PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I dreamt: of her unclean kisses, the dull friction of her dry lips upon my body, the teasing of her mouth against my throat. In the absence of affection, the desire to possess me inspired her hateful love-making. The last sight I can recall before oblivion was that of her hands caressing my own, and the colour draining away from my skin . . . .

  I never truly awakened again. I finally saw her as she really was when she admired her new face and body in the bedroom mirror—Alatiel looked like me. She had taken my life for her own. I was taunted with my own voice, and she preened, hands on hips, turning this way and that; I could only watch through the eyes which were once mine. The tears I wept were of laughter, of joy, but all the while I died inside . . . .

  We lived again, at last.

  CHAPTER V: THE SONG OF DESPAIR

  NOW WE WERE OBLIGED to seek out Callum Flynn. In our previous life, we cared little for his feverish songs of femme’s fatale, vampire queens and shameless courtesans—but as he had desired, they cast their spell, and no-one was more beguiled by them than the man himself. His poetry informed us of our true history, our role, and helped cast off the dead weight which had been Helena Graham; we were now as one.

  He knew us of old. We glared at him, through thin gaps in the boards he had nailed to the windows of his house. Flynn, terrified and bewitched at the same time, surrendered to our unspoken commands and showed us in with the respect accorded to superior beings.

  Upon our entrance, he beckoned us to his writing desk. His nascent hysteria overtook him as he scattered print after print across one another, pointing out our presence in copies of Renaissance frescoes, medieval tapestries and the like. He swore we lived in those times, and were the favourites of court painters and noblemen.

  Our education was complete once we saw our face among the crowd in one such Florentine painting; we knew we had once studied the jewels believed to counter poisoning, in a minor work by some unheralded and nameless Italian artist. Past, present and future belonged to us . . . .

  A few weeks after we left him, a drinking partner of his found the Irishman’s body after breaking into his house, having been concerned for Flynn’s welfare. The fragments of poetry lying upon his writing desk were testament to a style that had become an obsession, one which harkened back to his Waterford childhood or perhaps the ancestral memories of his people.

  All of them related how the Leanan Sidhe, Mistress of Death, fired his vision and promised him riches, fame, the glory of the world. There had been, however, a terrible price to pay for her favours—the life had drained out of Callum Flynn. His pitiful corpse bore the ravages of starvation and violence, the hands with which he had scrawled his poems were stripped of all flesh. In truth, we tired of reading his words—though they were instructive—and the tedium of waiting for him to die of hunger. He tried our patience with his lingering, and so, we tore him apart.

  December

  WE LEARNED THAT JULIAN PARADINE’S family had taken him to the continent after his mind gave way under the burden of guilt. The ‘curse’, as the man called it, he passed onto his friends haunted him night and day. He traded their lives away for his own gain—in the end, Cristian Salazar’s promises of ‘magical’ artistic prowess were worth their weight in gold.

  This amused us.

  After a tiresome journey across the grey and slowly-twisting Channel, we were shown to Julian’s sick room. We watched over the invalid as a fever took hold and tortured him even more than the bitter knowledge of a ruined life.

  In a moment of lucidity, Julian fought to recognise the woman in mourning dress who stood near his bedside, and he called a name which now meant little. We approached, stroked his haggard face with our fingernails until, eventually, it appeared he wept tears of blood. But he did not appear to understand the nature of our devoted attention, and gave thanks. The wretch wished to address us, it seemed. We would have our sport with him.

  “Helena . . . dear Helena, who do you grieve for?” he asked, “Not your brother . . . please don’t tell me he’s—”

  The words died on his lips the moment we whispered in his ear.

  “Sweet Julian, Helena is but a memory, and your friends await you in Hell. We are here to mourn your death . . . .”

  He recognised us at last. Julian began to weep and clawed the air in vain attempts to strike at us. His mother entered the room in order to calm him as we feigned tears for appearances’ sake and hurriedly departed. Meaningless, incoherent cries faded until he fell silent. Soon, the Widow Paradine lamented her son’s passing, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of a most delicious smile. The music of sorrow swept the fetid air around us until it became our second skin. Ah, if only we’d been able to stroll hand in hand through the bleak and narrow corridor at that moment, our life would have been complete . . . .

  January, 1881

  IT IS THE HOUR AFTER THE FUNERAL, one of several we have been thrilled to attend recently. We were fast becoming connoisseurs of such happy events. A sudden downpour, drowning out the holy fool’s cheerless and vain promises of impending salvation, delighted us both; we gasped aloud, attracting stern glances from the crowd—another fond memory for us to cherish in our idle hours! We were amused by their desperate need for decorum, and so drank in their misery. We spread our hands out, as if we might capture the wild rain, like wonderstruck children often do.

  The ceremony ground to its inevitable dead end, and we lacked entertainment. Happily, the late Paradine’s mother waylaid us and expressed her gratitude. She assumed our vigil had brought her beloved son no small comfort in his final moments. She must have been distressed when, upon slowly raising a hand to our mouth, we insultingly pretended to stifle laughter. Her pinched, drear little face seemed to fall apart, as if she’d been stricken by some appalling sudden illness. Unable and unwilling to resist the temptation, we leered at her, and the old woman staggered backwards. Weakness is always contemptible. The mob were left confused and outraged. Exeunt: our destiny awaits.

  In short time, we returned to Camden and sought out Gabriel Holland, but the coward had vanished after our London début. To ease our disappointment, we took our usual place at the café table and waited for the living or the dead to join us. The blackened sky above promised a storm to end all storms. Not a soul dared approach and pay us homage—instead, they stared from behind their curtains in fear and wonderment; their shabby little houses seemed to shrink in our presence. So now we leave for Carliton, and our new home.

  IF BY CHANCE you have found this journal, dear Gabriel, hear our voice now: we will take our pleasure in your destruction, and it will be everything you have always desired.

  LOST IN TORMENTED THOUGHT, Gabriel Holland studied the final paragraph of Helena’s journal until his vision clouded. The writer had signed it “Your Helena” but the author of the last few pages possessed none of his beloved’s kindness and sympathy. Holland was caught between growing suspicion and deep concern.

  Once downstairs, he ignored the silent scrutiny which suggested itself to him—a ticking clock, a family portrait—each hinting at some sinister meaning beyond their bland faces.

  Outside now, Holland rushed from one streetlamp to another. He sought the light, the artificial safety of night turned into gaslit day. His shadow, cast in angular relief against stone walls and uneven paving, appeared to belong to another. Its shape was all wrong, and its crooked progress mocked him, he thought. The creature delighted in shadowing him—he was certain of her passion for such cruel games—and so he denied her the pleasure of his fear.

  Unable to distract himself, he considered the awful fates of his friends Daniele, Matthew Graham, Callum Flynn and poor, wretched Julian: all dead, or missing. As for Helena . . . he dared not dwell on what had become of her for fear his heart would break. His dreams of their marriage and hopes of a contented life together were now dashed.

  The hunted man strode on, head held high in fraudulent bravado and genuine contempt until something in the distance gave him pau
se.

  A torn piece of paper danced on the wind, yet nothing else on the road was so disturbed. The page performed for him, rising and falling time and again, as if seeking his attention. It passed him by and, with a telling final flourish, came to rest outside the iron gate before Helena Graham’s home. Holland resisted the temptation to return and walked on, Alatiel’s shadow leading the way. She had stolen a second life; now, she sought his death, as he was certain she had two years ago to this very day . . . .

  CHAPTER VI: THE MISTRESS OF SALVACIÓ

  1879

  AT FIRST, THERE WAS LIGHT, streaming through the clerestory windows above the gallery floor. Then darkness, as a shadow fell on Gabriel Holland’s shoulder and smothered the glow of a gilded lamp beneath the painting he gazed upon. The picture displayed a young woman aged around nineteen years. A white gown hung loosely to her pale body, a single breast visible through a jagged tear. She was wild-eyed, seeming to press against the boundary of the frame—there was something desperate about her expression, Holland thought; a forced, unnaturally wide smile. The extreme strands of her hair were painted to resemble the flowing of blood.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she.”

  It was a statement of fact, not a question or mere opinion. Francis Challenger, the art dealer, had come up beside him.

  “A man might be led hand in hand to Hell by such an angel, and never regret it, don’t you agree?” Challenger asked.

  Holland turned to face him. He was familiar with Challenger and his attitudes—the dealer only had time, and money, for established artists. Why would he collect Cristian Salazar’s work?

  Holland thought.

  “You know Mr Salazar well, sir?”

  “Oh yes,” Challenger said, “I first met him at the Excelsior some years ago. Said he was there to study the dancing girls . . . as we all were, naturally. I’d heard of the great man, of course, so I offered to represent him. Needless to say I haven’t done a great deal of business on his behalf since his exhibition. That is unless you’re interested in—?” He gestured towards the painting.

  “I should like to make his acquaintance; could this—”

  “Why?” Challenger’s easy charm vanished. He looked Holland up and down without disguising his contempt. “What do you want of him?”

  “I desire tuition . . . in drawing, I mean. And painting, of course. I’ll pay—both of you, of course.”

  “You?” Challenger laughed. “You haven’t a prayer of success, commercial or otherwise.”

  Holland blushed but took a step towards him. “I do not share your opinion, sir.”

  “Ah, Gabriel . . . your kind of work is—forgive me—of little interest to such a master. Excuse me.”

  He looked over Holland’s shoulder, perhaps for someone else to talk to. Spotting Carl Mauser, the landscape artist, Challenger shouted the German’s name and started to walk away.

  Gabriel Holland then blurted out the words which would change his life.

  “I will meet your Mr Salazar—he can decide if I’m worthy of instruction.”

  Challenger smiled, as though he were more amused than contemptuous. “He won’t see you, you know, he hardly sees anyone these days. Seek him out yourself, if you choose. You must have heard of his home, Salvació House, in Carliton?”

  “It’s my hometown. But I’ve never heard of that estate.”

  “The house was renamed after the Salazars inherited it. Oh well. Good day to you.” Challenger broke away and shook Mauser’s hand warmly.

  Alone once more, Holland turned back to look at the picture. The girl was captured in the act of freeing herself from the painting. Her hands gripped both sides of the frame, fingers overlapping the edges and a delicate foot rested on the base. The frame was skewed, false, merely a painted rectangle on the gallery wall. The second picture displayed nothing except darkness. The ‘frame’ was an illusion like the other, a black background within it; she had escaped.

  At the edge of Holland’s vision, faces blurred as they passed behind him. One covered a smile with her hand as she saw the young man staring at the painting on the wall. Her friends glanced at him briefly, amused looks on their faces. Holland saw everything but them; to him, their heads and bodies floated away like so much smoke towards the next exhibits, their chatter the forgotten concerns of ghosts. He saw only one face, heard one voice alone, and it whispered to him from painted lips. He silenced her momentarily by walking away, but the imagined echoes of her voice followed him as he departed.

  A WEEK PASSED, AND, HAVING NO REPLY to his letter, Holland decided to visit Cristian Salazar regardless of the man’s supposed reclusive nature. At nine-seventeen the next morning, the train carrying Holland neared Carliton. Rising voices of the other passengers told him that he had arrived, so he let himself be pushed up to the door by the crowd and down onto the platform. He hailed one of the hansoms parked outside the station and was driven beyond the town until the exhausted horse pawed at the ground, breathing heavily. Holland paid the driver and stepped out of the cab.

  A wooden bridge stretched across black, shallow water and led to a gatehouse of grey stone, crafted to resemble a castle in appearance if not in scale. After knocking at the lodge door for a short while and finding no reply, Holland found a way through a carriage porch to his left. He started to walk the path to Salvació.

  Birds spoke their secret language in distant meadows as he strolled through the dust and leaves covering the driveway. Sunlight broke through the forest in faint yellow blades but, all at once, the pleasant walk became a trial. A savage land lay ahead; barren soil, broken up by small, sharp stones, made progress a struggle, a tightrope walk of hesitancy and leaps of faith. No-one had come this way for many days, it appeared; the wretched path was undisturbed by human or animal tracks. All birdsong had ceased; indeed, silence reigned here. Emerging from the canopy of branches into the grey panorama of an overcast day, he looked ahead.

  Salvació House rose before Gabriel Holland, tall and dreamlike in its grandeur. He had anticipated an austere building, bland and aged, but this was a revelation.

  A foreboding black gate, intricately crafted in iron, opened to his touch to reveal a serpentine path surely meant for display, not utility. A blighted tree stood beneath Salvació, its lower limbs reaching skywards as one, yet the highest branches careered leftwards as if bent by a fierce wind. It was odd, misshapen, somehow disturbing to Holland. Smooth, even flagstones weaved their way across the unrelenting hard ground as they tapered to a point outside the main entrance. He gazed upon the high, dull red walls of the house and felt a little intimidated, insignificant in comparison.

  Countless windows, each surrounded by spiked metal brackets of a medieval design, dominated the facade. ‘So many rooms . . . .’ he thought. ‘A needless amount of rooms.’ Across to the left, a young woman peered down on him, her fingers pressed fiercely against polished glass. The drab colour of her clothing blended into the dark room in which she stood so that Holland could only see her pale face and hands. He was unsettled by her staring, her utter stillness.

  Reluctantly, he raised his hand as if to wave, to tempt a reaction if he could; her expression remained the same. He edged closer, but her eyes did not follow his movement. As he wandered from the path and to the side, she vanished. Understanding slowly dawned on him: she wasn’t real, nor was the window which surrounded her—both had been expertly painted upon the wall.

  All, or nearly all, was illusion; tall arched doors, the wood painted a radiant scarlet, stood out in relief, but there was no genuine entrance to be had; a columned gallery preceded a walkway leading to a distant Arcadian idyll, but the path defied progress; a yellow flame appeared to burn brightly within a black carriage lamp which didn’t truly exist. At first, at a distance, it was hard for Holland to tell the difference between solid reality and painted artifice; Cristian Salazar had created a house of mirrors, both wonderful and perplexing.

  Holland moved to knock at the door but paused as he sa
w the crest above it.

  ‘Out of shadows and phantasms into the truth.’ He recognised the quotation from the Latin classes of his youth: ‘Ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem’; a strange choice for a family crest, he thought, more suitable for an elegy than a motto. The stone shield was fractured, weather-worn, and the bizarre emblems within it looked as if they had been defaced sometime in the past.

  Lowering his gaze from the crest, he rapped the oak door with his knuckles. Finally, hurried footsteps increased in volume until a thin, elderly woman stood before him. She looked at Holland with distrust and not the barest hint of friendliness.

  “Good day to you. I’ve an appointment with—”

  “He is not at this house now,” she replied in curious, broken English.

  “My name is Gabriel Holland. I’m expected,” he lied.

  She sighed, as if weary or annoyed. “I am named Beatriz Salazar. Here.” She turned on her heels and walked into the hallway. Holland, momentarily unsure what to do, eventually followed.

  Once inside, he was left to his own devices. He ran his fingers along the armoured knight standing guard by the staircase, stirring up the dust, reflecting that the hands which forged the armour were now dust too. A few minutes later, he lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise lazily, gracefully towards the high ceiling. A bench, covered in cherry-coloured leather, awaited him, but a painting hanging in an alcove captured his attention.

  An antique portrait of a middle-aged couple in Fifteenth-Century costume met his gaze. The female sitter strongly resembled Beatriz Salazar. Holland moved forward, studying the painting at close range until she appeared behind him.

  “Relations of yours, perhaps?”

  “Cristian and I,” Beatriz replied.

  “But this painting is obviously very old. I don’t follow.”

  She grimaced, took his arm and turned him away from the portrait until he faced the staircase.