Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  I think about shrugging again but can’t be bothered. We’re both dead anyway so what does it matter?

  Gabriel leans back, too. Joining me against the wall. “A terrible idea, competing for the crown of sorrow. Forget I mentioned it. Do you know The Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens?”

  A copy of that work sits on my shelf at home, or it did last time I was there. Cordelia and I never got around to reading it.

  He quotes, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”

  Both the author and the storyteller beside me are marvelous. Gabriel is an artist with words, summarizing the scenes and breathing life into the characters. I am caught up in the tale of Lucie Manette, her father Dr. Manette and the virtuous Charles Darnay. But my favorite is Sydney Carton. When Gabriel tells me of his final sacrifice, a tear drops from my eye. The martyr’s last words echo through the Pit.

  “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

  The giant pats my shoulder. “Like Carton and his little seamstress, we’ll help each other until the end.”

  Reaching out, I search the wall and find the bold words I carved there.

  LEX TALIONIS.

  YOUR DAY OF RECKONING AWAITS, FAUST

  Failure washes over me, scalding as acid. I am well and truly caught this time, and I have done nothing to help Gabriel or Faust’s victims in the Book. There will be hell to pay in the after life. Gabriel begins to hum some lilting, gentle tune. It acts as a salve to my worried mind and gives me, if not hope for survival, at least the possibility of redemption.

  I straighten my shoulders and turn to Gabriel. Unsure of whether I will survive this kind of sharing, I take his hand in mine and listen to the beating of my heart. His life flashes behind my eyes as it did before and I feel his sorrow and pain, want more than anything to ease his burden. Heat gradually builds in my chest until I feel radiant as the sun. I push the power out toward Gabriel, giving him all the strength I have.

  Then I grow weak and feel no more.

  “Wake up,” Roy mutters, splashing my face with cold water.

  I cough and sputter into painful consciousness, wondering where I am. Dead, not dead, or just in hell? I can’t decide which. Arms strapped above me, my body hangs and twirls slowly, my weight barely resting on the balls of my feet. Sweet, holy hell. Every part of me hurts! I pull on the cords, but they hold fast, tethered to a high point in the ceiling. Like a macabre ballerina, I swing about on my toes—arms and shoulders aching.

  Definitely not dead. Too painful.

  The air smells of rotting wood and mold. This must be the basement, though not the Pit. It has a slightly different, more piquant stench. A door opens and several men walk into the room. Titus. Roy. Watts. Faust. A thousand people could enter this place, and I would still pick their footsteps out of a crowd.

  “How disappointing, Hester,” Dr. Faust says. “I thought we meant something to each other. The message you wrote to Miss Honeycutt indicates otherwise.”

  No longer afraid now that I am bound, Roy pushes my leg hard, forcing me to spin on my toes toward the right. Titus stops me mid-rotation and sends me whirling back the other way. One of my oversized boots flies off with the momentum. I hear it fall to the floor, dislodging my pencil from its hiding place near the heel. The ridiculous chicken bone knife and lucky pebbles roll out of the boot, too. Faust kicks them aside and removes something from his case. He throws it into the air and makes a snapping noise.

  What’s that? A whip? Surely not—

  “I had a dog once who kept getting at my chickens,” Faust says. He walks around me, snapping the whip softly. “Wouldn’t stop until I threw a bottle at his head, skimmed it right along his skull. Looked like he’d been scalped afterwards.”

  I keep turning and twisting to face the rambling madman. “One time was all it took, Hester. The dog healed up and learned his lesson. He never touched another of my chickens. Think what a utopia the world would be if people were so teachable. If they could be conditioned with pain to do right. No more killing or war, no crime or corruption.”

  Faust snaps the whip harder. “Unfasten her gown, Titus.”

  The guard tugs at the back of my dress, obviously unfamiliar with women’s fashion, and the high neckline strangles me. He loses patience and rips away the section of material covering my shoulder blades and spine. The bodice feels intact, held in place by the overhead position of my arms. A cool draft runs over my back, and the whip cracks again.

  I bite my lip so Faust can’t see it trembling. Perhaps this is only a threat. He’s trying to scare me into returning the Book. Roy, Titus, and Watts fear the whip, all right. They scatter like cockroaches hit by the midday sun.

  “You were correct when you said that my mother was a stern disciplinarian,” the doctor murmurs. “She did not spare the rod or the child. I paid for my wrongs and so will you, my dear. This is for the letter to Honeycutt.”

  The lash comes with such force that my body arches forward upon impact. No matter how often you’ve been hurt, acute pain is always a raw surprise. Sharp. Stinging. Agony.

  No—air—cannot—breathe.

  Gasping for oxygen, I dangle and spin until Titus turns my back to Faust again.

  “Aiding an inmate in her escape from this institution. I think that’s worth two stripes, don’t you?”

  The whip cracks and bites into my shoulder like a beast. Deus misereatur… Then it sets fire to my lower back. Mercy, mercy. But Faust is consumed with hatred. There is no other smell now but blood—both real and metaphysical. I hear him coil the whip around his arm, a small snake upon a larger one and try to summon Tom’s butterflies. They explode within my mind until the world is a cloud of orange and black fluttering wings, the sight so beautiful that I wish to lose myself in it. But the vision does not bring real peace or courage this time. Faust has ruined any magic the butterflies may have once possessed. They are now nothing more than a borrowed memory.

  “I really must insist that you return my journal,” Faust says. “Where is it, Hester?”

  I kick in his direction, causing only myself pain. Nose running, eyes streaming, I gather moisture in my mouth and spit at him. You will never find your damned book.

  He unwraps the whip. “My arm is growing weary, but I shall persevere. I’ll question you to your last breath, if necessary.”

  Gabriel’s voice echoes through my mind, keeping me company as I bleed. Far, far better thing I do… better resting place that I go to…

  Twin blows land on my back, and I lose my footing, swaying back and forth. Oxygen finally enters my lungs. Another breath. Another. And everything fades to black but breathing and pain. S-stop. Stop. Closing my eyes, I listen to my heartbeat and feel something cold in the rooms upstairs. Death? But there is only silence. As always, He reaps in His own good time.

  My sense of awareness expands, and I hear Faust take a seat, ask for Watts to bring him a drink of water. Then the rhythmic pounding of running horses. Or is my mind gone? Round and around I go, twirling from the rafters, until the nauseating motion slows, a carousel ride coming to a halt. But the sound of the horses grows more distinct. Watts enters the chamber in haste and sloshes water on the floor.

  “We have company, Doctor. The sentry outside saw a coach and rider headed this way and lifted the gate.”

  “I am not receiving at the moment, Watts.”

  A cheerful whistle penetrates my stupor. Oh My Darling, Clementine?

  Sir Death glides through the wall like a wraith. You sent for me?

  29

  Morituri te salutamus.

  They who are about to die salute you.

  The Reaper’s chill presence envelops all. This is the Death I have worked with most, the one who kissed my head and gave me protection from His brothers. All lethal grace, He touches the marks on my body, and I shudder with relief as t
he pain subsides. The discomfort is gone, but the bleeding continues. Kelly, the whistling horseman, didn’t arrive in time after all. This saddens me. I regret that I did not get to hear his whiskey laugh or argue in sign with him again. Smell the sweet mixture of pines and sandalwood that is his alone.

  Death sighs and sits down beside Faust. Do not grow sentimental, Visionary.

  Forgive me. How inappropriate. Thank you, sir.

  You’re welcome.

  Unaware of the Reaper, Dr. Faust stands and leaves with Watts for the main floor. Roy and Titus sit down—one of them shuffles a deck of cards. Up above, the coach and rider pass through the portcullis and stop at the asylum entrance. Faust must have changed his mind about receiving today because he admits Kelly and his companions. Blessing Veritas for my gifts, I extend my hearing to the fullest degree, tuning everything out but the meeting upstairs. I could be standing next to Kelly, so clearly do their voices register with me.

  “Welcome, Doctor,” Faust murmurs. “This is an unexpected visit. And you’ve brought the police?”

  “Yes,” Kelly replies. “I want my wife. These gentlemen are here to see you give her to me.”

  Faust ushers them down the hall. “Come. I have very sad news to share.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “As you know, we’ve been plagued with sickness this winter. I intended to write, Dr. Kelly, but there simply hasn’t been time. I regret to inform you of Hester’s passing. Her loss affected all of us at Ironwood.”

  The four men enter the parlor and Faust shuts the door, offering his guests a seat.

  Kelly remains standing. “I don’t believe it. Show me the body.”

  “Out of the question. Her corpse has been burned.”

  The police officers seem to accept my death without comment, but Kelly continues on at Faust. “Let me talk with the nurses who tended her.”

  “They are no longer employed at the asylum.”

  “Then show me the surviving patients.”

  “Regretfully, there were none.” Faust walks back to the door, opens it. “I am sorry if I appear unfeeling in regards to your circumstances, but I need to get back to work.”

  I am surprised that Kelly does not protest. Instead, he seems to completely unravel, weeping and embracing Faust before leaving the parlor. More shocking still, I hear a quick flipping, sliding motion.

  Kelly has taken something out of Faust’s coat and slipped it into his own. Did he pick the doctor’s pocket? “Thank you for doing what you could, good fellow.”

  Apparently Faust is unaware of the fact he’s been stolen from. “Well certainly. You’re, um…most welcome. Although, I must insist you leave now. Watts will show you out.”

  Faust calls the guard, and Watts joins the men in the hall. “Accompany our guests outside, please.”

  But Kelly begins to cry again, like a man completely shattered. I’d almost believe he meant those tears, if I didn’t guess he was conning them all. “Might I have a moment to collect myself?” he asks. “Could I trouble you for a handkerchief? And perhaps a drink?”

  Faust goes to collect the requested items. Paper rustles as Kelly takes the stolen note out of his pocket, and I assume, reads it. Could it be the one I sent to Honeycutt? He gets to his feet and steals down the hall. Kelly is almost to the stairwell when the door opens a crack.

  “She’s in the basement,” Davis whispers.

  Titus and Roy are so caught up in their game of cards, they do not notice the quiet jangle of the door knob, the scratch of some metal tool. Both pockets and locks? Kelly is a talented fellow. The door swings open a few seconds later. Then Kelly’s at my side, cutting the cords at my wrists. My arms drop and blood flow returns to them, feeling like pins and needles in the flesh. The Reaper’s gift of pain relief is beginning to fade.

  I try to be independent, to stand on my own, but I sag into Kelly’s arms. He examines my wounds quickly and wraps me in his cloak. The pressure of the heavy material resting against my back is agony. Pushing it off my skin only makes things worse.

  “I’ll get you out of here, sweetheart,” Kelly says. “They won’t hurt you anymore.”

  The other language I can’t repeat. The curses he mutters as his shoe slides out from under him, when he realizes the floor is slippery with my blood. Kelly picks me up and Titus and Roy move to block the door.

  “It’s over, don’t you see?” Kelly asks. “Your coworker here can attest to the fact that I’ve come with a police escort.”

  “That’s true,” Davis replies. “He did.”

  “If you’re smart, you won’t involve yourselves further in this crime.” Kelly takes another step forward. “Faust is destined for prison or the noose. Do you wish to join him?”

  Speaking of Faust, he enters the chamber in a rush, followed by Watts. The doctor pushes past Roy and Titus. “This does complicate matters,” the madman says, advancing upon Kelly and me. “I cannot let either of you leave. That would ruin everything. And some sacrifices are acceptable if they benefit society.”

  “What benefit?” Kelly asks, holding me closer.

  “My research of pain stimulus, of course,” Faust says, sounding apologetic. “I’ll find my journal, after you’re both dead and buried. I am so sorry it has come to this, pet.” He takes something from his pocket.

  What is it?

  Davis shouts and jumps in front of me. “No! Don’t.”

  My head nearly cracks when a gun fires, and then all turns quiet for an instant before pandemonium breaks out again. As Roy, Watts, and Titus run from the room, Kelly lowers my legs to the floor.

  In my weakened state, I drop to my knees and crawl over to where Davis fell. Gods have mercy. Why did you do it? I reach for his hand. The skin feels smooth and unlined against my palm.

  Kelly charges Faust, who is thankfully slow to fire again, and rips the gun from his hand. He punches the older doctor several times and throws him against the wall. Faust weeps, begging for his life. “Stop. I’m sorry. I’ll be good.” The madman sounds like a child who fears he’s going to be punished. Amid his pitiful cries, Kelly’s policemen join us, demanding that the situation be explained.

  The good doctor kneels down at Davis’s side and gives a brief accounting to the lawmen as he examines my friend. The sound of snapping metal rings makes me jerk. No cuffs! I won’t wear them again! Yet the policemen do not bother me. Instead, it is the asylum guards who are now the ones in irons. They immediately turn on their employer.

  I hear all this happen, and none of it matters, for I am cradling a dead boy. I had forgotten Death was still in the room. There is no heartbeat, no breath left in my friend’s body as I feel the Reaper take him to the next world.

  Versare cum Deo. Be well, Davis.

  Holding his cooling corpse, our mingled blood drying on the floor, I hear the policemen drag a screaming Faust away and lock him in the Pit.

  30

  Sic transit gloria mundi.

  So passes away the glory of the world.

  The Book was damning for Ironwood as well as Faust. There’s talk of closing it down and relocating the inmates to other hospitals. Once the doctor’s trial is over and the sentencing done, of course. A month after his own commitment, Faust is stripped of his medical license and living in the same conditions that his patients endured. The spirits of his victims have found peace at last.

  Bully for them, though I can’t say the same.

  Davis is buried in a little cemetery near his family’s farm. It plagues my thoughts, imagining the grief his loved ones must feel and knowing I’m the cause. Now two men have died on my account—one temporarily, the other all too permanent.

  Lying on my stomach, on a hospital bed, I swim through another wave of pain. My back is completely bare down to the top of my hips, and Kelly is cleaning the lacerations again. It is a painstaking process that we’ve repeated many times due to infection from the traces of cloth and other foreign matter within the wounds. Damn, he hit an es
pecially raw spot there. Stings like the blazes. Although I’m given plenty of drugs in this place, enough to keep my dependency a secret, it doesn’t eliminate the pain of this procedure.

  My head is turned to the side, resting on a pillow. “All right?” Kelly asks.

  I pay no attention to his question. Instead, I grit my teeth and focus on something else, like spelling the name Jupiter. J-U-P-I-T-E-R. Jupiter. Next it’s Pluto. P-L-U—

  “You know how to sign, Hester. Do it. I want to know what you’re feeling.”

  But I don’t, even when he scrapes another sore place.

  “Once your injuries heal a bit, we’ll think about returning to Stonehenge, but I don’t want to risk it until then.”

  I’ve asked Kelly to go home so many times. His daughter Alice is in Stonehenge now. She’s been at a boarding school in Boston since last fall. At only eight, the child must be missing her father. But Kelly won’t leave me, no matter what I tell him. He rebuts my arguments with “I have it under control, Hester.” Or “Alice is in good hands. Don’t worry.”

  His stubbornness drives me to distraction. He’s worse than I am.

  Kelly pours on the antiseptics, packs the gashes with poultices, and lathers me with salve. After all that, I am shaking like a willow in a high wind. He sits down, takes my hand, and squeezes it. No visions at his touch. No visions at all for weeks. My soul seems to be empty but for the self-loathing and depression.

  The doctor remains there until I fall asleep. I do not know if he goes somewhere else while I am under, but his hand still holds mine when I awake.

  After two months in hospital, we are scheduled to leave on the train today. Kelly has bought a dress for me, which he describes as indigo. Made with yards of soft wool, it fits better than the bespoke gowns my mother once ordered. Then there are the under things, not a single garment missing, and the comfortable boots and gloves, the long, fitted traveling coat and reticule. Our Kelly has a very good eye for the shape of a woman’s figure.