metal against glass, spoon to bottle. I scramble away, like a rabbit fleeing a fox. No laudanum! Leave me alone! But my mother catches me and pulls me back to the bed. As always, Cordie does as her employer demands and holds me down. I hate being reduced to this panicked state. Lack of sight and speech shouldn’t take away one’s fundamental right of refusal.

  I don’t want it! Please let me go.

  After three failed attempts, they force a dose of laudanum into my mouth. I cough and sputter as the burning liquid slides down my throat, tasting bitter and sickly sweet. Rattle-clack. My mother returns the spoon and bottle to her pocket. She removes my spectacles and tells Cordelia to clean me up and change the pillowcase. Mama sets my eyeglasses on the table and calmly bids me goodnight, as though physical aggression has not just taken place. Cordelia wipes my chin and neck with a wet cloth, and I lift my head as she replaces the pillow.

  “There,” Cordie says, sounding apologetic. “Good as new.”

  But that isn’t so.

  I am not good or new, and never shall be. I hate my mother for what she did. I loathe being made weak and dependent. Even worse than the unclean feeling I get from the laudanum, I’m tainted from tonight’s murderous vision. Now I must bring a killer to justice. That or suffer the freckled Cornishwoman’s taunts until the end of time. Already, I hear her whispering in my head. Do well of me, Visionary. You owe a body that.