I made for the door, swaying slightly, and I leaned for a moment against the wall, closing my eyes and sucking deep mouthfuls of air in an attempt to clear my head. Then I slipped down the dark staircase and out into the night.
* * *
I returned to my rented home, light headed yet sluggish. I went through into the drawing room and fell down heavily into a large, soft chair, leaning back and closing my eyes. There were several hours yet to go until dawn, but my brain was numb, my body hot and swollen, and I felt ready to sleep. But I could not sleep. As the knowledge of what I had done grew clearer in my confused brain, there rose in me feelings of such horror and revulsion that my body shook, and sobs burst uncontrollably from a great, growing pain deep inside me. Tears rolled down my cheeks and my head started to spin again. Then I must have slept for I next remember opening my eyes to see Helena sitting in a chair opposite me. She reclined there, wearing a splendid gown of blue and black, looking at me. I looked away, feeling a sudden sense of panic, casting my gaze all about, feigning interest in various things in the room to avoid meeting her eyes. But I felt her stare upon me, and sometimes glimpsed her face, rigid and expressionless as she sat curled up, silent and unmoving. My mind was still hopelessly fuddled from draining too much too fast, but I was completely aware that Helena knew, and I grew agitated and restless as the stillness and quiet became increasingly oppressive. At last I could endure it no longer.
“Yes,” I said, looking up into her eyes. “I have killed.”
She just looked back at me. Still she did not speak. Anger rose in me suddenly.
“Say something!” I cried, slamming my clenched fists hard onto the arms of my chair. “It was you who gave me this need, this raging thirst, this awful gnawing hunger I cannot resist or control. It is you who made me a murderer. And now you look at me as if… as if I am to blame. Your eyes reproach me… increase my pain… if such a thing is possible.”
“I look at you as always,” she replied at last. “The reproach you speak of comes not from me. If you ask yourself truly you will see where it comes from.”
I jumped to my feet with a cry of anguish and rage, and began to pace restlessly up and down, shaking my head, wringing my hands.
“It is your fault!” I told her bitterly. “Your fault. If you had told me. Reminded me of the danger. If you had spoken to me – made me more aware. If you had been near me – with me. You could have stopped me!”
She gave a small sigh.
“John,” she said, “I might be with you always, forbidding and restraining you, making your decisions, acting as your parent or pedagogue. But that is not my way. It would change nothing in you. The truth is that you want me to reproach you now, to help appease your guilt. But I have told you, yours is the freedom to act as you will. I will not and cannot control you. Do not look to me to settle your conscience.”
I trembled with sheer frustration. It was futile to argue with her. I knew so little about myself – about my own nature. Now half-mad with remorse I turned on her.
“If taking life is so abhorrent to you, why did you take my life? Why? Why did you kill what I was?”
I felt a quick, dizzy sensation of triumph now as I knew that at last my words had touched her. She gave no outward sign of this, but I knew it. I sensed it. After a moment of quiet she looked at me and spoke in a small voice.
“It is true. I had no right. How could I? But I had been alone so long. And whenever I returned to Cornwall I felt you there – lonely and lost. Disinterested in everything your life offered. Striving in your mind for thoughts and visions beyond your reach. And I wanted you. It seemed… but things are not as they seem. Not as we wish them to seem… ”
She shivered slightly and her eyes filled with terrible sorrow and doubt. And at once I knew that she shared all my feelings of guilt – that indeed she felt them even more than I, for she knew herself to be ultimately responsible. It was my first glimpse behind the confident, impassive exterior Helena had always shown, and it frightened me to see that she, whom I had thought so strong, was as beset with fears and uncertainties as I – fears and uncertainties of a nature I was only beginning to realise. Horrified now at the pain I saw I had caused her, all my exultation turned to anguish and I ran to her, holding her to me and crying;
“No! No! Forgive me. I spoke without thinking. You killed nothing. You killed a mass of insanity and weakness that never really lived. I cannot understand what I have become. I do not know that I ever will. I know only that it is something infinitely more than I was. I feel strong now, awake and alive for the first time ever, and more content than ever I thought I could be. Content to be with you whenever you want me.”
She looked at me. And still there was sorrow in her eyes. Sorrow, and something else. Something I could not gauge. I reached out, stroking her hair as I held her close. And I remembered how as a sensitive boy studying my history books I was always incensed and outraged to read of the cruelty of tyrants and monsters of the past. But now I must recognise the savage passions I had so abhorred in these men as a part of myself, and the knowledge appalled me.
“Never again!” I whispered sharply, as much to myself as to Helena. “Never, never again. I did not mean to do it. It was an accident. Just an accident. But never again.”
“Hush!” said Helena softly. “Remember what I tell you. But do not make promises you might not be able to keep.”
I hung my head and made no more protestations. I was filled with conflicting emotions. Though I felt shame and shock at what I had done, it all seemed inadequate, considering my crime. It was as if something in me was fast growing cold and indifferent to human suffering and death. Yet some other part of me was much disturbed by this, and urged me to feel, to care with all my strength. But I feared I could not truthfully swear I would never take life again. It was so fast – so easy. And the memory of its overpowering pleasures were strong and fresh in my body and mind. That night desire had overwhelmed me, shattered my every control. How could I say it would never do so again?
“Do not declare war on humanity, John!” Helena’s voice was suddenly agitated. “They are many, we are very few. And an eternity of hatred is a hard thing to live with.”
“I bear humanity no grudges,” I answered quickly. “I told you. Tonight was just an accident.”
“Yes… but, oh, John, don’t you see? Do you not realise what it can do to you? What it can make of you?”
“What do you mean?” I said. “How can I understand you? Help me to understand.”
She fell silent again, frowning, staring down at the floor. She seemed relaxed, at ease in my arms. Emboldened, I clasped her closer to me. Somewhere in the distance a church bell chimed dolefully. Never before could I have visualised us so; me holding her, reassuring her. Hitherto I had been wholly in awe of her. But now it seemed that in truth she was not so different to me, and I felt at once closer to her. As she had said, she was not my parent or my teacher. She was my partner. We were to be partners through the centuries. Perhaps even into eternity. And each was all the other had. I held her tighter still. Then suddenly with a quick supple movement she was gone from my arms, standing in the centre of the room, her face glowing in the dark, her eyes deep and thoughtful, fixed on the blank wall behind me.
“Tomorrow,” she said after a long pause, and a fresh note of purpose crept into her voice, “tomorrow we make arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes never once looking at me. “To travel to London.”
VII
London: then the most vast and sprawling city in the world. Every feeling of delight and attraction inspired in me by Plymouth was repeated here with even greater strength. It was indeed the perfect place for Helena and I to live – so many shady and narrow streets, like rats’ nests, all teeming with life; particularly prostitutes, destitutes, criminals, and hordes of ragged homeless urchins; all exactly as Dickens described them, although to the people of today it must see
m as if such things could never have truly existed outside his imagination. I confess I often felt a sense of guilt feeding from the likes of these, for most of them seemed even thinner and paler than I.
We rented a house outside the town, near the village of Highgate. I would rather have found somewhere in the town itself, for it was quiet and rather rural in Highgate, and I was still enthralled by city life. But Helena was unusually insistent that we should live there. She said she preferred a peaceful village atmosphere to the commotion of London; and that it would be easy enough for us to travel into town whenever we chose. And this is what I often did, if only to observe from dark, concealing shadows the life that abounded on the streets, which never ceased to intrigue me.
But although I preferred London proper, I had to accept that Highgate was a most pleasant place; and whenever I returned from town in the early hours before dawn I would walk through the quiet lanes, alone with my thoughts. Often I walked along by the new cemetery outside the village. Although it became rapidly overcrowded and decaying, Highgate Cemetery was at that time only some fifteen years old, and becoming one of the very grandest and most fashionable burial places about London. Yet even then its atmosphere was strangely eerie by night.
One morning, about a month after our arrival in London, as I sauntered down a dark, quiet lane alongside the cemetery wall, my attention was suddenly taken by a glimpse of a white gown, fluttering in the wind far up ahead of me. I saw it for an instant only before it vanished, somehow swallowed up into the dark. I supposed it might be Helena and quickened my pace; but as I strode forward, staring ahead of me, I saw no further trace of it whatsoever. I wondered if Helena had seen me behind her and was hiding, playing some joke on me, although such behaviour seemed most untypical of her. And so I halted and stood stock still, looking all about me and listening for any movement. Then I heard it: quick, shallow breathing from inside a thick clump of bushes a small distance behind me. My pulse increased and my muscles tensed as I closed my eyes and listened for a moment, trying to determine as best I could the exact position of whoever was making the sound. The breath was light, too light to be a man, and I wondered again if it might be Helena. There was only one way to find out. Spinning around I darted to the bushes, spreading out my arms and sweeping aside the branches to uncover whoever was concealed in them.
As I did so something emerged from behind the bushes and swept past me. With a gasp I leapt back, throwing out my arms, then I lurched forward, reaching out and attempting to grab at it, but it eluded me and so I stood, following it with my eyes, trying to gain a clear impression of it as it dodged and weaved away from me with incredible swiftness. It seemed smaller than I, and apparently shapeless: like a vague cloud of swirling black mist gliding noiselessly over the ground. Only as it vanished from sight did a sense of shock and nervousness descend on me, so quickly had it all occurred.
I stood confused for a few moments, then to my astonishment I heard again that light, fast breathing that came from somewhere in the bushes. At once I returned to foraging amongst them. A young child, a boy about six or seven years old, lay in the grass, half-concealed by overhanging branches. He was fast asleep, and wearing a long white nightgown. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering, and his skin was almost blue for it was a bitterly cold morning. As I lifted him in my arms his large brown eyes flickered open.
“Oh! Oh!” he groaned softly, barely awake as he looked up at me. He breathed a deep sigh, then said: “Where… where is… the boy?”
“Boy?” I repeated softly.
“The boy… the boy with… with a bright face and yellow hair.”
“I saw no boy but you,” I said. “You must have dreamed… ”
“Oh, no, sir!” A look of bewilderment crossed his sleepy face. “There was a boy. There was. I saw him. He was under my window and he called me… and I followed him. .. and I was cold, sir. .. so cold. .. and then… ”
Again he grew confused and fell silent as a thrill passed through me. On his neck I saw the tiny wound, moist with blood, that would probably have gone unnoticed by anyone who had not half-expected to find it there. I was astonished. I wanted to return home at once and tell Helena of this incredible discovery. I looked at the child in my arms. He had gone back to sleep. I laid him down softly on the grass and went to walk away. But then I turned back, lifted him once more into my arms and shook him slightly. His eyes opened again.
“Where do you live?” I asked him. “Tell me where. I’ll take you home.”
In my excitement I had all but overlooked the fact that if I left him here in his trance-like state he would probably die of cold before he was discovered. I would have held him to me to give him warmth, but of course I had none to give. He was too lost and bewildered to tell me where he lived, and I had no time to linger for dawn was near and I wished to catch Helena before she slept to tell her my news. Finally I simply carried the child to the nearest house, knocked loudly on the door, and crept away when at last I heard someone coming to answer, leaving the boy asleep on the doorstep.
Back at the house I was pleased to discover that Helena had not yet returned. I waited for her impatiently, down in the small dark cellar where we lay in our boxes during the day. At last I heard her come in and moved forward to meet her as she descended the cellar stairs. She greeted me with a smile then stood and heard my story without once interrupting. To my disappointment, however, she did not seem in the least affected by it.
“But of course there are revenants here,” she said when I had finished. “Why else do you suppose I insisted on us coming to live here in Highgate?”
“But… but why did you not tell me?” My response was a mixture of excitement and annoyance.
“You are always in such a hurry,” she sighed. “Always so afraid of wasting time. You have yet to understand that of all things we do not lack time. I meant to tell you soon enough.”
“Well! What of these revenants? Shall I see them? Meet them?”
She moved quickly to her box and opened the lid.
“Can all your questions not wait until tomorrow?” she said carelessly. “Day has come and I want to rest.”
“But when?” I persisted. “When shall I see them? Tell me when.”
She hesitated, regarding me steadily for a moment, then she said:
“Tomorrow, if you wish it.”
“Tomorrow! Yes, tomorrow!” I agreed eagerly as I watched her climb into her box and pull down the lid.
* * *
When we rose the next day it was already quite dark for the sun set early and fast on those bleak winter afternoons. I tried at first to question Helena about the revenants, but she did not say much, only that I would see them myself soon enough.
At last we set out and she led me along the familiar lanes near the cemetery, then along quiet, deserted pathways, until at last we came to a large, isolated and dilapidated old house. A big rusty iron gate hung half-open on only one hinge, and inside the garden was so wild and overgrown that for the most part only the upper parts of the house were easily visible. We entered and made our way throught the dense bushes and trees, avoiding the leafless, claw-like branches that reached all about, becoming entangled with other branches as each tree and bush appeared to struggle against its neighbours for survival and supremacy. With difficulty we made our way around the side of the house.
At the back we came across two identical grey stone statues, old and weather-beaten; benign faced maidens who stood with their hands clasped in prayer and their empty eyes cast reverentially upward. Only their heads, shoulders and hands could be seen above the thick undergrowth that enveloped them, as they stood like forgotten sentries at some stone steps that rose out of the scrub behind them, and led up to the back entrance to the house.
We were following a narrow, irregular pathway, when I became suddenly aware that we were not alone: that others were moving nearby; dark shadowy figures that crept silently behind the thickets, observing us. Figures like the one I h
ad disturbed in the bushes the night before: vague, indistinct and apparently inhuman in shape. I was beginning to wonder somewhat nervously what manner of creatures these could be, when one of the figures loomed up before us like a cloud of black smoke. I stepped back with a start but Helena calmly stood her ground, until at last a lean white face apparently materialised out of the blackness, seeming to float in mid-air before us. Now more faces appeared, one by one, all around us, and at last I realised how the effect was achieved. These revenants – for such I now saw they were, four of them in all – were clad in black, hooded robes that entirely concealed their bodies and swirled all about them as they moved, blending with the dark to make them seem insubstantial and ghostly. Now they had all pulled back their hoods to expose their faces. I looked forward, fixing my eyes on the face in front.
It was the face of a woman of indeterminable age, gaunt but beautiful. The eyes were deep set and stone grey and very wide. Almost too wide for the narrow cheek bones. The nose was sharp, the mouth firm yet sensual; and the thick, dark brown hair was swept back in long waves from the high forehead. Her grave expression was then suddenly lightened by a smile.
“My dearest Helena,” she said in hoarse but charming voice, tinged with a faint trace of some foreign accent. “But how wonderful it is that you should come to visit us here. It has been so long. So very long.” And her smile broadened as she raised her arms so that the long black sleeves of her robe hung down almost imperceptibly in the dark. “Gather around, my loves, gather around,” she called softly, and the other white faces at once began to draw closer. “A friend,” she went on. “It is a friend from long ago, come to visit us.”
The Revenants Page 7